The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933

by Frederick Nebel

  Hammerhorn said: “I get you. He was Gus Tracy.”

  “No.” Cardigan took out the photograph he had borrowed from Walter Bently. “He was Joe Henderson. And Joe Henderson, two weeks ago, drew forty thousand bucks from the Fort Worth bank. Laugh that off.”

  Chapter Three

  Tulsa Lee

  THE girl in Aliénor’s had black bangs and wore elongated ear-rings, and fitted properly into the chromium and jet and crystal of the perfume shop.

  “No, I don’t want to buy anything,” said Cardigan. He leaned familiarly on the counter, worked the personality. “I’m a young private cop in a tight spot and I need some help. I’m out to prove that a poor old guy from the Texas steppes was taken for a fare-thee-well in little old New York.”

  “But I don’t see—”

  “It’s like this. The old boy was in here and bought a bottle of perfume. A girl I know says it smells like Attar of Roses and costs thirty-two bucks. There was a bottle of this in the guy’s room when we found him dead. It had your sticker on the bottom. I wonder if you remember him. Little bird with wide bony shoulders and a rambling mustache.”

  The ear-rings swung to a nodded head. “Yes, I do. It would be easy. He came in here day before yesterday and created quite a bit of amusement. He wanted a bottle of perfume. He wanted a certain scent but couldn’t name it and I had to let him smell everything in the place. He—well, he didn’t look very prosperous and I told him the price was rather steep. He said, ‘I got dinero, miss—plenty dinero.’ He took a roll of bills from his pocket—and what a roll! Twenties and fifties.”

  “Swell!”

  “I asked him if he wanted it sent. He said he didn’t; he said he was going to give it to the little lady that night. He seemed so overjoyed—like a little boy. He was very talkative.”

  “Did he say anything about the little lady? Her name or what she did—or anything?”

  “No. Only just before he left he said, ‘I like your hair-comb, miss. It’s just like the little lady’s—cut that way and blacker than a desert night.’ Then he went away, the poor little man.”

  “This is the nuts,” Cardigan said. “Thanks a lot.”

  It was dusk when he got back to his hotel. He tossed hat and overcoat on the bed, stripped, showered and shaved, put on a blue suit. He telephoned Pat and met her half an hour later in the hotel lobby.

  She sighed, shook her head. “Honest, chief, I think you ought to stay out of that place. Those fellows may break you all up.”

  “The first throw-out, Pat, was worth it.”

  “I know but—”

  “Listen. Here’s a card to the place. You go over there and this card’ll get you in. Go down and sit in the bar. Or mooch around a bit. Go to the dressing-room, watch the dames who come in, keep your eyes open. If you’ve found out something by the time I turn up, O.K. If you don’t, that’s O.K. too. But what I want is this. If I run into trouble there, don’t worry about me. Just watch the reactions of the others. If they toss me out, keep your ears open—see what they talk about.”

  Her brown eyes implored. “But you see you’re going there with the intention of getting thrown out—”

  “Come on. Beat it now. I’ll be over in half an hour. Remember dear Cosmos Agency—dear old alma mater. Scoot, chile!”

  THERE were only a few cars parked in front of Pomano’s. Cardigan climbed the steps and pressed the button and the girl opened the door.

  She looked frightened. “Look here, Jack—you’re O.K. by me but I think this spot ain’t healthy for you. You knocked out Jumbo’s teeth.”

  He pushed in. “Just keep my coat and hat handy, will you?”

  “Honest, Jack—I mean it!”

  “That’s a good girl.”

  He left hat and topcoat and took the winding staircase down to the bar. It was crowded. There wasn’t elbow room at the bar and most of the little tables against the opposite wall were occupied. Pat wasn’t among those present. Cardigan turned and went up the stairway. The entrance hall was temporarily noisy with the arrival of a bibulous quartette. The hat-check girl tossed Cardigan a worried look. He grinned and winked at her.

  He climbed the stairs to the floor above and found a crowd in the dining-room foyer. He didn’t see Soft-Shoe Pomano. Edging to the door, he ran his eyes over the dining-room tables. Pat wasn’t there. He shoved back through the crowd and stood in a corner back of a potted palm. After a while he ducked around into the corridor and spotted the dressing-room. He watched women going in, coming out. The band had begun to play. An old dowager came along and Cardigan said: “Will you see if a Miss Seaward is in there?” The dowager said she would and reappeared in a moment, said: “No, she isn’t.”

  Cardigan made a trip to the gambling-rooms upstairs. He didn’t find Pat. He stopped dodging around and went right down to the bar again, but she was not there. His eyes darkened. Leaving the bar, he went up to the entrance hall. The place was crowding up. Above, the orchestra was thumping. Gusts of cold wind came in as newcomers arrived. Cardigan climbed the next staircase and took another look at the dining-room. But he did not see Pat.

  Soft-Shoe, looking very elegant in dinner clothes, a snappy double-breasted white vest with black pearl buttons, came toward him with a slow, gliding walk—level, low-lidded eyes. “Haven’t you got a home, Cardigan?”

  “Sure.”

  Soft-Shoe came very close, stopped. He smelled of powder, face lotion, hair tonic. “This is a big night, Cardigan, and I thought I told you once to stay the hell out of here.”

  “You also went around yapping to the cops. I like that. Has Dirigo got an interest in this place?”

  People were looking at them. Soft-Shoe said: “We can’t talk here. Come upstairs.”

  They went up to a large, luxurious room in the front of the building. A lot of floor lamps glowed and big easy chairs and divans were strewn about and the sound of the music was muted and low.

  Soft-Shoe said. “I’m a peaceful guy, Jack, and maybe I was hot when I went to the cops. But I did it in self-defense. I can’t afford clowning in this place. I’m talking to you straight from the shoulder. For crying out loud, lay off me. You busted up Jumbo’s face and now you’re out to make trouble again.”

  Cardigan smiled without humor. “This little guy we talked about, John—he was here one night.”

  “I tell you he wasn’t!”

  Cardigan kept smiling. “Who’s the Jane you tied to him?”

  “I tell you—”

  “I know what you told me. But the guy was here. He had your phone number and he came from Fort Worth, Texas. I played your chuck-a-luck table upstairs and came away with a five-dollar bill issued by a Fort Worth bank.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s enough to convince me that you’re lying like hell. The guy was here and he played your games and there was a jane tied to him. Dirigo I know is a rat, but Doake isn’t. Doake gets sore at me and his sense of humor runs to things like telling you to toss me out. But if Doake finds out that there was something crooked here, it’s going to be your swan song. I don’t say you bumped this guy off—but he was here and there was a jane hooked to him and there were some hot potatoes out after his dough. He had, I happen to know, around forty thousand—and it was in cash.”

  SOFT-SHOE never took his quiet eyes off Cardigan. “You’re telling me news, Jack. I don’t know a thing about it.”

  They remained eyeing each other; Soft-Shoe with his lazy-lidded eyes, Cardigan with a dark, bitter stare.

  Then Cardigan said: “There’s someone else I’m looking for, Soft-Shoe?”

  “I can stand it, I suppose.”

  “A little dark-haired girl about five-feet-five. She came in here over an hour ago and was to meet me in the bar. She’s nowhere around here.”

  “Maybe she left.”

  “Not this girl, Soft-Shoe.”

  Pomano smiled. “I’m sorry if she stood you up, Jack. I’ll give you just three minutes to get out of my place.”


  “You should make cracks like that, baby, only when you’ve got half a dozen gorillas around to back you up.”

  Cardigan slapped with both hands, got hold of Pomano’s wrists, doubled them in front of Pomano’s chest.

  “You heard me, John. When a friend of mine fades away in your joint it kind of gets me sore. Where is she?”

  “I told you. I never saw her. You’re so damned stuck on yourself that you think no jane would stand you up—”

  Cardigan growled, manhandled Pomano across the room and slammed him down into a divan. In a moment he disarmed him. He bound Pomano with portière ropes, jammed a handkerchief into his mouth and tied another over that, knotting it at Pomano’s nape. Then he took Pomano’s bunch of keys.

  He went to the door, stepped out, locked the door from the outside. Downstairs the band was playing a foxtrot. But Cardigan did not go down. He went around trying doors, looking into empty rooms. Until finally he came to a door that was locked. The sixth key worked and he pushed the door open.

  It was dark inside. He found a switch and turned on the lights. The room was empty but had the air of a room that had been lived in recently. He saw cream jars on a dressing table. There was a closet in which he found tights, four dresses, half a dozen pairs of pumps. He went to the dressing table and saw the picture of a girl. He shuffled the cream jars, picked up a small triangular bottle, smelled it. He nodded his head.

  He took the photograph from its frame, folded it and put it in his pocket. He left the room and completed his search. Pat was not in the building. Returning to the entrance hall, he tried a last straw and described Pat to the check-room girl.

  He lied: “I had a date here with her, honey, and I think she stood me up. Was she here?”

  “I think she was, if it’s the one you mean. She didn’t stay long, though. She went out.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He dropped his voice. “Honest, now?”

  “God’s honest, Jack.”

  He left Pomano’s and stopped in the first drugstore he came to, entered a booth and thumbed a directory. He found the phone number and address of the photographer whose name appeared on the picture in his pocket. He made a call and was told that the studio would be open until nine.

  It took a taxi ten minutes to reach the Sixth Avenue address. The studio was garish and featured a lot of theatrical portraits. Cardigan got to the manager and showed him the photograph he had taken from the room in Pomano’s.

  “Know her?”

  “I think so. I’ll make sure. Who are you?”

  Cardigan flipped open his wallet.

  The man dropped his eyes. “I see. Hang around a minute.” He disappeared and was gone for five minutes. When he returned he carried some more photographs. “Her name’s Tulsa Lee.”

  “Know anything else about her?”

  “Only her address.”

  “That’s plenty.” Cardigan copied down the address.

  The man said: “Now, hell, don’t say I gave you this steer.”

  “Not a peep, friend. And thanks loads.”

  Chapter Four

  “Me—Cardigan”

  CARDIGAN, lounging back in the taxi, tried to figure out why Pat had left Pomano’s—if she had left. He didn’t know much about the little check-room girl except that she had always been on the level with him. Maybe she had told him that merely to get him out of the place. But he was sure Pat was not in Pomano’s. He had hunted thoroughly. He stopped the cab long enough to call the agency and his hotel. He learned that she had not telephoned either place. He climbed back into the taxicab and it took him downtown.

  “This is far enough,” he said, at Sheridan Square.

  He lingered for a few minutes on the curb, pulling hard and in short spurts at a cigarette. Pomano was on the shady side, that was certain. Either actually mixed up in it or holding his tongue for fear of a come-back. But the girl, after all, was the answer. The girl with the black bangs. Tulsa Lee….

  He left the comparative brightness of Sheridan Square for darker streets where street lights were not many and where the houses had a dusky, dowdy look from dark areaways to flat roofs. The street was darkest where it angled to the left, and beyond the angle was the address Cardigan sought. The building was narrow, three-storied, with a high stoop and an unlit vestibule.

  He crowded into the vestibule, struck a match. There was only one bell-button and beneath it the word “Janitor.” He pressed it and after a few moments a little beak-nosed man opened the door.

  “Where’s Tulsa Lee live, friend?”

  “She lives here.”

  “Know if she’s in?”

  “I’ll give a look.”

  “Hold on….” Cardigan laid a hand on the man’s arm. “It’ll be O.K. if I look myself, won’t it?”

  “Listen, mister—”

  “Forget it. I’m a cop. Private. Here’s five bucks. What’s the room?”

  “Uh—up top. Top floor. She’s got a little apartment. It’s in the back. There’s a ‘four’ on the door.”

  The little man vanished in the dim lower hall and Cardigan began climbing steps. The halls were clean, plain, and smelled of new paint. He reached the top floor and stood and listened for a moment, then moved toward the rear and stood in front of the door with the number 4 on it. He heard hoarse breathing and low muttering and unsteady footfalls. He heard someone fall against the door, heard the knob rattle, more hoarse breathing. He waited and again the knob was struck at, rattled; and then he heard a sob, and footfalls going away.

  He stood and thought for a few moments, then went downstairs and talked the janitor out of his pass key. Returning to the top floor, he reached the door as the knob was again being rattled. He waited until it was quiet. Then he opened the door.

  The girl with the black bangs was stumbling up and down the room, rubbing at her face, panting. Her hair was disheveled and one sleeve of her dress was torn. Her face was flushed and her eyes looked red and swollen. She did not see Cardigan. She kept stumbling back and forth and then she saw that the door was open and lunged toward it. He caught her by one arm and lifted her erect. He kicked the door shut and locked it.

  “Lemme—out—”

  “Pipe down. Quiet!”

  She flopped around like a marionette but Cardigan, holding her arm, kept her from falling. He steered her to a sofa and she fell on it. But she was up in a split minute, clawing at her hair, stumbling up and down the room. Ordinarily she would have been pretty, but now she was too flushed, lobster-red—and her wild, roving eyes were bloodshot. He was sure she hardly saw him. Her breathing was hoarse; it ached and pumped from her lungs.

  HE CAUGHT up with her, took hold of her arm but did not attempt to stop her. He walked up and down with her. “Look here, Tulsa. Snap out of it. What’s up?” He knew she was very drunk. “Who locked you in?” he said.

  She made no reply. She went up and down the room after the manner of one desperately bound for a distant point. He paced her for a while and then he deftly steered her across the room, into the bathroom. He turned on the needle shower—at first a little warm. He held her head under it and gradually turned the water colder. She puffed and choked and shook but he held her under the waterfall and said: “Take it, Tulsa—it’s good for you.”

  She began to inhale deeply, and each exhalation was in the nature of a vast sigh. Presently he shut off the water, grabbed a towel, dried her neck and face. She stumbled and he walked her into the living-room and let her fall to the divan. She let out one last long sigh, closed her eyes and passed out.

  “H’m,” said Cardigan, stroking his jaw.

  He turned and began searching the apartment. He worked quickly, constantly aware that others besides the girl had access to the apartment. Had she been locked in or had she, being very drunk, lost her key? He found nothing, neither letters nor money. He drew a glass of water and threw it in the girl’s face. She twitched. He used a second glass of water. Time was
essential. He wanted her to wake up, to tell him things.

  “Tulsa—snap out of it!”

  He tried wrist-rubbing. He slapped her cheeks. She twitched and stirred and groaned a few times. Her eyelids lifted, showing only the whites of her eyes. Then her eyes opened, regarded Cardigan blankly. He talked to her but doubted that she heard him. He gave it up for a few minutes and lit a cigarette, snapping the smoke through his nostrils.

  Suddenly he heard footfalls outside the door, the low mutter of several voices. Then a key grated in the lock. He had left the pass key in the door and knew he was safe for the moment; it would be impossible to insert a key from the outside. He was on his feet. The girl was tossing on the sofa. Cardigan went around looking at the windows. He opened one.

  Speeding to a closet, he grabbed the girl’s hat and coat. He picked her up in his arms.

  The door was being shaken, a low voice muttered: “Tulsa!”

  Cardigan stepped to the window, worked himself out onto the fire-escape. As he turned to close the window it slammed shut with a bang and a pane of glass fell out, shattered. He hurried down the ladders. The girl moaned and muttered in his arms. He reached the dark well of the yard, groped around, stumbled over objects. There was no rear exit. The yard was hemmed in on all sides.

  He growled: “What a sweet spot I’m in!”

  The girl was moving in his arms, moaning. He staggered to the rear of the house, tried a door there. It was a heavy door and it was barred. Above, there were voices, the ring of feet on the fire-escape. Cardigan could see a couple of shapes outside the window through which he had come. They were moving down.

  He set the girl down, drew his gun. His voice rose hard, blunt. “Come down, you guys, and I’ll let you have it. Be smart and get away from that window.”

  He knew they could not see him, the yard was so dark. Their feet clattered and they reentered through the window and the lights in the room went out. He stood with a touch of cold sweat on his face. He roamed the yard again, but everywhere a high blank wall stopped him. The rear windows of the house had vertical iron bars across them. He tried the door again, but did not want to make too much noise.