The Limping Goose

7

A few minutes later he stepped out into the lobby. Sam Cragg, near the house phones, came over briskly.

“He catch you?” Sam asked. “I hardly got down than he headed for the elevator. Hey” — He noted the suit over Johnny’s arm — “where’d you get that?”

“Where do you think? Peabody loaned it to me.”

“How could he when he was downstairs in the lobby while you were up—”

“Never mind, Sam, I’ll draw you a picture of it.”

Outside, they walked briskly to Eighth Avenue. They passed Uncle Ben’s Loan Shop, but went on to Uncle Charlie’s Friendly Loans.

Uncle Charlie was a redheaded man with ulcers, which is an occupational disease with pawnbrokers. He regarded Johnny and Sam sourly.

“Uncle Charlie,” Johnny said brightly, “it’s certainly a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure’s all yours,” Uncle Charlie retorted.

“I just passed Uncle Ben’s place,” Johnny went on unheeding. “Sam wanted me to go in, but I said no, Uncle Charlie’s been awfully good to us in the past and it’s up to us to repay him—”

“Mister,” interrupted Uncle Charlie, “I remember you now. Do me a favor, will you?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“All right, go to Uncle Ben, will you?”

“Why, Uncle Charlie!” exclaimed Johnny. “I just got through telling you, I owe you a favor—”

“All right, all right,” howled Uncle Charlie. “That’s what I’m telling you — go to Uncle Ben. Do me that favor. I got ulcers—”

“So has Uncle Ben.” Johnny held up Mr. Peabody’s blue pin-striped suit. “Brand-new, never been worn. Real English wool, styled and tailored by Quintino and you know what that means — the best!”

“A suit’s a suit,” groaned Uncle Charlie. “I’m telling you, my ulcers are acting up. I ain’t in the mood. If it was hemstitched in gold thread and there was purple lining mixed with Egyptian cobwebs, I couldn’t go over fif—”

“Not fifty!” cried Johnny. “I couldn’t possibly let you have it for less than seventy-five!”

“Fifty, who said fifty? Fifteen dollars, and not a nickel more.”

“Sixty bucks and you got yourself a deal,” cut in Sam.

Johnny gave Sam an anguished look. “Sam, please stay out of this, will you? Uncle Charlie and I understand each other. We know the value of merchandise.”

“I ain’t feeling good,” moaned Uncle Charlie. “I told you I wasn’t up to this. But now that we’ve started, all right, all right, take twenty dollars.”

“Forty-seven fifty,” said Johnny. “And Quintino will hate me for it. Two hundred and twenty-five dollars he’s charging for such a suit now. If he heard that I was thinking of letting this brand-new suit go for forty-seven...”

“Brand-new in a pig’s eye,” snorted Uncle Charlie. “That suit’s two years old.”

“I just took it out of the box. Here — feel. The nap isn’t even lying down yet...”

Uncle Charlie took the lapel of the suit between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed it, rubbed it and then caressed it “Six months it’s been worn. Twenty-five, mister!”

“I hear you,” Johnny said. “Not good, but I hear you. Forty-five and it’s a loan, that’s all. Not an outright sale.”

“I should hope so. I couldn’t sell this suit nohow. Twenty-seven fifty. I’ll make out the ticket.”

“Make it out for forty.”

“My last offer. Take it or leave it. Twenty-nine seventy-five.”

“Look, Uncle Charlie,” Johnny said, giving it everything, “I’ve done business with you in the past. You’ve made money off me — a lot of money. I don’t mind that. A man’s got to live. That’s my motto, live and let live. It’s a good motto, too, but some people don’t think so. The manager of our hotel, for instance. We owe him a measly little thirty-six dollars—”

“No, no, not thirty-six dollars. I couldn’t make it. You’d let me keep the suit and I’d be stuck.”

“My personal guarantee. Three days, that’s all you’ll keep it. You’ll have your money back in three days.”

“Yah! I hear that a hundred times a day.”

“Look,” said Johnny. “You had my friend’s suit here a while ago. One day. A single day, that’s all. I hardly got the money out of here, than I was back with it — with interest. I’ve got a check coming in the mail tomorrow...”

“Thirty-two dollars, positively and finally. Thirty-two dollars, no more, no less.”

“Thirty-six,” said Johnny. “Not a penny less.”

“Good-bye. Go to Uncle Ben’s. He wouldn’t give you over twenty-two fifty. I’m an easy mark, that’s why you come to me. Thirty-two dollars, that’s all. Positively and final. Goodbye.”

“All right, Uncle Charlie, if it’s come to this... goodbye.”

Johnny started for the door. Sam, startled, had to jump to keep up with him.

Johnny got the door open, was stepping through reluctantly when Uncle Charlie called out, “Thirty-four dollars.”

Johnny turned back. “All right, Uncle Charlie, you’ve got yourself a deal. Make out the ticket. Thirty-six dollars.”

“I said thirty-four.”

“Thirty-six. You called me back. I need thirty-six and thirty-six it’s got to be. T-h-i-r-t-y six...”

Uncle Charlie clapped his hand to his forehead, and began writing out the ticket. “The name, please.”

“Why, you remember me,” Johnny said, “uh, James T. Madigan—”

“Madigan?” Uncle Charlie turned out the inside breast pocket. “It says here Wilbur Peabody.”

“My stage name. All right, use that name. Most everyone knows me by it, anyway. Yeah, put down Wilbur Peabody, Forty-Fifth Street Hotel.”

“Wilbur Peabody, Forty-Fifth Street Hotel,” said the pawnbroker, writing. He got thirty-six dollars from the cash register.

Johnny counted the money. “Thank you, Uncle Charlie. I’ll be back in a day or two to pick up the suit.”

“Do me a last favor,” Uncle Charlie said. “Forget that you ever heard of Uncle Charlie, the easy mark. Give your future business to my competitor up the street, Uncle Ben.”

Johnny made a clucking sound with his tongue, winked at Uncle Charlie and strode to the door. Outside, Sam Cragg heaved a great sigh of relief.

“I never thought you’d get him up to thirty-six dollars.”

“I should have held out for forty,” Johnny said. “I think he’d have given it.”

They crossed Eighth Avenue and were about to turn into Forty-Fifth Street, when Johnny caught sight of the lettering on a small store front: Universal Stamp & Coin Sales.

“Now we’ll see what these old coins are really worth.”

They entered the store and a heavyset, bald man of about forty looked up from a stamp catalog he was studying.

“You buy rare coins?” Johnny asked.

“Depends what you’ve got,” was the reply. “I’d certainly never refuse an eighteen twenty-two half eagle.”

“I sold the one I had last week,” retorted Johnny. He brought out a handful of coins from his pocket. The dealer wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Indian head pennies! A drug on the market.”

“Some of these are pretty rare,” Johnny said, “and I’ve got some Barber head dimes here, too.”

The dealer made an impatient gesture. “Everybody’s got Barber head dimes.”

“Not eighteen ninety-four-O’s!”

“You got one?”

“Well, not exactly. But here, take a look at them.”

“I don’t have to look. How many dimes and quarters you got? How many pennies?”

“There’s twelve quarters, ninety-eight pennies and twenty-four dimes.”

The dealer nodded. “Two dollars and forty cents’ worth of dimes, twelve quarters and ninety-eight pennies, that’s six dollars and thirty-eight cents. All right, I’ll pay you two for one for the lot... Mmm, twelve dollars and seventy-six cents.”

“Are you kidding?” cried Johnny. “Some of these coins are rare. The catalog says that an eighteen seventy-two Indian head is worth thirty bucks.”

“Uncirculated,” replied the dealer. “These are worn, some of them pretty thin.” He shrugged. “That’s the way I buy — two cents for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes, and fifty cents for the quarters.”

“According to the catalog prices—”

“Catalog prices!” cried the dealer. “Don’t talk to me about catalogs. Those prices don’t mean a thing.”

“Look,” said Johnny, pointing to a display in the showcase, “you have some Indian head pennies right there. How much would you charge me for an eighteen sixty-four-L...?”

“Oh, you want to buy? That’s different.” The dealer reached into the showcase and brought out a card of Indian head pennies. “I just happen to have a very nice eighteen sixty-four-L penny that I can let you have for, uh, eighteen dollars.”

“Two cents,” said Johnny. “That’s what you said it was worth.”

“I did nothing of the kind. I said I’d give you a straight two cents apiece for the lot. I take a chance. Maybe they’re all eighteen nineties, nineteen hundreds.”

“They aren’t.”

“And what about my time?” pursued the dealer. “I got to go over them.”

“I’ll do it for you,” Johnny offered.

“Look, mister,” said the dealer, “you got your business and I got mine. Two cents apiece for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes and fifty cents for the quarters. Take it or leave it.”

“Good-bye,” said Johnny, heading for the door.

The coin dealer waited until Johnny had the door open. Then he said, “Three cents!”

Johnny did not even look back. Outside, he said, “The cheap chiseler!”

“I dunno,” Sam said, “three cents for a cent don’t seem so bad to me.”

“We can always come back to that, but I’ve got a hunch that these coins are lucky pieces.”

“They wasn’t lucky for the doll,” retorted Sam.

“She’s wearing a mink coat. That’s luck, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but she lost her boy friend.”

“That might have been a lucky thing for her. For that matter, we don’t know that she didn’t help it along. You know, sort of nudged him a little.”

“How can you nudge a guy with a bullet?”

“I dunno,” said Johnny, “but I think I’ll try to find out.” He made the remark casually and they had gone several steps down Forty-Fifth Street before Sam Cragg suddenly stopped. “No, Johnny!” he howled. “You’re not going to be a detective again.”

“Do you know any other way of making any money?”

“We can sell books like we always did.”

“We could sell books if we had books to sell,” said Johnny, “but you know very well that we can’t get any books from Mort Murray until he’s raised enough money to pay his back rent, and get his stock of books out of hock.”

“Aren’t there some other books we can sell?”

“You name them.”

“You know I can’t, Johnny. That’s in your department. Only — you know what happens every time you play detective. We wind up behind the eight-ball and I get a punch in the nose.”

“What’s a punch in the nose to a guy like you, Sam?”

“Nothin’. It ain’t the punch in the nose so much, it’s the... well, you know...”

“What?”

“The... the things I suffer. Somebody trying to kill you or me. The cops...”

“The cops are breathing down our necks right now. You haven’t seen the last of Lieutenant Madigan. I’ve been thinking it over, Sam. We’re on the warm spot. We’re liable to wind up in a nice little cell built for two.”

Sam winced. “Don’t joke about that, Johnny. You know how I always hate to be in jail.”

“You don’t hate it any more than I do. So let’s get busy and keep out.”

Sam groaned in surrender. “All right, what do we do?”

“I think a little visit to old Jess Carmichael ought to start the ball rolling.”

“Ain’t Carmichael the guy that owns all the grocery stores?”

“That’s him. And there’s one of his little old stores right there.”