The Honest Dealer

Chapter Sixteen

1428 Bonneville was on the far east side of Las Vegas. It was a house very much on the order of Walter Cobb’s, but it was set back farther from the street and was the only house in the block. The street was, at this point, native Nevada sand.

Johnny Fletcher drove past the house, continued for another block, then turned left one block and came back on Doniphan Street.

As they approached the block in which the house was located, Cobb exclaimed in satisfaction. “Perfect! There’s only one window in the rear and it’s such a small one they won’t be standing there all the time, looking out... Stop in the next block.”

Johnny drove another block and pulled up at the curb. Walter Cobb stepped out of the car. He was already wearing a heavy leather belt, which had a loose section that was supposed to go about a telephone pole; spiked pole climbing equipment was attached to his legs.

He winked at Johnny Fletcher and clambered rapidly up the pole. Reaching the top he made a connection to the telephone line and dropped a coil of thin wire to the ground. Then he descended the pole and picking up the loose wire, climbed back into the car.

A quick connection to his little black box in which reposed the induction coil and he put on the headset. A smile of satisfaction lit up his face.

“A beautiful connection.”

“I got an idea while you were up there,” Johnny said. “It might be hours before anyone phones them. Why don’t I run uptown and call them from a pay phone?”

“Oh, splendid!” exclaimed Cobb. “You’ll stir them up and they’ll make a call, is that it?”

“Something like that.” Then Johnny frowned. “But if I take the car you can’t sit on the curb and listen...”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Cobb. “I’ll climb up on the pole and anyone sees me will think I’m a linesman. I can hang up there for an hour, if necessary.”

He got out of the car, carrying his box. Fastening it to his belt, he climbed the pole rapidly. Johnny waited until he had reached the top, then started his car and drove down to Fremont Street. Entering a drugstore he went into a phone booth. Cobb had obtained the telephone number at 1428 Bonneville before they had started the expedition, and consulting a slip of paper, Johnny dialed it.

The phone rang and rang. Then it was taken off and a gruff voice said, curtly, “Yeah?”

“They got him,” said Johnny in a harsh tone.

“Who’s this?” snapped the voice on the other end of the phone.

“I can’t give my name,” Johnny said, “but I’m warning you... the heat’s on...” He put the receiver back on the hook, counted to twenty, then dialed the number again.

The receiver was taken off instantly this time. Johnny laughed into the mouthpiece and hung up. He left the booth, then, had a cup of coffee at the soda fountain and won two dollars in a quarter slot machine. Then he re-entered the phone booth and again dialed the Bonneville number. The line was busy.

Outside he climbed into his car and drove back to Doniphan Street. He was slowing up for Cobb’s telephone pole, when he happened to look out across the field on the north side of Doniphan Street.

There was a shed-like adobe house there and on the veranda a heavy-set man was standing. He had a pair of field glasses trained on Walter Cobb.

The man was Catch ’Em Alive Mulligan.

Johnny kept his car rolling down the middle of the street.

He drove a mile out into the desert on a trail that was the continuation of Doniphan Street, then coming to a ranch yard turned his car and drove back.

Catch ’Em Alive Mulligan was still on the veranda of the little house. But now he had brought out a wicker armchair and was taking things easy. The glasses were in his lap, but he was quietly watching Walter Cobb up on the telephone pole.

Swearing to himself, Johnny drove back to Fremont Street. He entered a drugstore — a different one than before — and dialed the number of 1428 Bonneville Street.

The phone was promptly answered. Johnny said, “Look out for Mulligan,” and hung up.

The message would be a cryptic one to the occupants of the house on Bonneville Street and it would be a warning to Walter Cobb.

The best Johnny could do then was to drive to Walter Cobb’s residence. He parked his car a couple of doors down the street and walked back to the little stucco house.

Mrs. Cobb answered his ring at the door. She had changed her sloppy morning wrapper for a sloppy house dress. “Where’s Walter?” she asked.

“Walking,” said Johnny. “Probably coming home, but I’m afraid to go out and pick him up, because I think Catch ’Em Alive Mulligan’s following him.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mrs. Cobb. “Mulligan gets mad at Walter once in a while, but he owes Walter a favor or two. He tipped Mulligan off to something big only a few months ago that he got by listening in on a telephone... I’ve talked to Beeler in Chicago, Mr. Fletcher...”

“Oh, yes?”

“Twenty-eight dollars’ worth,” Mrs. Cobb said pointedly. “He’s going to call me back as soon as he gets some further information...”

“You mean he’s already got something?”

“Only about Jim Langford; he knew his record. He was arrested on suspicion of murder two years ago, but he was released for lack of evidence. He was barred from the Arlington Race Track last season and he worked as a bodyguard for Barney O’Toole four years ago, but he lost his job when O’Toole was killed. The police questioned him at the time and there was a rumor that Langford himself had killed O’Toole, but nobody seemed to care much so nothing happened.”

“A nice lad,” remarked Johnny. “Probably very kind to his mother, too... Hear anything about Chatsworth?”

“Beeler knew the name, but offhand didn’t know anything about him. But he’s going to check on him. Halton, he never heard about.”

“I forgot to tell you — when Beeler calls back, tell him Halton was All-American once. I’d say about ten years ago.”

“All-American what?”

Johnny shrugged. “Football, I guess.” Johnny, looking out of the front window at that moment, saw a “Lucky Cab” pull up to the curb. Walter Cobb, carrying his black box and spikes, stepped out and paid the cabby. Then he came to the house.

Johnny opened the door for him and Cobb came in. The detective grinned. “I forgot about Mulligan living near there.”

“Did he question you?”

“I practically stepped into his arms when I came down the pole. He said to tell you he’ll see you later today...”

“Me?”

“Oh, he saw you driving by; there wasn’t any use denying that I was working for you.”

Johnny grimaced. “I guess I’ll have a couple of bad moments with Catch ’Em Alive.”

“He isn’t an unreasonable man,” Cobb said. “For instance, he asked me what I heard on the telephone line and when I told him nothing, he didn’t even press me.”

“Then you didn’t hear anything?”

Walter Cobb rubbed his palms together. His wife, watching him, snorted. “Now, don’t start that cat-and-mouse stuff, Wally. Spill it — without any frills.”

“Well, first,” said Cobb, “there were your two calls to the house. About two minutes went by and then they made a call. They have a dial phone, but the person at the other end who answered said that it was the H-C Ranch...”

“—Chatsworth!” exclaimed Johnny.

“So I assumed,” said Cobb, “but the party making the call asked for a Larry Piper...”

“Who’s he?”

“My dear Fletcher,” expostulated Cobb, “how could I know? I’m merely repeating what I heard over a telephone line. I couldn’t ask any questions, could I?”

“Stop it, Wally!” snapped Mrs. Cobb.

Cobb nodded surrender, then resumed his account. “Very well, this Larry Piper, who has a somewhat uncouth voice and is probably a ranch hand was told to watch his step and if anything suspicious happened to telephone at once. That was all, except that the speaker identified himself as Carl.” Cobb looked sharply at Johnny. “Carl, not Jim...”

“I got it,” Johnny replied. “Carl. I know him. Now, who was the second call to?”

“It went to the El Casa Rancho — the switchboard operator identified it. The caller wasn’t Carl, though — he had a deeper, harsher voice. He asked for Room 24...”

“24?” cried Johnny. “You’re sure about that?”

“The operator repeated the number.”

“But that’s my room!”

“Oh,” said Cobb. “And whose is Number 41?”

“Why 41?”

“That was the fourth call. But there, as at your room, was no answer.”

Johnny frowned. “And the third call?”

“That was to Mark Morrison, an attorney here in town. I do a little work for him once in awhile. The caller this time identified himself as Jim Langford and he told Morrison that he was going to appear in court tomorrow to contest his wife’s divorce suit, on the grounds that she was not a bonafide resident of the state...”

“Is that any good in Nevada?” Johnny interrupted.

“Depends on whether he can prove it; if she left the state overnight — and it can be proved — she’ll have to start all over again.”

Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “How did Morrison take that?”

“Not badly at all. He told Langford that he had definite proof that Mrs. Langford had lived up to the terms required of her and that it was too bad Mr. Langford should take such an attitude at this late date. Whereupon Mr. Langford called Mr. Morrison a damned shyster and Mr. Morrison hung up on it. And then, you called for the third time, Mr. Fletcher, and I decided to come down the pole.”

“Did you tell Mulligan who it was you listened in to?”

“He didn’t ask me.”

“I’m surprised at that.” Johnny frowned. “I don’t like the way Mulligan takes some things so casual. You’d almost think...”

A phone in the dining recess suddenly rang and Mrs. Cobb hurried to it. She took down the receiver and said, “Mrs. Cobb speaking. Yes...” Then she signalled to Johnny. “This is Chicago...”

“Let me take it,” exclaimed Johnny. He strode into the other room and took the phone just as Beeler’s purring voice came on.

“Beeler,” he cried into the phone. “This is Johnny Fletcher; how are you?”

“I’m fine,” retorted Beeler. “I could tell you in about ten dollar’s worth of time, if you want me to...”

“Same old sourpuss,” Johnny said, “well, go ahead, give it to me — what’ve you got?”

“Chatsworth, Homer Chatsworth, Harvard, ’16, lives in Glencoe, belongs to the University Club, the Midwest Athletic Club, president of the Central Accident and Assurance Company, director of the North Side Bank and Trust Company, owns a summer place in Bar Harbor, and a ranch in Las Vegas, Nevada. A widower...”

“Okay, okay,” Johnny interrupted. “I could get all that out of Who’s Who...”

“Then why didn’t you look?” Beeler snapped, “I’ve got an important murder case on my hands and I’m only doing this as a favor to you.”

“Baloney, you’re doing it for two hundred bucks...”

“—Which I haven’t received yet,” Beeler exclaimed.

“It’s on the way. What else have you found out?”

“Charles Halton isn’t in the phone directory, but a man by that name owns an automobile, License Number 6N66-63. His address is a hotel on the near North Side and I’m going over there as soon as I hang up on you. It’s about Langford that I really called you this time... I hear his number’s up in Chicago. He and another hoodlum stuck up The Ojai Club about four weeks ago. Langford’s wife used to be a singer there before her marriage, so they knew Langford. There’s nothing against his wife, though. She sang professionally under the name of Jane Castle, but her real name is Bloss...”

“What!” roared Johnny.

“Bloss,” said Beeler, “Jane Bloss. Does that name mean something?”

“It means two hundred bucks extra for you, if you can get me her complete history — her father’s first name — the names of any other relatives; their history and present whereabouts. Get that first — before you do anything else. Understand?”

“All right, Fletcher.”

Johnny hung up abruptly and turned to face the Cobbs.

“He get something interesting?” Walter Cobb asked.

Johnny thrust the phone at Cobb. “This Morrison who’s handling Mrs. Langford’s case... you said you worked for him at times; call and get him to tell you Mrs. Langford’s maiden name...”

Cobb nodded and dialed a number. “Louise,” he said into the phone. “This is Walter Cobb; let me talk to the boss... Oh!... No, never mind, but look — do something for me; look at Mrs. Langford’s divorce plea... tell me her maiden name...” He nodded. “Thanks, Louise, thanks a million...” He hung up. “Mark’s gone out to the El Casa Rancho, to see Mrs. Langford—”

“All right, all right,” Johnny cried, impatiently. “But what’s the name...?”

“Louise had the papers right there...” He winced as Johnny’s face twisted into a snarl. “It’s Bloss!”

“Well!” said Mrs. Cobb. “I hadn’t expected that.”

“Neither had I,” Johnny said. “Beeler dropped it by accident...”

“Harry Bloss’ daughter?”

“It looks like it — that’s what I want Beeler to check for sure.”

“We could ask Mrs. Langford herself,” Cobb suggested.

“That’s one thing I don’t want to do.”

Johnny reached into his pocket, skimmed two hundred-dollar bills off his roll. “Wire this money to Beeler in Chicago...”

“There’s a charge for wiring money,” Mrs. Cobb said.

Impatiently, Johnny peeled off another bill. “Keep the change for incidentals.” He went to the door. “The minute Beeler has anything call me at El Casa Rancho. If I’m not in my room, get Nick the bellboy and tell him to find me.”