The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933

by Frederick Nebel

  Reilly shook his head. “No hard feelings with me. I just thought maybe a good old San Francisco cop could help you.”

  “Thanks for the bow. But you know how it is.” He held up both hands, thumbs down. Then he turned away, bent over his gladstone, unsnapped and unstrapped it.

  Reilly was saying: “We usually like to get the lowdown on visiting dicks as well as visiting heels.”

  Cardigan pivoted, said: “Is that a crack?”

  “Hell, no.” Reilly grinned. “I just said something.”

  “O.K.” Cardigan remained silent for a moment, looking levelly at Reilly; then he said: “Now suppose you go back and be a lobbyist. I’m paying two bucks a day for this room and a shamus doesn’t go with the decorations.”

  Reilly grinned, made a whistling mouth, said: “Whew!” He turned and opened the door in no haste, lingered tranquilly on the threshold. “Hope to be seeing you.” He went out, closing the door quietly.

  CARDIGAN remained staring darkly at the closed door for a long moment. Then he crossed to it, listened with one ear against the panel. He opened it, looked up and down the hall. No one was in sight. He closed the door, walked slowly to the telephone, picked it up and called the Hotel Margery.

  “Pat,” he said in a toned-down voice. “That dinner date is off. Grab a meal at your bailiwick and stay there till you hear from me…. Nothing much; only a pretty wise cop here is curious. He may tail me. I want to find out…. O.K.”

  He hung up, drank three highballs while shaving and dressing. Going downstairs, he went out into Powell Street, walked to the nearest restaurant and ordered a couple of abalone steaks.

  He sat so that he could watch the door and the broad plate-glass window. The window had steam and wet beads on it, and he could see only the shadows of men passing; and sometimes a blurred face that passed close to the window. Finished, he got into his damp overcoat and floppy hat, went and stood in the shelter of the doorway. Out in the street he could hear the endless sound of the cables beneath the pavement. His eyes, shrewd, dark and observing, cruised the street.

  He walked down to Market, turned right. It was a wide, rowdy street, packed with shops and glittering movie palaces. He crossed to the other side of Market, stopped occasionally, watched, then moved on. He crossed back, went as far as Grant and up Grant and then back to Powell by way of Post. A frown worried its way across his forehead. He had expected to be tailed. No one had tailed him; of that he was sure. He dropped Union Square behind, went on down the hill toward his hotel.

  There was a crowd gathering in front of the hotel. There were two fire engines in front. Police were pushing the crowd back. A cop stopped Cardigan.

  “I live here,” Cardigan said. “What happened?”

  “Plenty.”

  Cardigan went through, reached the door. He stopped because two men came out bearing a stretcher. There was a form on the stretcher—a blanket covered it. Cardigan watched the blanket-covered form go past. A police sergeant came out after it; he looked very red-faced, very angry. Cardigan pushed into the narrow corridor. Three firemen tramped past him, going out. He reached the lounge, his hands in his pockets, his chin up and his eyes cruising.

  A hand landed hard on his shoulder. He moved his head, but not his body, and looked into the face of a man not quite as tall as himself. The man wore a black raincoat, with the collar up. A wet cigarette lolled in one corner of his mouth. His nose was a beak, his jaw long and hard, his eyes dark and round and steady with a kind of congested malignance.

  “You’re Cardigan, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m McCoy.”

  “Bureau?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why the big act?”

  McCoy’s mouth tightened, made the cigarette cock upward. The cigarette shook. “Lay off the wit, or I’ll step on your neck!”

  Cardigan grinned coldly. “You’d have to get me down first, copper. Think you’re able?”

  “Cut it!”

  “O.K. Then come across with a little information before you start getting tough.”

  McCoy’s face was dull red, his voice low and hard and hoarse. “Ever hear of a cop named Reilly?”

  “Yeah.”

  McCoy snarled. “Well, he’s dead!”

  Cardigan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s tough.” He paused, then added: “So I suppose now you’re going to tell me I did it.”

  McCoy drew down one side of his mouth, said contemptuously: “It happened in your room. What do you think?”

  Chapter Two

  Dead Man’s Partner

  THE small desk which had stood against one wall of Cardigan’s room, was shattered. The back of the chair which had stood before it was also shattered and lay halfway across the room. There was a charred tear in the carpet. A chemical extinguisher had been used. There was a dark splotch on the carpet that was blood. The concussion had shattered one of the windows. This was the extent of damage done to the room; not much on the whole. But Reilly of the Bureau had died.

  McCoy touched his own chest with his hand, and ran the hand up across his face. “Chest and face blown off,” he ground out bitterly, his dark eyes burning on Cardigan. “A small bomb planted in the desk drawer. When the drawer was pulled open—whango!” He twisted his features contemptuously. “I suppose a little birdie put it there!”

  A reporter lay on the bed, smoking. A couple of uniformed policemen stood by the door. McCoy straddled a chair, his arms folded on its back. Cardigan leaned against the wall.

  Cardigan said: “Call it a birdie, if you want. But it wasn’t me, McCoy.”

  “Bah!”

  “O.K.—bah, too. Reilly came up here about five minutes after I came in. I didn’t know him from Adam. He made a kind of informal call that lasted a couple of minutes. Then he went out. Then I shaved and went down the street to eat. While I was gone, he probably got the bright idea of coming up here, crashing my room and seeing what he could see.”

  McCoy said: “Why did he come here in the first place?”

  “Hell, am I supposed to know why you cops do a lot of things you do?”

  “I’m not asking for wisecracks!”

  “You’re asking for wisecracks when you hand me a dumb question like that. My God, I can’t walk in a hotel without some cop immediately starts to muscle in!”

  McCoy stood up, grabbed the chair and planked it beside him, and leaned with one hand on its back. His hand gripped the back hard, changing the color of his knuckles. He was a big man, a hard man, bony all the way, with a forceful arrogance, a bold uncompromising nose. His eyes clouded with dull red color.

  “Reilly was my partner, damn you!”

  The reporter on the bed was about to inhale a cigarette languidly, but didn’t. He held the cigarette poised an inch from his lips, stared at the ceiling. The clanging of a cable car went up Powell Street; the sound rose with a sharp clarity in the narrow, wet street. McCoy was breathing hard, but said nothing now.

  Cardigan left the wall, took four slow paces and stopped in front of McCoy; he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and eyed the Bureau man with a sharp, dark scrutiny. Cardigan’s unruly shock of hair around his ears, rose in choppy, wiry waves across his head, bunched thick and coarse on his big, hard nape.

  His voice was deep down, husky. “Look here, copper. I’m sorry he was your partner. I’ve lost a partner or two in my day and I kind of know how you feel. I’m damned sorry, McCoy. You can believe that or not. It’s up to you…. But now get this, brother. I didn’t plant any bomb in here. I don’t know who did. I suppose I ought to thank God Reilly opened that desk drawer, because if he hadn’t, I would have, sooner or later—and you’d be wiring my home office now instead of riding me.”

  McCoy’s eyes glittered, and he spoke through tightened lips. “Why did Reilly come and call on you?”

  “He wanted to know if I was on anything hot.”

  “He must have had a reason for that. What was the reason?”

  �
�He had no reason. He heard my name downstairs and he remembered my pan from three years ago. That’s all.”

  McCoy licked his lips, said: “Suppose I said I thought you were giving me the run-around?”

  “Suppose you do.”

  “I do.”

  “O.K. Now where are you?”

  McCOY closed his mouth hard and his fingers doubled in his palms, his hands became fists.

  Cardigan said: “Look here, McCoy. Use your head. Why the hell would I plant a bomb in that desk? Tell me that, will you? Did you find any papers lying around? Did you find anything?”

  “There’s one thing I know, Cardigan,” McCoy ground out bitterly. “Reilly came up here. The hop saw him in here and you say he was here. He came up for a reason.”

  “I told you the reason.”

  “The hop heard you and Reilly arguing. I want the straight, Cardigan. I don’t want any damned song-and-dance!”

  Cardigan darkened. “You’ve heard all you’re going to hear, McCoy.”

  “Have I? I’m going to hear what you’re doing in San Francisco, too!”

  “Don’t let that idea run away with you.”

  McCoy gripped him hard.

  Cardigan said: “Who let Reilly in my room?”

  “Nobody. He used a key of his own.”

  “He did, did he? He had no reason to. Get this through your head, McCoy. He broke into my room while I was out and rifled my bag. No cop can do that without a reason. I know you guys do it, but you do it because most people let you and don’t squawk. But you can’t do it on me. So before you start to get real tough, remember I’ve got a big agency behind me and a pile of dough. And in the meantime, I hate like hell to be pawed over, so take your damned hand off my arm!”

  “Getting pretty tall, ain’t you?”

  “I know my rights and that shield you pack around isn’t going to make me forget them.”

  McCoy shook him, said: “I want to know what you’re doing in this city.”

  “That’s my business. Not yours. I haven’t committed a crime and I don’t have to go around blabbing to you.” He reached up, gripped McCoy’s wrist, ripped his hand free. He went over to his bag, closed it and picked up the telephone. Into the telephone he said: “I want another room.” He hung up, went into the closet and brought out such clothing as he had deposited there. He poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey, downed it straight, corked the bottle and shoved it into his overcoat pocket. He did all this without so much as a sidelong glance at anyone in the room. He went into the bathroom, threw his toilet articles into a battered leather toilet case, clipped the case shut and coming back into the bedroom, dropped it to the bed.

  McCoy was saying dully: “Who would have wanted to knock you off with that set-up, Cardigan?”

  Cardigan turned, spread his arms. “I wouldn’t know. It must have been a mistake.” His manner was disarmingly bland. He added: “Hell, if I knew, McCoy, I’d feel a lot happier than I do now. On top of maybe having some maniac trying out an infernal machine on me, I’ve got to have you waltzing around.”

  There was a knock and a bell-hop came in.

  Cardigan said: “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to another hotel.”

  McCoy said: “Be sure to leave your forwarding address.”

  “The Margery, if you think it’ll do you any good.”

  McCoy lifted his chin toward the two uniformed policemen. “Take him, boys. He’s just too cute. We’ll take him to headquarters.”

  Cardigan wheeled. “Now wait a minute—”

  “You heard me,” McCoy went on in a dull, hard voice. “You may be able to pull a line of talk in some burgs, but not in this town. This town was tough before you were born, and your New York is a pale imitation…. Never mind the bracelets, boys. Just walk him down. This potato’s all wet but he don’t know it.”

  Cardigan said sarcastically: “Maybe you want my gun too.”

  McCoy lit a cigarette, said offhand: “Nah. You don’t think your rod’d worry us, do you?… Don’t take away his pop-gun, boys.”

  Cardigan got red behind the ears. His eyes became humid and he had to grit his teeth to keep his mouth from working. He snarled: “And what the hell do you think you’ll get out of this?”

  “Find,” tossed off McCoy lightly, “what you came here for.”

  “Boy, I’m beginning to hate your insides!”

  “I’m wild about yours too…. O.K., boys; waltz the mastermind out.”

  Cardigan shrugged away. “Wait a minute. I want to make a telephone call.” He picked up the phone, called a number, stood tapping his feet, licking his lips, breathing hard. He was a boiling caldron of anger and chagrin. “Hello,” he said into the phone. “Is this you, Manx?… This is Cardigan, of the Cosmos Agency, New York…. I’m lousy, thanks. Get your pants on and run over to headquarters…. Why? A bright young boy scout working out of the Bureau is making a grandstand play…. Thanks, Manx.”

  He slammed the receiver into the prong, clipped to McCoy: “You overlooked the fact, honeybunch, that the Agency retains one of the wisest mouthpieces in this city. Let’s go, and tell me when it begins to hurt.”

  Chapter Three

  Through the Fog

  THE coffee shop of the Hotel Margery was small, done in black-and-green tile. Pat Seaward, sitting in a far corner at ten that night, saw the doorway fill up with Cardigan. He spotted her and came toward her, carrying his hat in his hand, his overcoat over his arm. She poured coffee. She looked trim and neat in a small pancake hat cocked over one eye, a brown suit with flaring lapels and pinched shoulders. No one would have thought that the neat patent-leather bag lying on the table contained a .25 Webley.

  “Gosh, chief—”

  “I know, I know,” he muttered, sitting down opposite her.

  A waiter came and Cardigan said: “Bring me a clam-juice cocktail—a tall one; so”—he measured with both hands—“tall.”

  The waiter went away and Pat leaned forward. “I was frightened, chief. I had an idea something was wrong, but you’d said—”

  “Good you stayed under cover. This dick McCoy is hard as nails. Not a bad guy.” He laughed under his throat, said: “Tried to toss me in the holdover. I got Manx over, and Manx got a judge, and we all talked it over—and did McCoy’s face get red! I’m telling you, Red Riding Hood—”

  “But—”

  “Listen, Pat.” His eyes hardened. “That bomb was planted to get me. In the desk drawer. I would have opened that drawer later—to get some stationery to write some letters.”

  Pat gulped.

  “Never mind,” he said, leaning on his elbows. “I must have been shadowed in Reno. They knew what hotel I was going to. They either wired or beat me here in a plane and they found the number of the hotel room. McCoy quizzed the hotel but they acted dumb. But somebody found out the room I was going to occupy. Well, I’ll get around to that later. But now—”

  He thrust his hand into a pocket inside his vest, drew out some papers, laid them on the table. The waiter brought the clam-juice cocktail, vanished.

  Cardigan said to Pat: “The facts, just to check up, are these. Myrna Telfair is the daughter of Richard Telfair, a Cleveland socialite lousy with coin of the realm. Myrna is seventeen. A week ago she ran away with a guy by the name of Tod Lester, a pretender to society, a guy she met about a month ago. He had credentials, but old Telfair was suspicious and had our Cleveland op check up. But the op doesn’t get the report in until the day after Lester and the girl take it on the lam. Because it’s a girl we’re after, I wired you off the Phoenix job and on to this one, and you should know these details.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “O.K. It turns out that Lester is a former gigolo that got mixed up with a gang of Boston girl-snatchers. It was in a Sunday yellow rag that the story was spread about Myrna Telfair’s potential wealth. When her uncle died, two years ago, he left a legacy of three hundred thousand berries to the first-born son of Myrna Telfair. You begin to catch on
?

  “As close as I can figure it out, Lester was sent after the girl. He’s a handsome daisy, and had a lot to start on. He worked his way into the best Cleveland clubs through forged credentials, and in a short time he met Myrna. It was to be quite simple, I imagine. He was to marry Myrna, she was to have a son, and the infant was to inherit the three hundred grand. Figuring some more, Lester was to get his hooks on the dough, split with the guys in his ring.”

  “Good Lord, chief!”

  “Our Cleveland op must have overstepped. Lester must have got wise. He hurried things by eloping. The old man knew right away what had happened and he didn’t make a squawk to the cops. Why? Because he doesn’t want a scandal, and you can’t blame him. He let it get around that Myrna had gone to their New Hampshire camp for a rest. That tale still stands. It’s got to stand. And that’s why I can’t let the San Francisco cops in on it.”

  Pat was staring round-eyed. “Who planted that bomb?”

  “You’re asking me? I followed the tail as far as Reno. In Reno last night I was walking down a dark street and some guy took a pot-shot at me. He was a lousy shot. Did I go to the cops? No. I can’t. But I got a good line in Reno. Myrna and Lester flew to San Francisco. They were traveling light, but even so they had to send on one suitcase by express. It was sent to an address on Pacific Avenue. There’s her picture.”

  Pat said: “She’s lovely.”

  “There’s Lester’s. His real name is Padden—‘Gink’ Padden.”

  “He looks too—too handsome.”

  “And there’s the Pacific Avenue address.”

  Pat looked up, grave eyed. “It’s going to mean trouble, chief.”

  “You’re telling me? With McCoy burning up because his partner was killed, he’s set on finding the guys that did it, and he knows that I know something and he’ll ride me ragged. On top of that, these heels are trying new and novel ways of bumping me off.” He put the papers in his pocket. “So it’s this way—you stay under cover until I call you. And if McCoy sees you and asks you anything, you’re just a girl friend. Got that?”