The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

After luncheon Cardigan went out to the suburban post office, opened his box and took out a solitary package. He thrust it into his pocket and returned to his hotel. There he opened it, and found thirteen thousand, two hundred dollars. Twelve hundred he put in a plain envelope and addressed it to Maloney. In each of five plain envelopes he placed a thousand dollars, for Pete Fink’s boys. For Pete he placed aside two thousand He lost no time in mailing Maloney’s letter.

Later, he was at the booth in the corner drugstore to get Fink’s prearranged call. Fink mentioned his room, but Cardigan objected, remembering Kennedy, and told Fink to pick him up at a street corner well out of the city. Then he hung up and took a bus out, got off at the street he had named, and waited for Fink. He did not have to wait long. The touring car came up, and Fink was driving with his one good arm. Cardigan got in and they rolled off.

“Gats,” said Fink. “He slipped out on the boys. He’s out gunnin’ for the guys who got Bat Johnson.”

“What!”

“Yup.”

Cardigan saw his nicely made plans toppling to ruin. This was one of those things the best of tacticians cannot foresee. An accident. A bad break. Gats gone gun-mad because his buddy’d been killed by the wops.

“We’ve got to get him,” he said.

“Yeah, but where?”

Cardigan cursed the luck. Then he said, “Well, I’ve got the money. It’s all here. A thousand each for the boys. Two thousand for you. Twelve hundred went to the go-between for the booze.” He passed over the envelopes. “That’ll make the boys feel better.” After a moment he said, “The riot squad’s ready for action.”

“It won’t take long, if we don’t get Gats. He’ll start the fireworks sure as hell.”

“Drop me off when the next bus comes along. Look for Gats. Go to all the places you think he’d be. Ring me at the hotel and say ‘Jake’ if you get him. Then stay out at the farm — all of you — until this blows over.”

A few minutes later he got out of the car, boarded a bus and went back to his hotel. He was very much on edge, and he mused that no matter how perfectly you lay a plan, something is liable to happen that will bring down the whole framework.

At four o’clock the telephone rang, and Fink said, “Jake.”

“Jake,” said Cardigan.

A great burden was automatically lifted from his mind. He even whistled as he got into his bath. He hummed while he shaved. Then he dressed, spent half an hour with a cigar and the evening paper, and at five-thirty put on his overcoat and went out. As he swung out of the hotel, he heard the scream of a siren. He looked up the street.

Three police cars were roaring down Main Street. Traffic scattered. People gathered on the curb. The three cars shot by the hotel doing fifty miles an hour. They were packed with policemen, and automatic rifles were clamped on the sides. The sirens snarled madly.

Cardigan’s breath stuck in his throat. A chill danced up and down his spine. Then his jaw set and he crossed to a taxicab.

“Hit Farmingville Turnpike,” he clipped, and jumped in.

He started to close the door, but something held it. He turned around. Kennedy was climbing in after him.

“Mind if I go?”

Cardigan sank into his seat, his fists clenched. But he managed to grin. “Sure. The old gumshoe instinct in me always follows a riot call. I’m anxious to see what this is all about.”

“Yeah?” smiled Kennedy.

“Yeah. I’m in the dark, just like you.”

Kennedy frowned after the manner of a man who wondered if after all he isn’t wrong in what he’d been supposing.