“Let’s see,” Pat spoke up. “The Detronius case is the one—”
“Fake insurance, we think. Anyhow, the Underwriters’ Committee thinks so. Like this. The Laborers’ Welfare Guild, so-called, was organized by this Greek Lou Detronius. Not a labor union or anything like that. It was, as a matter of fact, a labor union that finally brought it to the attention of the Underwriters’ Committee. The line went this way: a laborer was approached, shown a lot of fancy literature, and told that for five bucks a year he’d get a tin button, addresses of correspondents, and that if he died by accident his family would get five hundred bucks. Well, the gag goes on like this. A number of families have got the five hundred bucks, see? But it was worked this way. The Guild took out a number of accident policies on these guys, some of the policies totaling as much as five thousand bucks each. But the family still got only five hundred. Well, that was O.K. If the Guild took out the policies payable to itself and paid the premiums, which it did, you can’t kick back at them. But here’s the rub. Quite a number of these insured laborers have accidentally died during the past year. Some here, some in Los Angeles, Denver, San Diego, Seattle and so on. The one two weeks ago—a guy named Rico—took place here. Drowned, ostensibly, after a fall from Fisherman’s Wharf one dark and stormy night. Had a bump on his head. Verdict was that in falling over he struck his head on the side of one of the boats. He was drunk. Thing is, chicken, did he—and the other guys—die accidentally or were they pushed?
“We had a lot of data on the Guild, picked up here and there from relatives of some of the guys that died. Pike it. It’s gone. It wasn’t worth a hell of a lot anyhow, since what’s needed is the goods on these guys—red-handed. Not data or ideas—but the goods. That’s how and why we’re in it. The mugs must have figured we knew more than we actually did—and crashed the office.”
“But Bert—”
Cardigan wagged his shaggy head, scowled. “I don’t know. He must have followed them and got jammed up.”
“And to think,” she cried, “poor Bert had to die for nothing. The ones that killed him—well, it would be like finding, or trying to find, the needle in a haystack.”
“I like,” said Cardigan, looking angrily about the littered floor, “to look for needles in haystacks.”
She pointed. “They even wiped up their wet footsteps. You can see where the floor’s been wiped. Which means they wiped away fingerprints too.”
“You’ve got eyes in your head, honeybun.”
He idly reached across the desk, among the papers, and closed an inked rubberstamp pad, while Pat said: “Should I call the police?”
“Uh-uh,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ll have enough trouble dodging Mac as it is, without inviting him in.”
“Oh, chief, I wish you and McGovern would stop it. Fighting all the time. One always trying to cut the other’s throat.”
“It’s only in fun, kitten. Mac’s a good egg—a little on the fried side, or maybe the scrambled—but still a good egg…. We’ll clean the office up tomorrow. Come on.”
“Where?”
MARKET STREET is the broadest thoroughfare in the world. Pat and Cardigan crossed it in the drizzle—crossed the four lanes of trolley tracks, dodging traffic. The traffic was thick, noisy and fast, and lights blazed up and down the street, crowds jammed in front of theatres; one crowd was pushing into a small store where jewelry was being auctioned off.
Shouldering his way through this jam—it bulged out to the curb—and making a path for Pat, Cardigan ran smack into Shoes O’Riley, and Shoes said: “If it ain’t Cardigan again—Jack, old boy, old boy!”
“You’re mistaken. My name is Smith.”
“Yeah,” grinned Shoes, falling in step beside him. “I’m the Prince o’ Wales too—Oh, excuse it; I didn’t see the lady right off.” He lifted his hat, revealing his turnip head.
“This,” said Cardigan to Pat, “is an old college chum by the name of Shoes O’Riley. He got that name because he always would rather spend dough on new shoes than a square meal.”
“Yup,” said Shoes. “A man’s character is told by the shoes he wears. Look, Jack: with them ten bucks you give me I bought me a new pair. Like ’em?”
“Try getting another ten sometime, baby. Go on, scram, Shoes. Beat it. I told you not to be hanging around me.”
Shoes grinned. “Geez, I forgot again.” He stopped, saluted. “So long, Jack. Be seein’ you.”
In the next block, Cardigan stopped before a plain-looking young woman who was selling paper roses in front of a movie house. He gave her a quarter, received the rose and looked at it. It bore a small ribbon on which was inscribed La Rosa Memorial Home.
“How many of you are working on this tonight?”
“Six of us.”
“When did you six come on?”
“At four this afternoon.”
Cardigan dropped his voice. “Mind telling me where the other five are stationed. Do you know?”
“Yes, because each night we rotate.”
He took out a pencil, used the back of an old envelope. As she told him the points where the others were stationed, he wrote them down. Then he and Pat walked on and stopped beneath a street light, where he peered down at the addresses. Pat got up on her toes, peered past his arm.
He crossed the first address off, saying, “That’s another theatre. I don’t think that’d do it. Nor the next. This is in front of the Mark Hopkins. Now this one—this is in front of the Casa Domingo. That might do. And this one—the Golden Boot—is a Russian restaurant. I don’t think so. This one’s at the railway station, of course. Nix on that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. See if I mean anything. We’ll try the Casa Domingo. Grab a Powell Street cable car.”
THE cable car hauled them slowly up Powell Street past the St. Francis. Beyond, the hill became steeper, with Union Square far below. The car went over the hump, then headed for a dark, outlying district. Cardigan and Pat got off at a dimly lighted plaza. Dark buildings rose in the cold drizzle. On the other side of the plaza, an electric sign winked—Casa Domingo. It was the only electric sign on the plaza. They crossed toward it, reached the sidewalk and walked along beside a high board fence. A couple of cabs were parked outside the Domingo. A young woman, plainly dressed, was walking up and down. She carried a small basket of paper roses. A liveried doorman stood beneath the red canvas marquee.
Cardigan said to the young woman: “Sell many of those tonight?”
“Oh, a few.”
“What do you do, get the taxis as they arrive?”
She smiled good-naturedly. “I try to.”
“Remember selling one to a guy a little shorter than me? He had yellow hair and a small yellow mustache and wore a big tan trench coat and a derby. He probably smiled. Had a swell smile, lot of teeth. Young guy. Maybe it was about eight o’ clock.”
“I seem to remember— Let me think…. Do you know if he had a trick of tossing a coin in the air and catching it behind his back? Because I seem to—”
“That’s him,” Cardigan chopped in. “Did he go in here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him come out?”
“I—don’t think so. Of course, he may have.”
“Thanks.”
Cardigan and Pat went into the Casa Domingo. The foyer was hung with dark red drapes touched up with gold brocade. The girl who took Cardigan’s hat and coat was small, plump, dark, and wore a Spanish comb in her hair, a Spanish shawl. The man who met Pat and Cardigan at the entrance to the dining-and-dancing room wore black velvet trousers, high-heeled boots and a short red jacket with gold cuffs. There was a rhumba orchestra, small shaded table lamps, more red-and-gold drapes. The place was pretty noisy though only half full. Pat and Cardigan sat down at a table alongside the wall and Cardigan ordered a couple of highballs.
“And the boss,” he added.
“Who?”
“The guy runs this place.”
“Mr. Delbanca?”
“If he’s the boss.”
A few minutes later a large, elegantly dressed dark man bore down on the table, bowed stiffly from the waist. Cardigan, lighting a cigarette, squinted up at him.
“Sit down, Mr. Delbanca.”
Delbanca, looking politely curious, sat down. His hands were plump, pale, and there were rings on them. His hair was thick, black; it began low on his forehead and went over the top of his head in beautiful waves.
Cardigan said: “A man came in here about eight tonight and turned up later, elsewhere, at eight forty-five.”
Delbanca put his hands gently together, nodded, but curiously. “And so, meester?”
“So he turned up, I mean, dead.”
The liquid black eyes of Delbanca steadied on Cardigan. “Say meester,” he said slowly, liquidly, “is this a zhoke?”
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s a zhoke, meester.”
“Dead guys are jokes, huh?”
“No, meester. Just the way you tell her, meester.”
Cardigan went on: “This fellow followed somebody else here—maybe two guys.”
Delbanca laughed unhurriedly, good-naturedly. “Meester, what you think for kind of hombre I am? Look around. I got wan big place here, hey? Lots of over’ead, hey? What you think, meester, this she’s a clip joint?” He shook his head slowly. “See, I’m sorry your frand he turns up d’ad, but”—he shrugged—“your frand he do not get d’ad in Casa Domingo. Tha’s on the op and op, meester, for sure, meester. You want, go gat the police. I’m no’ ’fraid. Me, I’m on the op and op, meester.” He rose, bowed, smiled. “So sorry, meester.”
Cardigan did not try to detain him, and Delbanca walked off calmly, slowly.
“So what?” Pat asked.
“The guy looks O.K. to me, chicken. Somebody’s goofy and maybe it’s me. But Bert wouldn’t have come here for the show.” He rose. “You stay here a while.”
HE made a casual tour of the entire place, but did not enter the door leading to the talent’s dressing rooms. When he came back, he sat down and spoke with Pat quietly for five minutes. And ten minutes later Pat rose, circulated, went to the rear and, while the orchestra was playing loudly, opened the door Cardigan had not opened and found herself in a short corridor which opened into a large, gaudy room alive with the chatter of a dozen-odd girls in tights.
Pat assumed a fatigued attitude, a slightly, casually hard-boiled manner. “Hello, girl friends. I’m looking around. I’m from the press… human interest stuff.”
“Sister,” said a redhead, “we’re both human and interesting. What do you want to know? I’ve got a past that would put Pompadour to shame.”
“Who’s Francesca Durango?”
“See?” said the redhead to the others. “By human interest she means the star. We’re just the goils in the street. Francesca?” She pointed rearward. “Down at the end of that passage, lady. Door on the left. She goes on in a minute. In fact—”
At this moment a tall, jet-eyed girl swept out of the corridor. She carried her chin high and her long Spanish skirt corkscrewed effectively about her legs. She noticed no one, but went on out.
“That’s her,” the redhead said.
“I’ll wait,” said Pat.
In a little while the other girls filed out, and Pat slipped down the corridor, into Francesca’s room. In a moment she reappeared and made her way back to Cardigan’s table.
She nodded gravely. “Yes,” she said.
“That’s all I want to know. Which one?”
“The star—Francesca Durango.”
“I could go for her myself. And not in a small way.”
Pat said: “There’s a window in her room overlooking a yard or court, I could not tell which. Except that it’s easy to get to, or from. I—I unlatched the window, thinking you might—”
“Pats, you always think of things. Come on.”
They went out to the foyer, where Cardigan put on his hat and overcoat. Then they went out into the cold drizzle and walked till they came up alongside the high board fence.
He said: “From now the evening’s yours, kid. Grab a cable car and go home.”
“But, chief—”
“Mind your uncle now. Scram. The night air’s bad for little girls. Besides”—he nodded upward—“you couldn’t hop this fence anyhow. Git along, little dogie, git along, git along. Shoo.”
When she had gone, Cardigan reached up, jumped and caught hold of the top of the fence, hauled himself up and then swung over, landing in short, wet grass. Through the drizzle and the dark he could see several lighted windows of the Casa Domingo, and he heard the muffled beat of the orchestra.
Chapter Three
Glass Beads
WEEDS grew along the way he went, and there were the ruins of an old foundation into which he almost fell. Mounds of rocky earth rose from the weeds. There were little puddles and his big feet splashed in them. He came at last to a low window in the rear of the building. The window sill was level with his chest, and inside the room he saw Francesca, in black tights. He thought she looked pretty swell. He stood there, waiting, for twenty minutes—until Francesca, wearing another costume now, left the room. Then he opened the window, stood on his toes to push it all the way up. He had little difficulty getting in, and closing the window, he stood listening. The rhythm of the rhumba band pulsed in the walls, the floor.
Across the room was a large alcove, lighted, with a highboy in it. Hanging across the alcove doorway was a bead curtain—long strings of beads of many colors; glass beads, quite small, suspended from a rod, almost touched the floor. Cardigan crossed to this bead curtain. Something crackled beneath his feet. He looked down. His feet had crushed several beads on the floor. He looked up and saw that one of the strings was broken. When he took the beads from the envelope he carried, he saw they were of a size identical with those hanging before him.
The room was rich with the smells of perfume and powder, and there were photographs of Francesca, many photographs, many poses. Cardigan unbuttoned his overcoat, shoved his hat back on his head. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against a steam radiator, his ankles crossed.
When Francesca burst in, flushed from her dance, Cardigan said offhand: “Hello, Francesca.”
She had slammed the door before she was aware of his presence, and now she brought up short, a handsome figure of a girl, her breath stifled in her throat.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Clark Gable.”
“Pfft! You are not Clark Gable!”
“All right, I’m not Clarke Gable. And pfft back at you, good-looking.”
“I weel call a policeman!”
He growled, scowling: “Take your hand off that door, Francesca. Take it off!” He went toward her, lowering. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, girlie. And don’t yip. Keep quiet. Low voice, see?”
“This,” she complained, “is an embarrassment, señor.”
“It shouldn’t be—if you act nice. Look here, Francesca. There was a guy in this room at about eight or so tonight. A young guy. Blond. Pal of mine. He got a knife in his guts, sabe?”
The color on her tawny cheeks was very high. Her lovely dark eyes were very round, and from her body drifted a faint perfume. Cardigan saw her full red lips tighten. Black fire flashed from her eyes.
“What is this you talk?” she demanded in her thick liquid accent.
THERE was a knock on the door, and spinning, Francesca opened it and Delbanca strolled in saying, in Spanish, “Francesca, the new dance is a thing of rare beauty—” And then seeing Cardigan, he stopped. He smiled, almost affectionately, and his heavy eyelids drooped.
“Meester, you have what you call magic, hey? First here, then there.” And to Francesca, “This wan a frand of yours?”
Tight-lipped, she shook her head violently; then snapped. “He is certainly most not, señor.”
Delbanca’s face seemed to become very drowsy,
and his soft voice drawled: “You no want him in here, hey?”
She shook her head, again violently.
“Meester,” said Delbanca, “this is no zhoke, meester. You weel please to take the air.”
Cardigan took two long strides; they brought him face to face with Delbanca.
“You look like a nice egg, Delbanca, and maybe you are. If you think I take the air when every Tom, Dick and Harry tells me to, you’re behind in your lessons. Understand this, amigos, a pal of mine tailed somebody here. I know he came in your place. He was knifed. When I found him, he was gripping some beads in his hand.” He pointed toward the alcove. “See that? One of those strings was broken recently. I even crushed some beads on the floor. Well, the beads my pal had in his hand were the same as those over there. He grabbed at that curtain, either ducking out of the way or when he was knifed, and broke one of the strings!”
Francesca put hands to her cheeks. “No!” she cried in a low terrified voice.
Delbanca went across, fingered the bead curtain. A couple of beads crackled beneath his foot. He looked down. Then he looked at the curtain again. Then he turned and looked at Francesca; from Francesca to Cardigan.
“No! No!” Francesca cried. “I swear I did no’ see any man keeled in here. Oh, I swear it!”
Delbanca looked at her a long time. She shrank from his drowsy speculative gaze. She whimpered. Presently he went to her, took hold of her hand, patted it. Then turned to Cardigan.
“Meester, you come with me, hey? This becomes now no zhoke. We talk, eh?”
“After you, Delbanca.”
Cardigan went with Delbanca to the latter’s office. Delbanca put on a white silk scarf, a blue Chesterfield and a derby. He took a stick and gloves.
“Come, meester. We go what you call places.”
Cardigan stepped in front of him. “What kind of a run-around are you trying to hand me?”
The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35 Page 8