The Limping Goose

9

Jess Carmichael was seated in a large green leather chair. Across the room, a younger man stood examining the tooling on some of the leather volumes.

Carmichael looked at Johnny, frowning. “Fletcher?”

“That’s right, Mr. Carmichael. May I offer my condolences...?”

Carmichael made an impatient gesture of dismissal. “I never saw you before in my life.”

“Neither have I seen you, sir.”

“Why’d you tell Wilkins you were an old friend?”

“I never told him anything of the kind.”

Carmichael scowled. “I never forget a name or a face. Fletcher? No, I’m certain. I’ve never done business with you.”

“Oh, yes, you have,” Johnny said. “I’ve been a customer of yours for a good many years.”

“Ridiculous! I’m the only man in my entire organization who knows the name of every customer we’ve got. What stores do you represent?”

“None, but—”

“That’s what I thought. You’re not with the A & P, or the Safeway Stores, or even the IGA.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“Then who the devil are you?”

“A customer. I’ve bought at your stores for twenty years, more or less. Not only in New York, but in other cities.”

A strange expression came over Jess Carmichael’s face — an expression very much like that of a man who has bitten into an apple and discovered therein a half of a fat worm.

“Say that again!” he cried.

“I’ve bought at your stores for twenty years.”

“You’re a... a retail customer?”

The young man turned from the bookshelves and studied Johnny Fletcher thoughtfully.

Johnny said, “That’s right. And I’ve always been a booster of the Carmichael Stores. Your prices have been good, your merchandise has been fine. Up until recently. I think you should know, however, that I’m not satisfied with your corned beef hash. It used to be that there was plenty of good red meat in a can, but I bought one last week on Forty-fifth Street — Store Number eleven forty-four, in case you’re interested — and I had to search for the meat. Potatoes, that’s all there was in the can, potatoes and here and there a teentsy-weentsy bit of the old corned beef...”

Jess Carmichael bounded out of his chair. He took two quick steps toward Johnny, then stopped. There was a wild look in his eyes.

“Who... who sent you here?”

“No one. I came on my own. Uh, this is my friend, Sam Cragg.”

“Harya, Mr. Carmichael,” said Sam, extending his hand.

Carmichael did not even look at Sam. His eyes threatened to bulge from his head. He shook his head and his eyes went to the young man by the bookshelves. “James, who would perpetrate a joke at a time like this?”

“I couldn’t say, Uncle,” replied the young man. “It’s most certainly in bad taste.”

He came forward, “I say, old boy, don’t you know that Mr. Carmichael’s son — my cousin, Jess — was, ah, I mean died today?”

“Of course I know it. That’s why I’m here.”

“Eh?”

Johnny looked past Carmichael and saw a newspaper on a desk. He crossed to the desk and picked up the newspaper, “My name’s in here,” he said. “Ah, yes, here...” He read, “ ‘...The two men, John Fletcher, and Sam Cragg, were described by Miss Cummings as—’ ”

“Cummings!” cried Jess Carmichael, “Don’t mention that woman’s name in this house.” He stabbed a well-manicured forefinger at Johnny. “And you — I remember your name now; you’re the man the police suspect of killing my son.”

“No,” said Johnny, “Lieutenant Madigan’s already cleared me.”

“Who’s Lieutenant Madigan?” Carmichael demanded.

“Homicide, in charge of the investigation. A very good man. I’ve helped him now and then.”

“You’ve helped him?”

“My hobby,” Johnny said modestly. “Crime detection. When the police fail, that’s where I come in.”

“Oh, say, now,” expostulated the young man. “You’re spreading it on a bit thick now, aren’t you?”

Johnny regarded him sharply. “I don’t believe I got your name.”

“I’m James Sutton.”

“One of the suspects?”

Sutton showed petulance. “Here, now, I’m Mr. Carmichael’s nephew.”

“A prime suspect, too,” declared Johnny. “The nephew’s always the chief suspect and in nine cases out of ten he turns out to be the murderer.”

“I think,” said Jess Carmichael, “I’ve had about all of this that I can take. Mr. Fletcher, I’ve had a difficult day and tomorrow morning I must talk to the deputy police commissioner—”

“You mean he hasn’t questioned you yet?”

“Why should he? He had the decency to respect a man’s privacy at a time like this.”

“Mr. Carmichael, I’ll put it to you bluntly,” Johnny said. “Do you want to, ah, apprehend the murderer of your son?”

“Of course I do,” snapped Carmichael, a glint coming into his eyes, “and I promise you that he will be apprehended — and punished. If it takes every dollar—”

“It won’t,” Johnny said. “It won’t cost you much at all. For a modest fee, I’ll run him down.”

“The police are quite capable of doing that,” Carmichael said coldly. “And now I must bid you good evening.”

“Very well, sir, but if you should change your mind, I’d like to give you my address...”

“That won’t be necessary. I shall not change my mind.”

Johnny hesitated. He looked at Sam Cragg, who was regarding him anxiously.

“Very well, Mr. Carmichael.”

“I’ll go out with you,” James Sutton offered. “Good night, Uncle Jess.”

“Good night, Jim, good night.”

The butler was hovering about in the hall and led Johnny, Sam and Sutton to the front door. As they stepped out a convertible squealed to a stop beside the limousine that had brought Johnny and Sam out to Manhasset.

A girl sprang out and came running toward the door. “Jim,” she cried, “how is he?”

“Taking it pretty badly,” Sutton replied.

“I would have come sooner, but then you know...” She stopped and looked sharply at Johnny and Sam.

“Fletcher’s my name,” Johnny offered. “This is my friend, Sam Cragg.”

“You’re from the police?”

“Not exactly, Miss.”

Sutton exclaimed, “Don’t try exchanging words with him, Hertha. He’ll mix you all up.”

“Hertha,” grinned Johnny. “That’s from Swinburne — the goddess of the nether regions, or something like that.”

The girl looked at Johnny, puzzled. “I don’t believe I ever met you.”

“That’s my loss,” Johnny said gallantly. “I’d be glad to call on you tomorrow.”

“Go in and talk to the old man,” Sutton said quickly. “He needs someone to cheer him up.” He took Johnny’s elbow. “D’you mind giving me a lift into town, old boy?”

Johnny minded, but Sutton was using pressure to steer him to the limousine. “All right,” he said, “as long as you’re twisting my arm.”

They got into the limousine, with Johnny sitting in the middle of the rear seat. “The Barbizon-Waldorf,” Johnny said to the chauffeur, “unless I can drop you somewhere along the way.”

“The hotel’s fine,” Sutton said easily.

The car started down the winding driveway. Johnny leaned back. “Hertha,” he said musingly. “Fancy name. Wouldn’t go well with Smith, though, would it?”

“You’re fishing again,” Sutton accused. “All right, I’ll bite; her last name’s Colston. She was Jess’s fiancée.”

“Jess, Junior? I thought a little lady named Alice Cummings—”

“Miss Cummings,” Sutton said firmly, “was not his fiancée.”

“She thinks she was.”

“Oh, I imagine she tried her best to hook him.”

“She hooked him for a mink coat,” said Sam.

Sutton shrugged. “What’s a mink coat?”

“Are you kidding?” cried Sam. “Them mink coats cost two-three thousand bucks.”

“Some cost considerably more.”

“Even two-three thousand is all right for a doll who didn’t even pay for her rabbit fur.”

“Rabbit fur?”

“Miss Cummings bought a sixty-nine dollar and fifty cent special about four years ago,” Johnny explained. “The bill was so small it slipped her mind.”

“Well,” said James Sutton, “that’s interesting. But how do you know all this about Miss Cummings?”

“That,” said Johnny, “is how we got into this. We skip-traced her and collected the dough.”

“Is that your business? Skip tracing, I believe you called it.”

“I was just helping out a friend.”

“A friend?” exclaimed Sam. “Kilkenny ain’t no friend of ours. Not after what he done to you.”

“A skip tracer,” mused Sutton. “It sounds like an interesting vocation. Suppose someone moves and doesn’t leave a forwarding address — is it possible to find them?”

“Kilkenny found us,” exclaimed Sam. “On account of a measly old mandolin that I couldn’t play anyway...” He stopped as Johnny dug his elbow into his ribs. “What’s the matter?”

“Mr. Sutton isn’t interested in mandolins, Sam.”

“I’m interested in skip tracers,” Sutton said. “You were saying about Miss Cummings — how you traced her. Just how did you do it?”

“There are tricks to all trades.” Johnny gave Sutton a quick sideward glance. “I imagine the grocery business has its tricks, too.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Aren’t you in the grocery business?”

Sutton smiled. “I own a few shares of Carmichael stock, but I’m not in the firm.”

“You like Wall Street better?”

“Tut tut, no more fishing. Let’s stick to skip tracing.”

“All right,” said Johnny, “let’s. You want somebody skip-traced?”

“Possibly.”

“Then I’m your boy. There isn’t a skip tracer in the business who can do a better job.”

“Who is this Kilkenny Mr. Cragg mentioned?”

Johnny made a deprecating gesture. “Small stuff. He collects old mandolin accounts. If you’re looking for an old mandolin, I guess Kilkenny’s as good a man as any. But if it’s something important, Johnny Fletcher can do it quicker and better.”

“I like the way you got in to see Cousin Jess,” Sutton said. “Mmm, could you locate a man who, let’s say, disappeared twelve years ago?”

“You name him and I’ll find him.”

“What does a skip tracer usually get?”

“Ten bucks,” Sam volunteered inadvertently.

Johnny gave him the elbow again. “Finding a missing person isn’t skip tracing. It’s detective work.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?” asked Sutton. “A person owes a bill, you’ve got to find him to collect.”

“Skip tracing a man who owes a bill is minor-league stuff. But a man who’s missing, uh, that takes real detective work. And you know what the better detective agencies charge.”

“I haven’t the slightest,” Sutton said. “This is all new to me. I’m willing to pay a fair price, though, to find my cousin—”

“Your cousin?”

“Lester Smithson.”

“What relation is he to Jess Carmichael, senior?”

“Nephew, same as I am. Uncle Jess had two sisters, Della and Carrie. Lester was Della’s son. Carrie Carmichael was nr mother.”

“Your aunt and your mother are both dead?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm,” said Johnny thoughtfully. “I catch on. With Jess the third dead, that leaves you the next of kin.”

“Except for Lester.”

“Yeah, sure, but if he’s dead, you’re the heir.”

“I don’t know. Uncle Jess could leave his money to the Smithsonian Institution, you know.”

“Not if you play your cards right. That makes a difference.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“The fee for finding Lester. Since you’re the heir to the Carmichael grocery stores, I’ll naturally have to charge you a larger fee.”

James Sutton chuckled. “You’re a character, Fletcher. All right, name your price.”

“A hundred dollars a day.”

“Isn’t that a little stiff?”

“It might be for the ordinary detective agency,” Johnny admitted, “but when you hire Johnny Fletcher, you’re hiring the best.”

“Let’s say fifty dollars a day.”

“For my A Number One work?”

“Your best. Fifty dollars a day. And there’s got to be time limit, of course.”

“Ten days?”

“Five. Fifty dollars a day, for five days and a, ah, bonus of two hundred when you succeed.”

“Seven days and a five hundred dollar bonus?”

“Very well.”

“And a retainer of, say, two hundred?”

“I’ll send you a check tomorrow.”

Johnny frowned. “Couldn’t you pay something now — just to bind the agreement?”

“I’m afraid I left my wallet at home.”

Johnny’s frown became a scowl. “I wasn’t able to get to the bank today. Sam, how much money have you got on you?”

“Why, you know, Johnny, a dollar forty-five.”

“You, too?” Johnny shook his head. “This is a bit awkward. Not even enough to tip the driver.” He turned back to Sutton. “Haven’t you got some small change on you? A tenner or so.”

Sutton drew a five-dollar bill from his pocket. Johnny eased it from between his fingers.

“This’ll do.”

During their talk the rented limousine had crossed the Triborough Bridge and was rolling down the East River Drive. It turned west and a few minutes later ran smoothly into the service entrance of the Barbizon-Waldorf Hotel.

“A very nice drive,” Johnny said to the chauffeur. “I may want you again, tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir,” replied the chauffeur. “Just ask for Wilbur. Let’s see, it’s just about three hours. That’ll be eighteen dollars, sir.”

“Very reasonable,” Johnny said, concealing a little wince. “I made arrangements with the bell captain. Room eight twenty-one. Here... here’s a little something for you.”

He handed the man the five-dollar bill he had just obtained from James Sutton. The man touched his visored cap. “Thank you, sir. Room eight twenty-one.”

Johnny, Sam and Sutton walked into the hotel. “I’ll leave you now,” Sutton said. “But I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow. Room eight twenty-one, I believe you said.”

“That’s right, eight twenty-one,” Johnny said blithely. “But better give me your number, so I can call you if I get something important.”

“I’d rather get in touch with you,” Sutton said. “I’m in and out.”

“So am I,” retorted Johnny.

“I’ll leave a message, then.”

“I can leave one for you.”

Sutton suddenly grinned. “Look, Fletcher, what’s wrong with me phoning you here? You are in Room eight twenty-one, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” said Johnny. “Room eight twenty-one... at the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel.”

Sutton exclaimed softly. “But you charged the limousine to...” Then he chuckled. “You are a character. All right, the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel.”

“Now you might as well give me your address,” Johnny said. “I’ll find it out anyway, but that takes time and you want me to concentrate on finding Lester Smithson, don’t you?”

“You’ve got a point there. Believe it or not, I happen to live here, up in the tower.”

Johnny grinned. “Well, one of us lives here, anyway.”

“Now, don’t go getting any ideas, like charging limousines to me.”

“Who, me?”

“That’s right. I’ve lived here quite a while and they know me. I just thought I’d mention it.”

“Glad you did. Tomorrow, then.”

Johnny and Sam left the hotel and started to walk across town to the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel. Sam walked beside Johnny, his face wearing a heavy scowl.

“All right, Sam, out with it. What’s eating you?”

“This detective stuff, Johnny. You know I don’t like it.”

“Relax, Sam, we’ve got a paying client. How else could we make eight fifty in a week’s time?”

“Sure, we’ll make eight fifty. We always make money out of these things, but how is it we always wind up broke? And if we make all that dough, why is Peabody always about to lock us out of our hotel room?”

“That’s one of the things I don’t understand, Sam. One of us squanders the money. Which reminds me, how much did that lunch cost you today, the second lunch, I mean? When you gave the fifty-cent tip.”

Sam winced. “All right, Johnny, I get the idea. I ought to keep my trap shut. I know I haven’t got a chance arguing against you.”

“Don’t feel badly about it. Nobody else can outtalk me either.” Johnny chuckled. “That Sutton lad tried to talk fancy.”

“Yeah, but we haven’t got any money from him.”

“We got a fiver out of him.”

“What kind of dough is that for a guy who lives in the Barbizon-Waldorf Tower? You ask me, he’s pretty cozy with his money.”

“We’ve seen the color of it, we’ll get more, don’t worry.”

Although it was after eleven o’clock when they entered the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, Peabody, the manager, was in the lobby. He smiled wolfishly when he spied Johnny and Sam heading for the elevators.

“Mr. Fletcher,” he called.

Johnny turned to the desk. “Harya, Peabody, a good night’s sleep to you.”

“But not to you,” retorted Peabody. “I’ve been thinking things over and I see no reason for letting you stay another night in this hostelry. As long as you’re going to fake up your abode in the subway, you might as well do it this evening.”

“We’ve had a rough day, Peabody. I need a good night’s sleep because I’m going to be busy tomorrow.”

“So shall I be. Fumigating your room.”

“Good night, Peabody.”

Johnny stepped into the elevator, but Peabody came dashing out from behind the desk. “No, Albert, don’t take them up!” he cried to the elevator operator.

With a sudden snarl of rage, Sam Cragg sprang out of the elevator and grabbed the hotel manager by the coat front. “You heard Johnny, didn’t you? We’re tired and we want to go to bed.”

“Unhand me, you — you gorilla!” cried Peabody. “This is the last straw. I shall not only lock you out of your room, I shall turn you over to the police.”

“On what charge?” snapped Johnny.

“Defrauding an innkeeper,” snarled Peabody, still struggling to get out of Sam’s grip. “It’s against the law to engage hotel accommodations when you have no means of paying.”

“Let him go, Sam,” Johnny said. Then facing Peabody: “Now, see here, I’m getting sick and tired of hearing you harping on that subject. Just how much do you say we owe you?”

“You know very well. It’s thirty-six dollars and it might as well be—”

“Thirty-six dollars,” snapped Johnny. “I’ve got a good notion to pay you and move out of this crummy joint.”

“Oh, you’re moving, all right,” howled Peabody. “Right now, you’re moving.”

“On the other hand,” Johnny went on, “I think I’ll just pay up and stay here.”

“You’re doing a lot of talking about paying,” sneered Peabody.

“Why shouldn’t I? I always pay my honest debts...” He reached into his pocket and brought out a sheaf of bills. “Thirty-six dollars, did you say?”

Peabody gulped as he saw the money. “Wh-where did you get that?”

“This small change? I’ve always got thirty-six dollars.”

“Then why didn’t you pay your bill when it was due?”

“Because you didn’t ask me for it nice.”

Peabody skimmed through the bills, counting them. “Very well, you made it. But there isn’t going to be another time. You’ll pay each and every week hereafter, at the end of the week. I’ve got a good notion to make you pay in advance.”

“Do you make other guests pay in advance?” cried Johnny.

“Other guests don’t do to me what you do.”

“I’m not asking any favors,” Johnny growled. “All I want is the same treatment as your other paying guests.”

Peabody opened his mouth to complain further, then thought better of it and whirling, went back behind his desk. Johnny and Sam rode up to their room on the eighth floor. When the door was closed on them, Johnny said, “I was going to be decent about it and mail him the pawn ticket for his suit, but I dunno, now after the way he’s treated us, I ought to tear it up!”

He didn’t, however.