The Limping Goose

11

A short while later they re-entered the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel and rode up to the eighth floor. The door of Room 821 was unlocked, which was not too unusual, since the maids were in and out with their cleaning and linens. But when Johnny pushed open the door, he let out a low whistle.

“Jeez!” exclaimed Sam. “The place looks like a cyclone hit it.”

The beds were stripped, the blankets and sheets thrown on the floor. The drawers of the single dresser were open and the contents dumped on the floor. The carpet had even been torn loose from the floor and peeled back around the edges.

“I was half expecting this,” Johnny said thoughtfully.

“Burglars, you mean? What’ve we got worth stealing?”

“The goose bank. Do you see it around?”

“No, I don’t, but the doggone thing was empty.”

“Search,” said Johnny. “See if it’s around.”

They both got down on their knees and peered under the bed and dresser. They shook out the blankets and sheets, threw them back on the bed. Two minutes’ search convinced them that the limping goose bank was not in the room.

Johnny got to his feet. There was a discreet knock on the door.

“Come!” he called.

The door opened and Eddie Miller came into the room. Eddie was the bell captain of the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, a sharp little man in his mid-thirties who knew all the answers and had invented many of the questions.

“Termites?” he asked, looking around the littered room.

“Big ones,” replied Johnny.

Eddie nodded. “I know you’re in the middle of a caper Mr. Fletcher, what with the law coming here last night and Mr. Peabody prancing and smirking. And things going on.”

“Such as what, Eddie?”

“You paid your rent last night,” Eddie suggested.

Johnny shook his head. “I had to scramble for it. We’re broke.”

“Well, that’s normal for you. You know I’m on your side, Mr. Fletcher. You’ve always done right by me when you had it. So this is for free. I mean until you get back into the chips. Some people been asking me about you.”

“People?”

“First two, then one. The two” — Eddie gestured about the room — “I guess they’re the ones did this. They looked like mugs.”

“What did they want to know?”

“Your room number. One of them slipped me fifty cents, but I told him it was worth my job to give out a guest’s room number. So the other guy gave me a buck.”

“And you gave them the room number?”

“Sure, why not? They could have got it at the desk. For that, Haskins, the day clerk, would give them a guest’s key.”

“How much do you charge for a key?”

Eddie grinned. “I held out for five. I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, your tux is at the, ah, cleaners, isn’t it? Along with our overcoat and your four other suits. They... they didn’t swipe anything, did they?”

“A piggy bank, that’s all.” said Sam Cragg.

Eddie’s face fell. “I didn’t know you had anything in here worth while.”

“Oh, this wasn’t worth much, Eddie,” said Johnny easily. “Just a man’s life, that’s all.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Maybe I am. All right, I won’t hold it against you. You’ve got to make a living, too. What about the other one — the one who came later?”

“Harry Flanagan. He didn’t know that I knew him, but he stayed here a week, four years ago. He’s one of the boys. You can probably see him on Broadway and Forty-eighth any afternoon.”

“What’s he do for a living?”

Eddie grinned. “He hustles. You want a crap game, a good time, Harry’ll fix it for you. You want to buy a diamond ring, Harry’ll get it for you wholesale. You want to meet the blonde in the second row, at Binsky’s, Harry knows her. He’ll introduce you.”

“Nice lad.”

“I can’t figure how come he’s interested in you. You’re not exactly a farmer from Trufant, Michigan.”

“What’d he want to know about me?”

“The usual. How you made a living. He seemed to think you were a private eye or something.”

“How come?”

“He let it out that you were investigating a friend of his.”

“He mention the name?”

“Uh-uh, but it’s a babe.”

“He say so?”

“No, but he’s a little too well-dressed these days. Either he made a big strike lately, or he’s got some babe buying him his clothes. A babe with money.”

The phone rang. Johnny stepped to bed and scooped it up. “Hello!”

The voice of James Sutton said, “Mr. Fletcher? Glad I caught you in. I’ve been thinking over our little deal of last night. I’ve decided not to go ahead—”

“You can’t quit now,” Johnny cried in sudden desperation. “I’ve already been working on it and I’ve got something for you.”

“What?” asked Sutton.

“I’ll come right over and tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

“I can’t, over the phone. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Johnny slammed down the receiver and whirled on Sam Cragg. “Hold down the fort, Sam.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Our pigeon’s got cold feet. I’ve got to warm them up again. Stay here, just in case we have some more callers. I’ll see you later, Eddie.”

Johnny tore out of the room. Out on the street, he hailed a waiting cab and jumped in. Ten minutes later he entered the Barbizon-Waldorf. He went to a house phone.

“Mr. James Sutton.”

After a moment, Sutton answered the phone.

“Johnny Fletcher. I’m downstairs. What’s your room number?”

There was a slight hesitation. “Thirty-four twenty-two, but don’t come up for ten minutes.”

Johnny hung up and walked to the elevators. A car was about to leave and he stepped in. He got out on the thirty-fourth floor and a moment later pressed the door buzzer of Room 3422.

The door was opened instantly by James Sutton. He scowled. “I said ten minutes.”

“My watch is stopped,” said Johnny, stepping into the room. A quick glance around showed him that Sutton was living well. The suite consisted of at least three rooms and at the going prices of the Barbizon-Waldorf must have cost Sutton at least a thousand a month.

Sutton closed the door and said, “I still think it was a mistake to engage you, Fletcher, and if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind,” Johnny snapped. “Especially, when I’m already on the trail of Lester Smithson.”

“I don’t see how you’ve had time—”

“I put my mind to it last night, Mr. Sutton,” Johnny said smoothly. “That’s the way I operate. When the ordinary investigator is guzzling his beer, or making a night of it, I’m working. I work all the time, during the day, at night. I go to sleep with a problem and when I wake up during the night I think of it. It’s on my mind always. So, last night, about two in the a.m. I found that I couldn’t sleep so I gave the problem some thought. I said to myself, suppose I was Lester Smithson, the nephew of a man who owns twenty-two hundred grocery stores. Suppose I had a cousin who was the son of the man who had twenty-two hundred grocery stores; ordinarily he’d be the man who’d inherit the grocery stores. Except that he wasn’t interested in the grocery business. He was a playboy. Instead of selling groceries, he was interested only in buying mink coats for chorus girls. Now, there’s nothing wrong with buying chorus girls mink coats, you understand. Everybody knows that chorus girls get awfully cold and there’s nothing that keeps a chorus girl so warm as a fine set of pelts. I got nothing against the idea, personally... and the son of a man who owns twenty-two hundred grocery stores can’t be expected to be spending his time weighing out sugar and coffee.”

“No,” said Sutton, “of course not.”

“On the other hand,” Johnny went on, “if you’re only a cousin of a man who owns twenty-two hundred grocery stores, that’s a horse of a different feather. Especially, if there’s a direct heir in line for the grocery stores. So, now what can this cousin do to attract attention to himself and show his uncle what a fine man he is? Especially if said uncle started out in life as a poor grocery clerk?”

“He wasn’t a grocery clerk,” said Sutton. “He was a telegraph operator.”

“Same thing. He was a poor man who started at the bottom and worked his way up.” He paused a moment, beaming at Sutton. “Begin to catch on?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Smithson,” Johnny exclaimed. “What could he do to put himself in solid with old man Carmichael? He could learn the grocery business from the ground up.”

“This is Lester Smithson you’re talking about?”

“Who else? A sharp lad. He wanted some of those grocery stores, so he went about it the only way a guy in his position can go about it. He got a job in a grocery store — at the bottom!”

Sutton stared at Johnny in fascination. “Where?”

Johnny made a gesture of dismissal. “That’s just a matter of detail. We know where he is — we can find him.”

“Fletcher,” said Sutton, shaking his head in admiration, “that’s the most fantastic story I’ve ever heard. There’s only one thing wrong with it. Lester disappeared a matter of some twelve years ago.”

“So?”

“You think he’s still, what did you say? weighing out sugar and coffee in one of the twenty-two hundred grocery stores?”

“He would be. Maybe he’s worked his way up to the meat counter.”

Jess Carmichael stepped out of the bedroom. “Fletcher, I underestimated you last night.”

Johnny smiled pleasantly. “Most people do.”

“You’ve imagination.” Carmichael turned to Sutton. “What’s this deal you made with him to find Lester?”

Sutton shrugged. “It was just one of those things. Spur of the moment, Uncle Jess. I guess I should have minded my own business. Forget it, please.”

“No,” said Carmichael. “I’ve missed Lester.” He paused. “He’s my nephew, the same as you are.” Pain crossed his features. “Now that Jess is gone, you and Lester are the only family I have. I... I know that Jess and Lester were never very friendly. I know, too, that it was probably Jess’s fault, but now that he’s dead I don’t seem to remember those things. Or attach any importance to them. The memory of Lester these last few years isn’t so... so strong. But I remembered the boy...” He stopped and swallowed hard. Then he became brisk again. “Fletcher, hold that vivid imagination of yours in check for a moment and tell me, honestly — do you think you can find Lester?”

“Yes, Mr. Carmichael, I can. That is, I can find him anyone can.”

“Weighing sugar?” Johnny knew when to be discreetly silent and Carmichael nodded. “I’m going to let you try. Here...” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a wallet. He skinned out five bills. “Here’s five hundred dollars. There’ll be a thousand more when you find Lester Smithson. All right?”

Johnny took the bills and looked sharply at Sutton. The latter shrugged. “Thanks, Mr. Carmichael. It’s a deal. There’s just one question I want to ask you. Exactly when and where did you last see Lester?”

Pain again flitted across the grocery magnate’s face. “I wish you hadn’t asked me that.” He looked at Sutton. “Perhaps you’d better tell him, James.”

“If you wish, Uncle Jess. It was at the Harover Club. We were all having lunch there and — well, I guess we’d all had one drink more than we should have. My cousin Jess and Lester — they had words and Jess threw a cup of black coffee in Lester’s face. I’m afraid the coffee was rather hot. Lester walked out and that’s the last time any of us saw him.”

“This was twelve years ago?”

“Last August.”

Johnny stowed away the five hundred-dollar bills. “I’ll get busy, Mr. Carmichael.”

“I’ll expect to hear from you.”

Johnny nodded and stepped to the door. Out in the hall, he took the five bills from his pocket. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen any of you boys,” he said fervently.