“Hell,” he mused, “if they only knew who was behind Fink!”
V
Eight-thirty came around. Cardigan put on his overcoat and shoved an automatic into his pocket. He took his time. He wandered leisurely out of the hotel, walked a couple of blocks down Main Street and boarded a bus bound for the suburbs. Half an hour later he got off, lit a cigarette and strolled north. He was a little ahead of time, so he went on at ease.
He reached Maple Road, and continued south. Houses were scattered, and fields intervened. Then, squatting dimly in the murk beyond a field of tall grass, the old milk stables, Cardigan paused behind an ancient oak tree and looked at the illuminated dial of his watch. It was nine-thirty-five. His hand slid into his pocket and gripped the butt of his automatic.
He slipped away from the tree, hunched over and weaved his way through tall weeds. His feet slushed through snow. At intervals he paused briefly, to listen. Then he went on, bit by bit, until he reached the old picket fence behind the stables. In this he found a gap and muscled through, and squatted still for a long moment.
From his coat he drew a dark handkerchief and fastened it about his face, just below his eyes. His hat brim he pulled lower.
There was a faint yellow glow shining from a window, and toward this Cardigan crept. A shade had been drawn down to within an inch or two of the bottom of the window. Smoke was drifting from a tin stove chimney. In a moment Cardigan was crouched by the window.
He saw two men sitting in chairs by a little stove. On the stove a kettle was spouting steam. A lantern stood on an empty box nearby. One of the men was asleep. The other was halfheartedly reading a newspaper; Cardigan recognized him, a huge brute of a man called “Dutch” Weber, with a record. The other he placed as Jakie Hart, sometimes called the Creole Kid, a one-time New Orleans wharf rat. A dirty pair, he mused.
Minutes were flying, and so much depended on chance. Cardigan bent down and felt around on the snow. He found a two-foot length of board, and hefted it in his left hand. His right hand still gripped the automatic. Again looking in, he raised the board, set his jaw and crashed the window. The shade snapped up. The man with the paper spun in his chair, clawed at his gun.
But Cardigan had him covered, his head and shoulders thrust through the window.
“Drop that gat, Dutch!” he barked. “You too, Jakie—drop it! Fast, you guys, or you’ll get lead in your pants!”
The Creole Kid blinked bleary eyes. Dutch Weber cursed under his breath, his huge face flushing, murder in his gimlet eyes, his big hands writhing. But he dropped his gun, and the Creole Kid imitated him a moment later.
“Stand up—both of you,” went on Cardigan. “Face the wall! Move out of turn and God help you!”
“You lousy bum!” snarled Weber.
“Can that crap, buddy! About face!” bit off Cardigan.
Sullenly they faced the wall, hands raised.
A moment later Cardigan was in the room. He yanked down the shade, picked up the men’s discarded guns, thrust them into his pocket. And from his pocket he drew two pairs of manacles.
“Back up six paces, Dutch! Stay where you are, Jakie! Never mind looking, Dutch—just back up. Now put your hands behind your back. Don’t get funny, either.” In a flash he had the manacles on Weber. “Get over against the wall again. Move!” He jabbed the muzzle of his gun in Weber’s back. “Now you, Jakie—back up!”
In a moment he had the other pair of bracelets on the Creole Kid, and forced him back against the wall. Then he took a small bottle of chloroform from his pocket and saturated a handkerchief.
“Back up again, Jakie! As you are, Dutch!”
He clamped his arm around the Creole Kid’s neck, forced the handkerchief against his nostrils and into his mouth, held it there, while he still warned Weber to stay where he was. Presently the Creole Kid went limp, relaxed, and Cardigan let him fall to the floor, unconscious.
Then he soaked another handkerchief, approached Weber and planted his gun in the big man’s ribs.
“Not a stir, big boy!”
His left hand shot out, smacked the saturated handkerchief against Weber’s mouth. The big man struggled, but Cardigan reminded him of the gun.
“Damn your soul!” snarled Weber in muffled tones.
“Shut your trap!”
In a short time Weber joined the Creole Kid on the floor, muttering vaguely, his hands twitching slower and slower. Cardigan pocketed his gun, produced a coil of thin, strong wire and bound their ankles. Then he ripped away strips of their shirts and bound the handkerchiefs securely in their mouths. From Weber’s pockets he took a ring of keys.
With his flashlight he started a quick, systematic search of the stables. The large, covered truck was in the main stable. Its tank registered seven gallons of gasoline. Under tarpaulins he saw case upon case of liquor—between two and three hundred. He also saw ten barrels of wine. These he tipped over and sprung the spigots, and the wine gurgled and flowed on the dirt floor.
Chuckling, he hurried into the back room, blew out the lantern and pulled up the shade on the window. He raised his flashlight and blinked it three times. Then he opened the back door, sped into the main stable and unlocked the big sliding doors, but did not open them.
He turned, jumped to a ladder and climbed up to a small loft, drew the ladder up after him. Then he lay flat on his stomach in the pitch gloom, waited and listened. After a few moments he heard a door creak, and then footsteps—saw the reflection of a flashlight in the back room.
“Huh,” muttered a voice, “the Chief sure paved the way. Lookit the way them two babies is tied up!”
“Shut up, Bat. Come on, gang.” That was Fink.
The beam of light jumped into the stable. Figures loomed in. The flash settled on the draining barrels. Someone chuckled.
“What he can’t take he busts,” said a voice. “This Chief knows his termaters, what I mean!”
The beam of light swept around the stable and found the stacked cases of liquor.
“Ba-by!” exclaimed someone, softly.
“Cut the gab!” hissed Fink. “Step to it! There’s the truck! Come on, guys!”
Cardigan watched them spread out. They hauled off the tarpaulins. Two men jumped into the truck. The others leaped to the cases of liquor. They worked swiftly and for the most part silently, passing the cases to the pair in the truck, who stacked them rapidly.
One muttered. “V know, first off I thought this Chief was just a guy wit’ brains an’ no guts. I mean, like he wanted us to do his dirty work—”
“Pipe down, Gats!” snapped Fink. “V see he’s got guts, don’t you now?”
“Sure. I’m all for him.”
“You better be,” muttered Fink. “Any one o’ you guys that thinks he’s ain’t ‘s got a lot to learn.”
“Where’s he now?”
“None o’ your business!” said Fink. “Prob’ly ridin’ home in a bus or somethin’. Nemmine the talk. Step on it.”
Cardigan smiled in the darkness. Yes, he could trust Fink; no doubt of it, now. Not even Fink knew he was up there in the loft, a silent watcher.
The minutes dragged by. Case after case went into the truck. The pile on the floor grew smaller and smaller. The men worked rapidly, and now silently. Cardigan looked at his watch. Half-past ten. He was stiff from holding his tense position.
“Cripes, what a load!” a voice said hoarsely.
“How many more?”
“Ten.”
“That,” said Fink, ‘ ”11 make two-hundred-and-forty-two.”
“Ba-by!”
Cardigan saw the last case go in. Then Fink and two others spread tarpaulins over the rear and lashed them to the sides.
“All right, Bat,” he said.
Bat Johnson climbed up into the seat, juggled the transmission lever. Another man grabbed the crank, heaved on it. The motor spat, barked, and then pounded regularly. Two men jumped to the doors, slid them back. They looked out, came back in and one said, �
�Clear! Let her go!”
Bat shoved into gear and the big truck rumbled out. The doors were pulled shut. The men bunched together and at a word from Fink slipped out through the back door.
Three minutes later Cardigan dropped from the loft. He strode into the back room, snapped on his flash, played its beam on the Creole Kid and Dutch Weber, still unconscious. Then he dropped their keys and guns beside them, snapped off his flash and made for the door.
With a brittle little chuckle he went out, crossed the fields and struck Maple Road. He sought the bus line by a different route than the one by which he had reached the stables. At a quarter to twelve he entered his room, took off his coat and dropped into an easy-chair. He lit a cigar and relaxed, a little weary after the strenuous night.
But deep within him there was a great calm. He thought of Joe, and of his widowed sister. He thought, too, of other cops who had met death in strange back-alleys at the hands of rats who always shot from the rear. What protection was a shield nowadays? Protection! He grimaced. More a target! But mainly it was Joe he thought of—mild-mannered, easy-going Joe. Joe with two bullets in him, out on Webster Road ….
At half-past one the telephone rang. He picked it up.
“Jake,” said Fink.
“Jake,” said Cardigan, and hung up.
VI
It did not get into the papers. Things like this don’t. But the underworld rumbled ominously, and the echoes seeped into the Department, but got no further. The law-abiding element of Richmond City went about its daily tasks and pleasures as usual, all ignorant of the fact that in the world of shadows, wolves were growing and baring hungry fangs.
The very next afternoon MacBride dropped in to see Cardigan.
“Well, Jack,” he said.
And Cardigan said, “Well?”
“M-m-m, you did it.”
“You mean Cavallo?”
MacBride nodded.
Cardigan chuckled.
“We got a whiff of it this morning,” went on MacBride. “Cavallo must have gone to his brother-in-law Diorio and I guess Diorio went to his friend Alderman Pozzo and then Pozzo had a chat with State’s Attorney Mulroy. Jack, for God’s sake, watch your step!”
“I am. Why, do they suspect?”
“No, but—” MacBride clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, Jack. But—we’re—old friends, and I’d like to see that dago wiped out. And I guess—if I was younger and single—and a buddy of mine—like Joe was to you—was bumped off, I’d do the same. Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I wouldn’t have the guts. But, Jack, I’ve got to tell you, for old times’ sake. McGinley and Kline, of the State’s Attorney’s office, have been detailed to get the guys who flopped on Cavallo’s parade!”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. For my sake, Jack, shake this racket. You can’t beat it. You see what you’ve got against you?”
Cardigan nodded. “I know, Steve. But I’ve started, and I’m not going to let the thing just hang in the air. The more I think of Cavallo and Bert Geer and Monkey Burns and all that crowd, the more I want to blow up their racket. Imagine Pozzo for Alderman—a guy that can hardly speak English and calls himself a one hundred per cent American! Cavallo’s bulwark! Mulroy having to take these wops’ part because they put him in office, and getting a rake-off from their proceeds.”
“I know, Jack, I know. But—”
“No, sir, Steve. I’m playing this to a showdown, and somebody’s going to get hurt in the wind-up.”
“It might be you, Jack.”
“Here’s hoping it won’t.”
“No one gets anywhere today trying to be a martyr.”
Cardigan laughed shortly. “Martyr! You think I’m taking the godly role of a martyr? Hell, no! I’m just an ordinary guy who’s sore as a boil. I’m a guy whose buddy got a dirty break, and I’m starting to go after these lads the only way they can be reached.”
MacBride shrugged and remained silent. Then he got up, shook Cardigan’s hand and went out.
A little later the phone rang and Fink said, “I got somethin’ to tell you.”
“All right,” replied Cardigan briskly.
A few minutes later he walked into a drugstore on the corner, stepped into the booth and closed the door. A minute, and the bell rang.
“O.K., Pete,” he said.
Fink explained. “Meet me in the dump on Jockey Street in half an hour. I’ve got a sample, and it’s sure powerful stuff. I’ll be waitin’ outside the door there. Everything is jake, and the boys are feelin’ good but wonderin’ about their divvy.”
“Be over,” said Cardigan.
When, later, he strolled down Jockey Street, he saw Fink cross the street, pause on the steps of their rendezvous, look his way, and then pass inside. Cardigan swung up the steps and the door opened. He went in and Fink led the way up to the latter’s room. The big man drew a pink flask from his pocket.
“They’re all in pints,” he explained. “Try it.”
Cardigan took a pull on the bottle and let the liquor burn in. “Good,” he nodded. “The best I’ve tasted.”
Fink grinned. “If that stuff ain’t come across the pond I don’t know Scotch. It’s the first time I ain’t drunk dish water in a long time. D’ you figger Cavallo’s sore?”
“Sore!” echoed Cardigan, and laughed on it.
“Yeah,” droned Fink, “I guess he’d lookin’ to kill. Um. Now the stuff’s out there in the farmhouse, what?”
“I’ll know by tonight. Keep your shirt on.”
“I ain’t worryin’. The gang. They’re achin’ to see some jack and have a good time.”
“You tell ‘em to watch their step, Pete. It’s hard lines for any guy pulls a bone. We’re not through yet. It would be just like Chip Slade, for instance, to doll up in new duds, pick up a broad, get tight to the eyes and blabber. We’ve got to watch out for that, Pete.”
“Yeah, I know, Jack. I been keepin’ my eye on Chip.”
“I’ll see you here tonight, Pete.”
Cardigan went out with the pint flask on his hip and dropped in to see Maloney in the speakeasy. He talked business to him, and let him take a drink from the bottle.
“Boy!” whistled Maloney. “That’s Scotch, what I mean!”
“What’s the news?”
“The boss says all right, if he likes the stuff. Fifty-five a case.”
“I can get two-hundred-and-forty cases. He can have the lot or none, and he’s got to act fast. This is no young stuff—”
“Hell, I know! Ain’t I just tasted it? And me—I get my share, when?”
“When your boss pays, you get twelve-hundred bucks, and then forget about everything. There are no names necessary.”
“Of course not,” nodded Maloney. “How do you get the money?”
“Your boss’11 send it to John D. Brown, at a post office box. You’ll get the box number later. Send it in a plain package, with no return address. Thirteen thousand and two hundred dollars in one hundred dollar bills.”
“Insure it?”
“Lord no! Just first class—that’s the safest way to send stuff through the mails. It beats registered mail four ways from the jack. I never lost a first class letter, but I’ve lost ‘em registered and I’ve lost insured packages. A man will pick up the letter at the post office.” He thought for a moment. “Get the dope from your boss, and let’s know where the booze goes.”
“I ought to get my share first,” demurred Maloney.
“I know. You think I’ll skip. You’ll get yours through the mail, too. That’s the proposition. It’s up to you.”
“I’ll take the chance.” Maloney got up. “Come in at six.”
Cardigan nodded and left. He took a box at a suburban post office under the name of John D. Brown. When he met Maloney at six that night the ex-saloon keeper was flushed with elation. Everything was settled, and the liquor was to be delivered as soon as possible.
“That means tonight,” put i
n Cardigan.
“The boss stores it at the Tumbledown Inn. Say the word and there’ll be somebody there tonight to meet the truck.”
“It’ll be delivered sometime after midnight.”
With that Cardigan went out and met Fink in the latter’s hideout. He explained what had transpired, and Fink rubbed his hands in joyful anticipation.
“I know where I can get a truck, Jack. Leave it to me.”
“I am,” said Cardigan.
He explained in detail how the liquor should be transported, how Bat Johnson should drive the truck alone and the others ride in the touring car ahead. The Tumbledown Inn was on Farmingville Turnpike, four miles beyond the farmhouse where the liquor was stored at present.
“It’s a cinch,” said Fink.
“When it’s all over, ring me up and say the O.K. word.”
They parted, and Cardigan headed for the Adler House. He had proved a successful general on his first try. He believed he could repeat a second time, and then some more. He turned in at eight and set his alarm to wake him at one. He figured that he should get a report from Fink at about two.
When he got up at one a.m., he dressed, in the event of an emergency. He drank some hot black coffee from a thermos and ate some sandwiches which he had brought up before. Then he lounged on a divan with a cigar and watched the clock. The hands moved around the hour and passed two. They passed two-thirty and wheeled on toward three. At three, Cardigan sat up.
He looked grave, a bit tight-lipped. He stared at the telephone. It was black and silent. The hotel was silent as a tomb. Up from the street floated the sound of a lone trolley car rattling across a switch. He sat down, clasping his hands around one knee, tapping an impatient foot. Half-past three.
“Something’s gone wrong,” he muttered. He cracked fist into palm, cursed under his breath, bitterly.
Dawn came, and then the sun. And still no word from Pete Fink.
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps Page 128