The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933

by Frederick Nebel

  He hung up, thought for a moment, then called police headquarters. “I want to speak to Sergeant Kelsey.” He waited; then, “Hello, Sergeant. This is Cardigan. Any dope?… I thought so. Pipe this: Isobel Bennett hasn’t shown up at her home. You’d better start looking…. Do I still think it was a loaded cigar? No, you baked potato. And I don’t think it was a bomb. I think I know what it was but I’m not broadcasting yet. The main thing now is—find Isobel Bennett.”

  Twenty minutes later he turned from Broadway into Dixie Street, the hot-cha thoroughfare of Brookton. It was not a broad street, not a long one—for Brookton rated a population of only twenty thousand. But it packed a lot into its six blocks. The men from the oil fields helped, and Brookton also sent a lot of bricks to the marts and was an assembling depot for a favorite make of automobile. Irish, Italians and Greeks flourished in Dixie Street; they favored dusky Bohemian facades, bathtub gin and Negro jazz bands. Racketeering on a big scale had not struck the town, nor had Federal interference.

  THE fourth place Cardigan entered was named The Shillelagh and a polished cudgel, that was supposed to have been brought from Ireland, hung above the bar, gave the place its name. The barroom was low, narrow; back of it was a large room where a band thumped and pounded. The place was noisy, rowdy, rough. Men from the oil fields mingled with men from the town and the women mingled with both. A sign above the bar said: “If you brought her in, you’ll take her out.”

  “Gin,” said Cardigan, “with lemon and soda.”

  A dazzle-eyed girl, hot and flushed, reeled against him and sneered. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Give me a chance, little one.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  He chuckled.

  She said: “No man can laugh at me!” and kicked him in the shins.

  “Scram,” he said. “You might hurt yourself.”

  “I’ve got a mind—”

  “Use it. Beat it.”

  She closed her eyes and screamed. A red-faced man in a Stetson hove out of the crowd and grabbed her by the arm. He growled: “You startin’ that again?”

  She wilted. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I’ll be good.”

  The red-faced man looked at Cardigan. “She goes off that way. She lost her grandmother a week ago.” He hustled her off.

  Then Cardigan saw Bernard dance past the door. He was dancing with a dark-haired girl. Cardigan stopped a waiter. “Know that reporter Bernard?”

  “Yop.”

  “When he stops dancing tell him I want to see him.”

  Bernard came into the bar a few minutes later, mopping his face with a handkerchief, looking about curiously.

  “Here,” Cardigan said. “Me.”

  “Oh….”

  “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.” Bernard jerked out a laugh. “Seeing the town, Mr. Cardigan?”

  “Killing time.”

  “I can show you around. I’ll take you around.”

  “I’ve been.”

  “Oh, I see. Well—what do you think of our rialto?”

  Cardigan turned, hung his elbows on the bar. “That Bennett girl hasn’t shown up yet. What do you make of it?”

  “Hasn’t she?”

  “She must have been a pretty dazed young woman when she ran out of the Rails Building.”

  Bernard blinked, but not in Cardigan’s direction. “Then she must—she must still be walking the streets. Did you tell the police?”

  “Yeah. I thought you might have run on to something new.”

  “No. No, I haven’t.”

  Cardigan turned around and leaned on the bar. “O.K. Have a drink?”

  “I—you see, I don’t drink.”

  “Be seeing you.”

  Bernard returned to the other room. Cardigan finished his drink, paid up and went out. The fresh air felt good after the stuffy bar and he inhaled deeply. Crossing the street, he stood in the shadow of a recessed doorway. A half hour later Bernard and the girl came out of The Shillelagh and walked toward Broadway. Cardigan followed.

  He followed them for eight blocks, saw them enter a narrow, six-storied apartment house in a narrow, quiet street. Standing on the opposite side of the street, he waited, watched. He saw a light spring to life in a corner window on the third floor; and then he saw the girl come to the window, draw the shade. The street door opened. Bernard came out and walked toward Broadway.

  Cardigan wrote down the house number, the street’s name. He followed Bernard to the Press Building. Then he walked back to the Brighton, asked if Pat had come in. She had. He went to his room, mixed a Scotch highball to take away the after taste of the bathtub gin.

  He had taken his shoes off, his shirt. He stood in the center of the floor, scratching the back of his neck. In his hand he held his third highball. His wrist watch said it was twelve o’clock He grunted, growled, downed the drink hurriedly, got back into his shirt and pulled on his shoes. In a few minutes he was fully dressed.

  He called police headquarters and the man at the desk said: “No, we haven’t found her yet.”

  Cardigan hung up. He caught a down-bound elevator, reached the lobby and strode out into the street. It was cold. The wind had strengthened and carried a sharper bite. He fastened all the buttons of his ulster. There was a taxi parked up the block and he climbed in, gave an address.

  TEN minutes later he alighted at a dark, quiet intersection, paid up and strode down a street called Emerald. Wind moved in the trees, whined, whistled. He walked two blocks and stopped and stared resentfully at the narrow, six-storied apartment house. He stared resentfully because, having been on the point of going to bed, the thought of this address had caused him to change his mind.

  He entered the dim-lit, deserted foyer. There was no elevator. A narrow staircase with a wrought-iron banister led him upward and at the third landing he stopped. There was a door on either side and one ahead. The door on the left was the one he wanted. He thumbed the bell-button.

  After an interval the door opened and Cardigan looked down at a small girl dressed in black lounging pajamas and a robe of transparent black velvet to match. Gleaming black hair clung close to a small, exquisite head, and he was aware of the depths of large, dark eyes.

  “Yes?”

  His rough voice said: “My name’s Cardigan. I’m a private detective.” He showed her his credentials, said: “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  She was agreeable. Her smile was quick, good-natured. “Come in, won’t you?”

  He shouldered into a small, neat living room where low sidelights and a couple of floor lamps glowed warmly. His hat was in his hand, his hair dark and shaggy.

  “Sit down.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She lit a cigarette casually, sat on the arm of a wing chair and inhaled, blew out thin streamers of smoke and regarded him with frank curiosity.

  “It’s about Bernard,” he said. “You know Bernard.”

  “What about Don?”

  He settled back. “How much do you know about him?”

  “But what is this?” she asked.

  He said: “I’d like this little talk between you and me to remain secret.”

  “Go ahead.” She regarded him curiously. “Go on.”

  “How well do you know Bernard?”

  “Casually. We’ve been going around a bit together—but that’s all. I rather like him. He’s—a little different.” She gave a short laugh. “Amusing. You know?”

  He leaned forward, dropped his voice till it became a husky whisper. “He’s been acting funny. He was on the Bennett case this evening. Bennett, you know, was murdered.”

  She nodded. “Don told me.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Well—he told me Senator Bennett was murdered.”

  “Anything else?”

  “But no—no. Why do you ask?”

  He leaned back again. “Have you ever met Senator Bennett?”

  “No.”

  “Not even casually?”


  “No.”

  “Will you take a little bit of good advice?”

  She had a charming smile. “I might—coming from you.”

  “Do you love Bernard?”

  “Hardly that.”

  He said: “Then if I were you I’d not be seen too much with him. He’s being watched. I’m not saying that anything’s wrong—but he’s being watched.”

  “That sounds silly.”

  “You can take that advice—or leave it.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He rose, nodded to a desk. “Typist?”

  “Public. I do typing at home here.”

  He said: “Let’s have your card. I’ll probably have some reports to be typed.”

  Her name was Josephine Carstairs.

  “You intrigue me,” she said. “Just what has Don Bernard done?”

  He shrugged. “I’d like to find out. I expect to turn up something within the next twelve hours. How did you meet him?”

  “I’ve done some typing for him. He writes.”

  Cardigan rose, grinned good-humoredly, rocked to the door. She followed him, opened the door. He turned and looked down at her—at her hands.

  He said: “Miss Carstairs, have you ever worked in a chemical plant?”

  “How silly!” She laughed. “Of course not.” Her smile was bright, cheerful—fixed. “You ask the strangest things, Mr. Cardigan. What makes you think I worked in a chemical factory?”

  He said: “I didn’t say I thought you worked in a chemical factory, Miss Carstairs.”

  They stood regarding each other for a long moment, and then Cardigan bowed, said: “Thanks for every little thing.” He backed into the hall. She smiled, closed the door.

  Chapter Three

  The Man in 509

  HE WALKED rapidly up Emerald Street, found no cruising cab but was in time to catch a city-bound bus. He got off in the heart of the city, walked down a side street and swung into police headquarters. It was a frame building, old and dusty, and a sergeant drowsed in the central room. Cardigan went past the desk, down a corridor, and put his head into several rooms; found, at last, Sergeant Kelsey working over papers in a cloud of smoke issuing from a corncob pipe. Every window in the room was tightly shut, a steam radiator sizzled industriously, and the air was hot and stuffy.

  “So what, Sergeant?” Cardigan said.

  “Oh, you still up? So nothing.” Kelsey made a peevish gesture. “Pfulger is out with a couple men combing the city and there’s another squad out under Murfree. We tried the two hospitals and all the doctors but we can’t find her. Ask me, I’d say the poor young lady went off her nut and is roaming around. It could be even that she took a train somewhere—or a bus. So we wired all trains that left after that time and all bus depots on the highway. It’s disgusting!” He thumbed papers noisily, with a show of great industry. Then he slapped the desk and glared at Cardigan. “I hate like hell to have folks disappear that way!” He sneezed violently, gasped out: “What did I tell you!”

  “What?”

  “Cold! I’m getting a cold account of those lousy fireboys slopping water all over!” He took another aspirin and was suddenly on the defensive, crafty-eyed beneath his slouch hat. “What do you want now, Cardigan?”

  Cardigan was looking at Josephine Carstairs’ business card. “Sergeant,” he said, “I need a little help. Tell you what. I want to call a telephone number. When the connection is made, I want to groan and hang up.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Yes. And are you going to butt in all the time or am I going to tell my story?”

  “Shoot. I’m listening.”

  “O.K. I call this number. I groan and hang up as soon as I hear a voice at the other end. I want you to get in touch with the exchange operator. The person I intend calling will doubtless try to call a number when I hang up. I want you to get that number and the street address.” He spread his palms. “That’s all.”

  Kelsey screwed up his face. “What you driving at?”

  “The Bennett murder.”

  Kelsey grinned maliciously. “Try to cut me out, huh?”

  “Use your head, Sergeant. If I was trying to cut you out, would I be telling you this? I may be wrong; I may be right. You’ve been warming your pants here and I’ve been busting around town getting on to things. If you want to be cut in on the kill, play ball. If you don’t, that’s swell by me too.”

  “I’ll work this out myself,” Kelsey growled.

  “O.K.” Cardigan turned on his heel and strode to the door.

  “Hey,” Kelsey called.

  Cardigan came back. “What?”

  Kelsey was peevish. “Gimme that number.”

  “Westerly two-one-three. But call the operator first and arrange things. Tell her—”

  “I know.” Kelsey picked up the phone and spent a minute explaining to the operator. Then he asked for Westerly 213 and passed the phone to Cardigan.

  Cardigan held the mouthpiece a distance from his face. When he heard a woman’s voice, he grated out: “Jo—Jo—” and ended in a loud groan. Then he hung up, stood gripping the phone in his hands.

  “Gimme it,” Kelsey said.

  Cardigan set the phone down on the desk.

  Kelsey was still uncertain. “If you’re trying to waltz me around, Cardigan—”

  “I’m trying to solve a murder, Sergeant.”

  “You’re managing to tell me damn little about it.”

  “If I’m wrong, I don’t want innocent persons dragged in.”

  “Ka-choo!” exploded Kelsey, and his eyes ran.

  Cardigan dragged his flask from his pocket. “Don’t be filling yourself with drugs. Take a slug of this.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s good bootleg.”

  Kelsey took a long swallow. The phone rang and he grabbed it, made notes on a scrap of paper. Hanging up, he said: “The party called back the Brighton Hotel and asked for Mr. Linkholt. She didn’t get her party.” He kicked back his chair, jumped up. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Now hold on, Sergeant. Let me handle this.”

  “Oh, I suppose I’m not fit!”

  “Who said so? But you’ll go over and start talking pinch right away. Besides, if he’s not there, what’s the use?”

  Kelsey put on a heavy woolen muffler, an overcoat. “Think up some more fast ones. Come on.”

  The ringing of the telephone stopped him in his tracks. He glowered at it.

  But he crossed to the desk, scooped up the instrument and said: “Sergeant Kelsey talking…. Hello, Gus…. You what!… Shoot, go ahead…. Yeah, I get you. I’ll be a son of a so-and-so!… Was, huh? That’s tough—tough, Gus…. Yeah, I’ll be right out.”

  His lower lip drooped as he pronged the receiver. He set the instrument down slowly, turned on Cardigan. “They found the girl. Out on Edgemont Road. Head bashed in. I got to go out, I got to.”

  “Dead?”

  “Suppose your head was bashed in, would you be dead?”

  Kelsey went past Cardigan with a bitter, peevish scowl.

  THE lobby of the Brighton was deserted when Cardigan slapped his way through its swing doors. He went to the desk and found one man on duty and laid his credentials down.

  “I’m working on the Bennett murder,” he said, “and I think there’s a heel among your guests. Has Mr. Linkholt come in?”

  The clerk went to the telephone switchboard, buzzed the room, returned shaking his head. “No, he hasn’t.”

  “I’d like a pass key,” Cardigan said.

  “We could hardly do that.”

  “I know all about that. But this is a hot steer. Bennett’s daughter was just found dead on Edgemont Road.”

  “Good Lord!”

  Cardigan was serious. “I’d like to get in Linkholt’s room. I won’t take a thing. I won’t disturb anything. I know the rules, but there are exceptions to every rule—and this is a hell of a swell exception.”

  The clerk sighed,
went to the rack and returned with the key. “I hope you’ll be circumspect. If the management found out, I’d lose my job.”

  “If there’s any trouble—I forced my way in. Thanks.”

  “It’s Room five hundred and nine,” said the clerk.

  “You’re a real pal.”

  The fifth floor corridor was quiet and dimly lit, and the door marked 509 was around an L. Cardigan opened it, found the light switch, turned on the lights. It was an ordinary hotel room with a single bed against one wall, a bureau, a chair, an armchair, and a bath adjoining. The bureau drawers were empty. A pair of pajamas, a necktie, and a silk robe hung in the closet. There was nothing else.

  The valise that Cardigan opened was empty. He snapped it shut again. A gladstone bag lay open on the floor of the closet and contained shirts, collars, socks. The occupant of the room had not unpacked this bag. There were shaving utensils in the bathroom. Slippers under the bed.

  Cardigan returned to the gladstone. He found no letters, no bills. But in the center pocket, jammed in a fold of leather, he found a single card. He carried it to brighter light. Examined it.

  KOEHRIG UTILITIES

  Columbus Detroit Akron

  B.F. Linkholt, Laboratories Div.

  Cardigan spun on his heel and stared hard into space. Koehrig was the name of the one-time senator who had helped swamp out Holy Abe Bennet. He replaced the card in the gladstone, left everything else as he had found it.

  He heard the clang of the elevator down the hall. He switched off the lights, listened at the door. Soon he could hear the muffled sound of footsteps in the hall. Then there was a knock on the door. He drew out his gun, turned the snap lock, put his left hand on the knob and opened the door.

  “Oh!” said Josephine Carstairs.

  “Oh-oh,” said Cardigan.

  He stepped into the hall, closed and locked the door, gripped the girl’s arm. “Come with me.”

  “Wait a minute! Where are you going?”

  He was short with her. “Pipe down. Come along.”

  He walked her down two flights of stairs, down another quiet corridor. He used his gun to knock on the door of room 314. He knocked again.

  A sleepy voice called. “What do you want? Who is it?”