The Limping Goose

14

A drunken sailor on shore leave after a five months’ cruise in the South Pacific was no freer with his money than Johnny Fletcher when he had it. It was seldom that he had it, but when he had it he spent it. He gave the captain of waiters at the Beau Jester a five-dollar bill and when the man started to lead him to a table in the far corner, he tapped him on the shoulder.

“How about this table right here?” he asked, showing the captain the markings on a ten-dollar bill.

“Why, yes, sir, it’s a very nice table.” He drew out a chair for Johnny. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes — milk.”

“Milk? You mean... milk?”

“That’s right, milk. And I wonder if you’d mind telling me a little about this place?”

“Not at all, sir. We serve the best foods, the finest vintages and give you the best service in town.”

“So I’ve heard. Friend of mine down in Texas spent a little money here last year. Told me it was the best little place in New York. From Houston, my friend.”

Texas and Houston meant oil to any captain of waiters in New York and the one by Johnny’s table brightened. “Texas is a wonderful place,” he said, “and Houston!” The captain rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and exhaled heavily.

“Mister,” said Johnny, “you said a mouthful! I ain’t been in New York myself in ten-twelve years and I’m practically a greenhorn here. Used to know a few folks here, but I don’t even know where to look them up now. I don’t s’pose you happen to know old Jim Sutton?”

“Mr. James Sutton? He comes here frequently.”

“He does? Thought he’d be married with six kids by now.” He snapped his fingers. “Jim and I had some great times together. He had a cousin I liked a lot. Wonder whatever happened to him?”

The captain coughed gently. “Mr. Carmichael? I’m afraid—”

“Naw, I wasn’t thinkin’ of Jess. I saw in the papers what happened to him. Too bad, but Jess wasn’t one of my favorite people, I’m sorry to say. No, I was thinkin’ of another cousin of Jim’s, Les Smithson. Great lad.”

“Mr. Smithson, mm? I didn’t know him very well. Of course he came here now and then, but I was only the head waiter then and I didn’t know him too well. I do remember, though, that he and Mr. Sutton were rather close friends. For cousins, that is.”

“Oh, sure,” said Johnny easily. “I know what you mean. I got a cousin back in Houston. We fight all the time, but we’re buddies just the same. We had a big spat a couple of years ago — regular knockdown and dragout — then the following week he was opening up a new field and needed a little ready, so who’d he come to? Me, naturally. And what’s more, I helped him out. Good thing, too.”

The captain of waiters practically drooled. “Quite so, sir, quite so. Mr. Smithson and Mr. Sutton had words now and then, but they were cousins, after all.”

“I’d sure like to talk over old times with Les and Jim. Or any of their really close friends, if Les and Jim aren’t around town.”

“Mr. Sutton’s in town, but Mr. Smithson...” The captain hesitated. “He, I believe, disappeared some years ago. Nobody seems to know what happened to him.”

“He went to Europe, maybe? He always said he wanted to do a lot of traveling.”

“Perhaps he’s living there permanently now,” said the captain. “I haven’t heard about him in some years. Mmm, I wonder...” His eyes went past Johnny to a table along the wall. “There’s Mr. Wheelwright, he was a very close friend of Mr. Smithson’s.”

Johnny half turned and followed the captain’s eyes to a sleek, well-fed man in his middle thirties. His eyes barely rested on the man, however, going instantly to his companion, Hertha Colston, who had been Jess Carmichael’s fiancée and whom he had seen so briefly the night before as he dashed into the Carmichael home at Manhasset.

The captain continued, “Perhaps I could introduce you to Mr. Wheelwright — if he doesn’t mind, that is.”

“Hey,” said Johnny, “I know the little lady with him. Thanks, captain.” He pushed back his chair and rising, crossed to the table of Wheelwright and Hertha Colston.

“Miss Colston!” Johnny said enthusiastically, as he came up to the table.

She recognized him instantly. “You’re the man I saw at Uncle Jess’s last night.”

“That’s right.” Johnny pulled out a chair and sat down facing Wheelwright and the girl.

“Uncle Jess told me about you. He” — she half smiled — “he said you were fantastic. That’s the exact word he used.”

Johnny chuckled. “My name is Johnny Fletcher, Mr. Wheelwright.”

Wheelwright regarded him coolly. “How are you?”

“I understand you were a friend of Lester Smithson’s.”

“So?”

“So I’d like to ask you some questions about him. Exactly when did you last see him?”

Wheelwright looked at Hertha Colston. “Just who is this man?”

“I’d like to know myself.” Hertha smiled at Johnny. “Answer the man.”

“I just told you — I’m Johnny Fletcher.”

“And are we supposed to know who Johnny Fletcher is?”

“I thought everybody knew about Johnny Fletcher,” Johnny said cheerfully.

“All right,” said Wheelwright. “We know you. Your name is Fletcher. Now, do you mind telling just what you are?”

“That’s what bothered Uncle Jess last night,” Hertha said brightly.

“It doesn’t bother him now, though. I saw him this morning. I’m now working for him.” He pursed up his lips and looked straight at Wheelwright. “I’m making a confidential investigation for Mr. Carmichael.”

“You’re a detective?”

“That’s not exactly the right word,” Johnny murmured.

“I see,” said Wheelwright thoughtfully. “You’re investigating the murder of Jess.”

“No,” said Johnny bluntly. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Lester Smithson.”

Wheelwright stared at Johnny a moment, then he looked quickly at Hertha.

She seemed to hold her breath a moment, then she exclaimed, “You think Lester...?”

“Killed Jess?” Wheelwright finished.

“What do you think?” Johnny asked, looking at Wheelwright.

Wheelwright continued to stare, then slowly shook his head. “It’s so long ago. Yet...” He paused, doubt growing in his eyes. “It’s true that there was bad blood between Jess and Lester.”

“Just when,” Johnny asked, “did you last see Lester Smith-son?”

“Oh, Lord, it’s eleven, no, twelve years ago. Mm, yes, it was the day Jess threw the coffee in his face. He told me about it.”

“Then you saw him after that lunch at the Harover?”

“Oh, you know about that? Yes, I saw Lester that evening. He came over to my place and he told me about it. He said” — he stopped, then went on — “He said he’d never talk to Jess again as long as he lived.”

“And that was the last time you ever saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever hear from him?”

“Not a word. There was a lot of talk for a while and then... we assumed something had happened to him — somewhere. It’s years now since anyone even thought that he might still be alive. Lester wasn’t the kind to bury himself, you know. He liked what he was doing.”

“Just what was he doing before he — disappeared?”

“Why, I believe he had some kind of job with his uncle. Mr. Carmichael can tell you, I’m sure. Well, maybe not. Come to think of it, it was that kind of job. After all, his uncle was the president of the company.”

“So Lester was probably a vice-president?”

“No-no, he didn’t have any kind of a title. Neither did young Jess, for that matter.”

“He worked, then?”

“For a while. It was right after he graduated from Harover. His father thought he ought to come into the business and Jess didn’t seem to mind too much. Not then...” He looked at Hertha. “I’m sorry, Hertha.”

“It’s all right, Don, I had no illusions about Jess. I thought... well, I guess every girl thinks the same thing — that I could get him to settle down, but ’way down I knew he was just — a playboy.” Her eyes dropped to the table.

Johnny switched back to the subject of Lester Smithson. “How was Lester Smithson fixed financially?”

“He had to work. His mother was married to an engineer of some kind, who left her only a small amount of insurance.”

“Sutton’s mother married better?”

This was the first time Sutton’s name had been mentioned. Wheelwright frowned. “Sutton’s made a pile, in the stock market, I guess.”

“You don’t see a lot of him?”

“Oh, I run into him all the time.”

“But you’re not as friendly with him as you were with Smithson?”

“I’m a working man. Advertising. In fact, I’m going to have my lunch now and get back to the office.” He signaled to a waiter who was hovering nearby.

“I guess I’ll join you in a sandwich,” Johnny said. “Waiter, how about a nice grilled hot dog sandwich?”

“A what?”

“A hot dog, a frankfurter — a wienie!”

The waiter regarded Johnny coldly. “What are those things made of?”

“Meat,” snapped Johnny. “Meat and — oh, never mind. Bring me a corned beef on rye. Just plain — no mayonnaise.”

“The chipped beef on toast is very good today, sir,” the waiter suggested. “Or perhaps lobster a la Newburg, and salad with our special Beau Jester dressing.”

“Ugh!” shuddered Johnny. “Tell me — is it possible to get a plain ordinary corned beef on rye?”

“No sir, the closest to it that I can suggest is a Swiss cheese sandwich, garnished with—”

“No garnish. Bring me the Swiss cheese — just a plain ordinary Swiss cheese sandwich with just the cheese and bread. And positively no mayonnaise. Remember now, put it down on the order — no mayonnaise.”

“I guess you don’t like mayonnaise,” Hertha Colston said wryly.

“It makes me sick,” said Johnny. “I can’t stand the stuff. I once made a survey of the people in a restaurant and found out that eighty-three people out of a hundred positively hated it, fourteen didn’t mind it too much and three actually said they liked it. Yet in spite of that, I’ve been fighting a losing battle. Every da — excuse me, every doggone restaurant, cafe and hot dog stand in the country swabs the stuff all over your sandwiches. Those mayonnaise salesmen must be the greatest salesmen in the country. The mayonnaise salesmen and the ones that sell rolls with caraway or poppy seeds...”

“I think,” Wheelwright said to the waiter, “I’ll have a sliced chicken sandwich with mayonnaise!”

Johnny groaned. “One of the three out of a hundred!”

Hertha laughed. “But I’m not one of the three. I don’t like mayonnaise either.”

She ordered a salad.

The waiter went off and Johnny said to Hertha Colston, “Did you know about Alice Cummings before yesterday?”

The color faded from Hertha’s face and a shudder seemed to run through her. Don Wheelwright exclaimed angrily, “That’s a lousy think to ask her, Fletcher.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Johnny. “But the police are going to ask her that question, if they haven’t already?”

“They asked it this morning — between seven and nine o’clock. They asked me a lot of things, among other things, if I... had killed Jess.”

“And what did you tell the police about knowing Alice Cummings?”

“I told them that I knew about her. In fact, I told them I had even met her. I also told them I knew about a woman named Maxine and one named Mavis and one named Madeline and a cigarette girl at Chasepp’s and four chorus girls.” Her face was still pale, but she looked steadily at Johnny. “He told me about some of them himself and, well, the gossip columns told me about the others. I... I was still going to marry him.”

“Because you thought you could change him?”

“Because... I loved him.”

“That’s a very good reason,” Johnny said.

“More questions?” Wheelwright asked harshly.

The waiter came with a large tray of food. He set down Johnny’s sandwich before him. It was nicely cut up into four triangular bits and one long, thin wedge. Johnny raised one of the pieces of bread.

“Mayonnaise!” he roared. “I told you, no mayonnaise, positively no mayonnaise!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the waiter. “I put it down on the order. No mayonnaise.”

“Take it back,” cried Johnny, “and I want a brand-new sandwich. I can tell if the cook scrapes the mayonnaise off the bread and the cheese. New cheese, new bread, understand? Don’t write it down. Tell the cook personally...”