The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 3: 1934-35

by Frederick Nebel

  Cardigan shook his head. “You’ve got me wrong. I’ve got no ticket. The car belongs to a friend of mine.”

  The attendant slipped his ticket back beneath the windshield wiper and said: “Sorry, bud. You got to have the other half o’ this ticket to take the car.”

  “You’ve still got me wrong. I don’t want the car. I’m looking for the man that owns it.”

  “Well, hang around. He’s probably on the beach.”

  Cardigan pulled the ticket from beneath the windshield wiper and looked at the date stamped on it. He said: “I suppose he’s been on the beach eleven days, huh?”

  “What d’ you mean?”

  “I mean this ticket was issued eleven days ago.”

  “Well, I can’t help that.”

  Cardigan looked up at him, smiled drily. “Did you report to the police?”

  The man was scowling. He growled. “Why should I?”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that with a car parked here eleven days, the owner of it might have drowned?”

  “That’s no business of mine.”

  “That’s what you think. There’s a state-police post a mile or two up the line. Come on over to your station and we’ll phone ’em.” Cardigan turned and strode off across the cinders. He reached the small stucco building and ducked in through the door.

  “Now, hold on,” the attendant said, clattering in behind him. “Not so fast. I don’t want to have them state cops down here crawlin’ all over my neck. We got police here. There’s one stationed regular at my north gate.”

  “Private police, mister.”

  The man shouted: “O.K., suppose they are. Anything like that, you report to the park police and they take it up with the state police.” He put himself between Cardigan and the telephone. “I got a business here and a family to support and I ain’t goin’ to have it crimped by a guy that busts in here like he owned the place.” He called out the door: “Joe, go get Brady!”

  CARDIGAN regarded him somberly. He was still regarding him when there was a step in the doorway. Cardigan turned. A man in a white shirt, white breeches and thin leather boots and a white-topped cap, came in and stood spread-legged. He was lean, hard-boned and deeply tanned.

  “What’s up, Gus?” he grunted.

  Gus said: “This guy’s actin’ like he owns the place.”

  Brady looked daggers at Cardigan. “What are you—drunk or just funny?”

  Cardigan was lounging easily on the desk. “I want to make a phone call to the state police and Gus here thinks it’s kind of bad etiquette.”

  “If you got a bone to pick,” Brady said sullenly, “let me hear about it. The state cops don’t want to be pestered with crank calls. We can handle Seafront Park.”

  Cardigan said: “O.K. I’m looking for a lad named Kenneth Drew. He parked his car here eleven days ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”

  Brady was still sullen. “We’ll look into it. Our headquarters is down on Surf Street. Come around in the morning and we’ll give you a report.”

  “Swell,” Cardigan said. “Meantime, I’ll phone the state police.” He stood up and reached for the phone.

  Brady snapped: “I told you, lardhead, that we’ll do any reporting to the state cops.” He put his bronzed hand down on the phone, added: “Go roll your hoop and come around headquarters in the morning.”

  Cardigan smiled thinly at him. “Are you tough, or do you just get those lines out of your book of rules?”

  Brady narrowed his eyes. “You trying to start something?”

  Cardigan put his hands on his hips and stared at Brady with hard amusement. Brady’s hand closed around his white nightstick. Gus moved over to stand beside him, fingering a wrench. Brady said threateningly: “Pick up your feet, monkey, and climb out of here before I wrap this club around your thick head.”

  Cardigan’s hands shot forward and downward; one gripped the club in Brady’s hand, the other gripped the wrench in Gus’s hand. At the same time he shifted on his feet, planting them. Both his arms moved in a complete, violent circle. He tore the club free, tore the wrench free. Brady fell against the desk and Gus wheeled through the open doorway, off balance, and crashed into the cinders.

  Cardigan flung the wrench and the club into a corner, where they clattered among empty tin cans. He brushed his hands together, said contemptuously to Brady: “Child’s play. You’re not tough, fella; you’re only a tough piece of ham that gets in a guy’s teeth.”

  Brady’s face was dull-red, sullen. He muttered dully: “Stick around the park, stranger, and you might turn into a major hospital case.”

  Cardigan laughed harshly, contemptuously. “You worry the pants off me, you do.” He ducked out through the door as Gus was getting up. Gus decided to lie down again. Cardigan stepped over him but gave him no more notice than he would have given a log. His big feet crunched away on the cinders.

  Hubbel stepped from behind the stucco building and watched him go. In Hubbel’s small eyes was a crafty look, on his pulpy lips a small, treacherous smile.

  Chapter Three

  Blonde Trouble

  CARDIGAN telephoned Pat from a booth in the Sundown Café, a beer parlor on the boardwalk. “Listen, Pats,” he said. “Put on some plain clothes and grab a bus and come down here to the beach. I’m a bloodhound…. Well, there’s a bad smell somewhere. I just want to be covered. I’ll be sitting at a table in the Sundown Café. You can’t miss it. It’s smack on the boardwalk. No, don’t join me. Take a table by yourself and just cover me.”

  As he stepped from the booth, he heard a familiar voice say, “Now don’t look around, Jack. I’m talkin’ to you from de other boot’. One o’ dem fancy coppers in white pants tailed you up to de door an’ den he talked to two other coppers an’ kinda pointed you out. You ask me, Jack, dose boids ain’t up to no good. Any copper dat wears white pants, I suspicion him; an’ I would not t’ink high of dat boid dat tailed you in any kind of pants. He wears, was you to ask me, a potickly unkind puss.”

  Cardigan was looking toward the door. “Thanks, Sam.”

  “Mention it not, pal-o. I would sit an’ have a beer wit’ you, except I have an apperntment wit’ dose two angels dat t’ink I am a Ioway hog-raiser. Dey are waitin’ just inside de door, an’ bein’ as I am supposed to be a total stranger here, I don’t know you.”

  “I get you, Sam,” Cardigan said, and strolled away. He took a brief glance at the two men standing just inside the doorway. They were dressed in white flannels, and one wore a blue coat, one a coffee-colored Norfolk jacket. They looked hard, suave; men about the beach. Cardigan grinned faintly to himself. They did not know Sam the Mope, whose specialty was trimming trimmers; except when he got tight, when he had a foolish habit of trying to trim policemen.

  Cardigan sat down and ordered a beer. He saw the two sharps take Sam by the arm, lead him off into the dusk. Rifles were cracking in the shooting gallery. The roller coaster screeched. Cardigan could see the lighted Ferris wheel revolving slowly. He could smell hot frankfurters, roasted peanuts. A stein of beer was shoved before him. The café was filling up.

  Some Negroes appeared with instruments, sat down and began to play. A girl in white tights appeared on the floor doing a fast cartwheel, then half a dozen fast somersaults. She was tenth-rate, but the crowd applauded. She bowed and then the orchestra softened and she began to sing, going from table to table, rolling her eyes at the men. Some came through with contributions, dropping them in the small gilded bucket which she carried in one hand.

  Presently she came to Cardigan’s table, rolled her eyes, flashed her teeth, hitched up her hips. Cardigan looked her over lazily, from head to foot, while she held the bucket out. He took a drink of beer.

  Between verses she said under breath, “Baby needs shoes,” and gestured with the bucket.

  “So do I,” said Cardigan.

  “You don’t look like a piker.”

  “I’ll give you a buck to stop singing.”

  “Wise gu
y, eh?”

  “I’ve just got an ear for music.”

  “Nuts to you, brother.”

  “O.K. Roll along, sister, and wash your lingerie.”

  “I got a mind to bust this bucket over your head.”

  “Roll along, roll along, and don’t start anything you can’t finish.”

  She set her bucket down on the floor, stopped singing. Her face and shoulders were red. Straightening, she struck him across the face with the flat of her hand.

  His lips tightened. “Beat it, will you, before you draw a crowd?”

  She kicked him in the shins. He rose towering, and said under his breath: “Sister, you look old enough to know better, but if you make another pass at me I’ll turn you upside down and paddle you.”

  Magically, four park policemen appeared, Brady among them, and grabbed hold of Cardigan.

  Brady said: “What’s the matter, miss?”

  “This drunk,” she cried, “insulted me!”

  THE four cops rushed Cardigan out of the café, got him into an alleyway and clubbed him through it. He tussled, but two of them held him by either arm, whacked him across the legs, the arms, and on the head. Blind with anger, Cardigan kept on heaving and kicking out at them; he fought the whole route, but the men were big, there were four of them, and they hit where it hurt.

  Cardigan was slammed through a doorway in a small clapboard bungalow. He fell over a footstool and hit the floor so hard that the building shook violently. He spun on his back on the floor, scooped up the footstool and flung it from where he lay. It cracked into the jaw of the nearest cop and knocked him stone-cold. The other three ganged on Cardigan, hauled him to his feet and walloped him down into an armchair. They stood above him with their clubs raised.

  Brady said: “Easy now, Cardigan.”

  Cardigan wondered instantly how Brady had come to know his name.

  He said: “That was smart, guys—putting the dame up to starting something.”

  “Nobody put her up to anything,” Brady shot back in his hard, sullen voice. “You asked for trouble and you got it.”

  “O.K. O.K. Take me to your headquarters and let me talk to the guy that brass-hats this ice-cream-pants outfit.”

  Brady said: “You’re in headquarters now, sweetheart, and you’re talking to the boss.”

  Cardigan noticed for the first time that Brady was more elegantly dressed than the others. Cardigan said: “Swell. Now turn me over to the state police.”

  “Don’t jump so far ahead.”

  “You can’t arrest me, Brady. You can hold me for the cops but you can’t arrest me.”

  Brady said: “I guess we do as we please around here. You’ll spend the night in the cooler, Cardigan.”

  THE doorway opened and Hubbel stood there, a pudgy man beneath a brown fedora. His fat lips were pursed in a smile. Brady and the other cops looked at him. Brady, puzzled, said:

  “Yeah?”

  Hubbel flourished a cigar, placed it between his lips, took a puff, removed the cigar and let the smoke flow from his long heavy nose.

  “My name’s Abe Hubbel,” he said. “I’m the house officer at the Blackman Hotel.”

  Brady was scowling. “Well, why ain’t you there?”

  “Oh, night off,” Hubbel said, enjoying himself. “I saw you fellows giving Cardigan the works. I know Cardigan, you know. What do you intend to do with him?”

  “What’s it to you?” snapped Brady.

  “I just asked.”

  “Chuck him in the can.”

  Hubbel showed his buck teeth in a vast grin. “You got no right to do that, you know. If you want to prefer charges against him, you got to turn him over to a law officer, right away.”

  Brady looked very dark. “You telling me my business? I know what to do here.”

  “Good,” grinned Hubbel. “You see, besides being house officer at the Blackman, I’m a deputy sheriff.” He took his hand from his pocket, showed a badge lying in his palm. “So you can turn Cardigan over to me.”

  Cardigan rasped: “Go hang your head out the window, Hubbel! I’ll stay here.”

  Hubbel shook his head. “Oh, no, Jack. Oh, no. The law is the law. I got to take you over.”

  “I won’t go! I wouldn’t be seen walking down the street with you!” Cardigan was glowering. “I know what’s in your mind, Hubbel. It stinks.”

  Hubbel was dangling handcuffs. “Nevertheless, Jack, you got to come along. What is it?” he asked Brady. “Disorderly conduct?”

  Brady took a casual sidewise step, swung his club. Hubbel went down without a sound. Brady’s face was very dark, very sinister; there was a desperate tight warp in his mouth. One of the other cops gasped: “Geez, boss!”

  Brady silenced him with a hard look.

  Hubbell lay in the shadows.

  Cardigan snapped out: “Look out, guys! Hubbel’s going for his gun!”

  The three men fell upon Hubbel.

  Cardigan was on his feet, his own gun drawn. “Gag,” he said.

  They turned their heads. They straightened slowly.

  Cardigan’s dark eyes were glittering malignantly. He nodded toward the door at the rear of the room; the door was made of steel grating.

  “Open it, Brady.”

  Brady licked his lips.

  “Open it,” Cardigan said somberly. “You other two guys go with him.”

  They crossed the room and Brady, taking a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, pulled it open.

  “Now,” said Cardigan, “carry Hubbel in.”

  They picked up Hubbel. “Put him just inside the door,” Cardigan directed. “Then do the same with this pal of yours I knocked out.”

  When they had removed both unconscious men to the cell, Cardigan said: “O.K., Brady. Chuck me the keys.”

  Brady tossed them and Cardigan caught them in his left hand, said: “Now you guys back in and close the door behind you.”

  Brady growled: “Now look here—”

  “I am. Right at you. Get in before I start a crime wave.”

  When they were all in the cell, Cardigan locked the door. He said: “I want to see all your hands gripping these bars till I get out. Come on, snap into it! Grip the bars!”

  He backed across the room, ducked out of the bungalow and strode long-legged through the darkness. Across the rooftops he could see the top of the Ferris wheel, its lights turning slowly. The harsh clangor of the merry-go-round came across the flats. He heard the rumble of the roller coaster.

  GUS, the filling-station attendant, was sitting in his little stucco building eating a ham sandwich and drinking a bottle of beer. Cardigan came through the doorway, kicked the door shut. He strode across the room, pulled his gun and held it casually in front of him, low, the heel of his hand against the pit of his stomach.

  “I’m not going to waste a hell of a lot of time with you, Gus,” he said.

  Gus’s left cheek bulged with food. His eyes grew very round, a yellow, ghastly color seemed to spread over his gaunt face.

  Cardigan said: “Now what about that Packard?”

  Gus began to look very ill.

  “Either spit that grub out,” Cardigan said, “or swallow it.”

  Gus swallowed it, gulping. He looked transfixed at the muzzle of the gun.

  Cardigan muttered: “How did Brady find out my name’s Cardigan, Gus?”

  Gus shook his head. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t know what your name was.”

  “Why the hell did you make such a fuss when I wanted to call the state police? Why’d you throw a fit and send that guy after Brady?”

  Gus was like a man in a trance.

  “Talk, damn it!” Cardigan ripped out. “I’ve been kicked around enough here. I’m going to start some kicking-around myself!” He leaned forward. “Get this: Brady and some of his rats landed on me and whaled hell out of me and dragged me over to their headquarters. I got out of that. I not only got out of it, but I locked Brady and the others up in their own cell. Now y
ou’ll talk, Gus, or God help you!”

  Gus’s jaw shook, he moved his head stupidly from side to side. “Geez, I don’t know nothin’. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “Why didn’t you report that Packard to the police?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “It was, honest, the second day. I told Brady—”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Gus gulped again and seemed very miserable. “Well, I told him, that’s all. And he said, well, that was all right.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Gus got very red. “Well, he just said if anybody come after the car, I should call him. Geez, I got to do what he tells me. I got to stay in good with the park cops or else.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Well, that’s all. He just told me I shouldn’t worry about the car, that’s all.”

  “Did you think there was anything funny about that?”

  Gus grimaced. “Hell, mister, I got to stay in good with them guys. If Brady says it’s all right, I got to think it’s all right. I got a wife an’ two kids to support. I can’t go gettin’ curious with them cops.”

  Cardigan put his gun back into his pocket. “O.K., Gus,” he said. “That’s all I want to know from you. Now take a tip and stay right here and keep your mouth shut. I’m a nice guy, except when people get under my feet.”

  HE banged out, crossed the parking lot, took the narrow alleyway to the boardwalk and went up to the Sundown Café. He sailed into the café, returned to the table where he had sat and looked around for his hat. The headwaiter came over.

  “Looking for something, mister?” he said.

  Cardigan turned on him. “My hat.”

  The headwaiter shrugged. “Maybe you lost it somewhere else.”

  “I lost it here,” Cardigan snapped back at him. He looked around some more but failed to find it. Cursing under his breath, he headed for the door; turned on his heel and came back to the headwaiter. “Where’s the chemical blonde who put on the act?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The blonde! The floosie that kicked up her heels!”

  “She’s through for the time being. She’ll do her act again at eleven.”