The Silver Tombstone

Chapter Five

Johnny and Sam retired early that evening — the new suit from the California Credit Clothiers hanging safely in the closet. Sam pulled down the bed in the sitting room and Johnny luxuriated in the big double bed in the bedroom. It was ten-thirty.

At ten-thirty-five the argument started in the room across the court. It waxed vigorous and loud. Johnny endured it for ten minutes then went to the window.

“Cut out that racket!” he yelled.

If anything the argument became louder. The window across the way was raised but the shade was pulled down almost to the sill so that Johnny could not see into the room. From the voices, however, it seemed to him that two or three men and at least one woman were involved in the argument. He leaned out of the window.

“Cut out that noise!” he roared. “Cut it out or I’ll come over and give you something to yammer about.”

The window shade across the way flew up and a stringy, weather-beaten man of about fifty stuck out his head. “You and who else?” he cried.

“Me and me alone,” Johnny retorted.

“Oh yeah?” The stringy man drew back. His arm came forward and something flew from his hand.

In panic, Johnny jerked back. A foot above his head, glass crashed. The falling shards missed him only because of his agility.

“Why, you...!” he gasped. He whirled and headed for the door in the sitting room. Before he reached it he collided with Sam Cragg.

“What’s the trouble?” Sam cried.

“Guy across the way heaved a rock through my window. I’m going over to murder him.” Johnny side-stepped Sam and tore open the door.

He traveled six feet. Big Tim O’Hanlon, the house detective, was just stepping out of the elevator.

“Hey, Fletcher!” he called.

Johnny retreated to the doorway of his suite. Before he could close the door, O’Hanlon charged forward.

“What’s the idee chasing around the hall in your underwear?” the detective cried.

“Who, me?” Johnny asked innocently.

“Yas, you — and look, while we’re on the subject, there wasn’t any horse named Mr. Copperman running today. What do you think of that?”

“Isn’t today Tuesday?” Johnny asked.

“You know damn well it’s Thursday.”

“Thursday! How time flies. Well, Mr. Copperman will be running again next Tuesday.”

“So will you.” O’Hanlon bared his teeth. “You know what I think about you? I think you’re a slicker. I got a tip that you checked in with a suitcase full of bricks...”

Johnny drew himself together. “Do you want to force your way into my room and find out?” he asked coldly.

O’Hanlon hesitated. Johnny clinched it. “In the morning, sir, I’ll ask the manager if it is customary for the employees of this hotel to insult the guests. In the meantime — good night!” He slammed the door in the house detective’s face.

He went into the bedroom. “Okay, Sam!”

Sam came out of the closet. “That was a close call,” he said, exhaling heavily.

“Tomorrow,” Johnny promised grimly, “tomorrow I’m going to pin back that bellboy’s ears.” He looked at the floor, then stooped suddenly and picked up the stone the man across the way had heaved through the window.

He whistled. “Heft, this, Sam!”

Sam took the stone. “Cripes, it’s heavy! Feels like it’s iron... or something.”

Johnny took back the stone and scratched it with a thumbnail. “Or something.” He shook his head. “I’m a monkey’s uncle if this isn’t a chunk of silver ore...”

“Silver!”

“It must be almost pure, too. It weighs at least twenty pounds and is only about three or four inches thick.”

“How much is it worth?”

“That’s hard to say. Silver’s around fifty cents an ounce. Let’s say it’s only fifty per cent silver — about ten pounds — that would make it eighty dollars.”

“Only eighty dollars? You’d think a nugget like that’d be worth thousands.”

“If it was gold.”

“Maybe it is.”

“No, it’s black. Silver’s black in its native state... or is it?”

Johnny went to the window. The room across the court was dark. He turned back to Sam.

“We’ll find out in the morning.”

Johnny Fletcher did not sleep well, despite the big, comfortable bed. His conscience was heavy. Yet he was only half dressed in the morning when there was a loud knock on the door. Muttering, he went into the sitting room and shook Sam.

“We’re about to be evicted,” he said. “Get up.”

Sam groaned and jumped out of bed. “What a life!”

Johnny went to the door and jerked it open.

The man standing there was the stringy one from across the way. He was grinning foolishly. “Hello, neighbor. Mind if I step in?”

“If you don’t mind getting a knuckle massage,” Johnny said, belligerently.

“Well now, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said the man in the doorway. “On account of I only came over to apologize for losing my temper last night.” He beamed and held out a gnarled hand. “My name’s Dan Tompkins.”

Johnny took the hand. “I’m Johnny Fletcher.” He led the way into the sitting room. “And this is Sam Cragg.”

Sam was wearing shorts, nothing else. Tompkins regarded him admiringly. “You got’s good a build as that doggone Cotter.”

“Cotter?” Johnny asked quickly.

“The guy was doing all the arguing with me last night — Joe Cotter.”

“Jeez!” said Sam.

“Joe Cotter’s here at the hotel?” Johnny demanded.

“Uh-huh. You know Joe?”

“I’ll murder him,” Sam said thickly.

Tompkins showed interest. “Well, now, we might make a deal. How much you figure the job’s worth?”

“Are you kidding?” Johnny asked.

“Not me, gents. Where I come from we don’t joke about murder. I don’t like Cotter and I’m willing to pay a fair amount to have him rubbed out. If I was ten-fifteen years younger I’d do the job myself. But Joe’s pretty tough. What do you say to five hundred?” He looked at Johnny. “All right, seven-fifty. But that’s my top offer. The job ain’t worth more than that.”

“We’ll talk it over, Tompkins,” Johnny said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us...”

“Oh, sure. That wasn’t what I really came over for, though. It was about that — that piece — I threw through your window last night.”

“Oh, forget that. I’ll tell the management to put the window on your bill. Okay?”

“I guess so — but that ain’t all. That chunk of rock I threw — I’d like to have it back.”

“Why, I’m afraid I threw it out.”

“You didn’t!”

“It was only a stone...”

Tompkins exclaimed. “It was solid silver, that’s what it was. Worth three hundred dollars if it was worth a nickel... Where did you throw it?”

“I don’t remember.” Johnny pursed up his lips. “Three hundred dollars... are you sure?”

“Naturally. And I’ve got to find it.”

“If it was so valuable why’d you throw it?”

“ ’Cause I lost my temper. I’m that way. Out in Arizona they cross the street when I’m drunk, ’cause I’m too doggone mean.”

“A man ought to learn to control his temper,” Johnny said, sanctimoniously. “It pays in the long run. Take this case — you throw away something worth three hundred dollars. Now, it’ll probably cost you about a hundred and fifty to get it back.”

“Huh?”

“Naturally, you’d pay that much — as a reward — wouldn’t you?”

“Say...!” cried Tompkins. “I’m beginnin’ to think...”

“Don’t!” said Johnny.

Tompkins glowered at Johnny for a moment. Then he shrugged. “All right, I know when I’m licked. A hundred bucks!”

“A hundred and fifty.”

“It ain’t really worth three hundred. I was just talking...”

“Talking costs money.”

Tompkins groaned. “I never will learn to keep my mouth shut.” He dug into his trousers pocket and brought out a roll of bills. He peeled off three — all fifties. Johnny took them and went into the bedroom. After a moment he returned with the lump of silver.

Tompkins grinned and produced a revolver. “There’s more’n one way to skin a cat...”

Sam Cragg — almost lazily — reached out and slapped Tompkins’ hand. The gun hit the floor with a thud. Tompkins howled and leaped back, clutching his right hand with his left.

“Mustn’t,” Sam chided.

“Jumpin’ tarantulas!” cried Dan Tompkins. “What’ve I run up against?”

“Just a couple of boys trying to make an honest living,” Johnny said. “Sit down and we’ll talk things over.”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“You’re in trouble,” Johnny continued. “You said this Joe Cotter’s in your hair. Well, we don’t like him either. Maybe we can pool our interests.”

“I dunno what your trouble with him is,” said Tompkins. “Can’t be the same as mine, though.”

“You never can tell. You didn’t happen to stop over in San Bernardino the night before last, did you?”

“Me? No. But I know somebody who did.”

“Let’s talk about it.”

Sam was trying to catch Johnny’s eye, but the latter refused to look. He went to the pull-down bed and seated himself on it. After a moment, Tompkins crossed to an armchair. Sam groaned and headed for the bathroom.

“About Joe Cotter,” Johnny said. “He’s from your part of Arizona?”

“Yeah. He’s from Tombstone. I make Hansonville my headquarters.”

“Hansonville,” Johnny mused. “I thought that place was a ghost town.”

“It is — pretty near. But she was plenty lively in the old days.”

“So I’ve read. The town’s just a few miles from Tombstone?”

“ ’Bout twelve. Well, sir, you were going to tell me about Joe Cotter.”

“No, you were going to tell me about him. He’s your enemy.”

“He’s yours, too.”

“All right,” Johnny conceded. “But we’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t lay all your cards on the table.”

“Sure,” grinned Tompkins. “You were saying something about San Bernardino. Uh, there was somethin’ in the paper about somethin’ that happened there yesterday morning. Seems the police found a car over by Fontana which had a dead man in it.” Tompkins paused. “Fella name of Kitchen. Lemme see, Hugh Kitchen.”

“Never heard of him. But I was coming through San Bernardino the other night and saw this Joe Cotter pulling into a motel.”

Dan Tompkins showed interest. “The name of that place couldn’t have been El Toreador, could it?”

“It could.”

Tompkins was silent a moment. Then he gave Johnny a shrewd glance. “Mister,” he said, “I don’t know you from Geronimo. What’s your business?”

“Why,” said Johnny, “I’m a sort of detective.”

Sam Cragg, coming out of the bathroom, exclaimed, “Nix, Johnny!”

“Pay no attention to Sam,” Johnny said to Tompkins. “He never wants me to take cases unless there’s a big retainer. You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’s one of the best operators in the business.”

“Well, he looks plenty strong. And he’ll need strength if he’s going to go up against Joe Cotter. They say Joe’s the strongest man in Arizona...”

“That’s because Sam isn’t there.” Johnny picked up the Los Angeles phone directory. “Sam!” He tossed the book to Sam.

Sam caught it and with a quick jerk ripped it in half. Then he took each section and tore it across again. Dan Tompkins whistled softly.

“See what I mean,” Johnny said. “Now if you’ll give me a little retainer...”

“You already got one-fifty!”

“That was for something else. However, I’ll take it into consideration. Another fifty and we’re working for you.”

Tompkins looked at Johnny for a moment, then began chuckling. “Fletcher, I like you.”

“I like you, too. The fifty...?”

Tompkins reached for his roll and peeled off an additional fifty. Johnny stowed it away with its mates. “Now, let’s have it — the whole story.”

“It’s a silver mine,” said Tompkins.

“You found one?”

“Not exactly. It’s been there all the time. Only it ain’t been worked since around 1886. You might rightly call it deserted. That’s why I figure she ought to be mine.”

“But it actually belongs to someone else?”

Tompkins scowled. “A girl who happens to be the grandniece of Old Jim Walker. He willed it to her. But what he actually willed was a worthless hole in the ground. Walker didn’t know that I spent two years poking around in the old shafts, working my fingers to the bone, risking my life...”

“All right,” Johnny conceded. “You worked like a dog and you struck pay dirt... what then?”

“I wanted to do the right thing. Jim Walker hadn’t taken an ounce of silver out of the mine since 1886. But he did own it... so I wrote him, offering to buy the mine from him — for a reasonable price. I didn’t know he had shoved off. So then I get this letter from his grandson, Charles Ralston...”

“I thought you said a grandniece owned the mine?”

“That’s right — Helen Walker. But I didn’t find that out until later. You got to know the setup. Ten years ago Old Jim Walker was worth about ten million dollars. He retired, turning his affairs over to his son-in-law. The depression came along and said son-in-law lost every dollar of the old boy’s money. Not only that but he made things miserable for Old Jim, so that finally Jim went to live with his nephew’s widow... When he died six months ago he willed the only thing he still owned — this mine — to the widow’s daughter, Helen Walker.

“But when I wrote to Jim — not knowing he was dead — his grandson got the letter. Young Ralston smelled a chance to make some money and tried to buy the mine from his cousin, Helen Walker. The girl wouldn’t sell, then right away Ralston got suspicious. He got a lawyer by the name of Kitchen...”

“Ah yes,” said Johnny. “The man in San Bernardino.”

“That’s right. Only Ralston claims he don’t know a thing about it.”

“You mean Ralston’s here in Hollywood?”

“It was him I was arguin’ with last night. Him and Cotter.”

“Where does Joe Cotter come in?”

Dan Tompkins grimaced. “That was where I made my first mistake. I didn’t know how to locate Old Jim Walker and I asked Joe to trace him for me... He’s a sort of a lawer... Now Joe’s trying to squeeze in... Well, that’s the story up to date.”

Johnny frowned. “I don’t see where there should be any complications. Helen Walker owns the mine and if she wants to sell—”

“That’s just it!” Tompkins cried. “Old Jim willed the mine to Helen, but Ralston claims now that the old man was crazy or something and says that since he’s Walker’s nearest relative the mine shoulda come to him. That’s where the lawyers come in.”

“I see.” Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “And you weren’t in San Bernardino the night before last?”

“Nope!”

“You can prove it?”

“Ain’t my word good enough?” Tompkins exclaimed angrily.

“To me, yes, but it may not be good enough for the police.”

“What’ve the police got to do with this?”

Johnny shook his head. “Police are funny. They ask questions. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they started asking me questions.”

Across the room, Sam Cragg winced.

“I don’t like police,” Tompkins growled. “I never got nothing good from them. I’m paying you to keep them off my neck.”

“I’ll do my best, old man. Now just what is it you want me to do in this affair?”

“Ain’t I been telling you for the last fifteen minutes? I want to buy this silver mine.”

“For a thousand dollars?”

“I’ll go higher — maybe even up to three thousand.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Johnny said drily. “Flow much is the mine worth?”

“To anybody else — nothing.”

“But if there’s silver in it as rich as that lump...”

“Ain’t you ever been in a silver mine?” Tompkins exclaimed. “The Silver Tombstone’s six hundred feet deep — there’re six levels and each one has about fifty shafts running all around underground — like a honeycomb. If you don’t know where to look for this vein I uncovered you’ll have a sweet time finding enough silver to fill a tooth... ‘Course since they know it’s there they can dig around and eventually they’ll find it, but it’s going to cost them a lot of money.”

“But if Helen Walker won’t sell you the mine you can’t work it.”

“That’s about the size of it. But she won’t get anything out of it, either. She’s broke. She can’t spend any money to blast around. Cost her fifty-sixty thousand.”

“Why don’t you offer to split with her?”

“I did. I made her a fifty-fifty proposition, but she wouldn’t listen. Says Jim Walker wanted her to have the mine all for herself and that’s the way she’s going to have it. That’s what you’ve got to talk her out of — and keep the other guys away from her.”

“She’s staying here at the hotel?”

“No — she’s at the Manhattan. Cotter’s staying here — and Ralston.”

Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “If talk can make her change her mind...”

“And if talkin’ ain’t any good, you’ll...?” Tompkins leaned forward eagerly.

“I’ll what?”

The prospector slapped Johnny’s knee. “I leave it to you, eh?”

“Yeah... just relax.”

Tompkins inhaled heavily. “I guess I can — now. You two fit the fortune teller’s description—”

“Fortune teller?” Sam exclaimed. “You believe in fortune tellers?”

“Why not? Some people’ve got the gift—”

“Bunk!” scoffed Sam. “Nobody can look in a glass ball and tell you anything. It’s the stars...”

Tompkins blinked. “What stars?”

“Why, the stars in the skies... When were you born?”

“May 26th, 1888...”

Sam whipped out his astrology book. Johnny chuckled as he watched his friend turn the pages.

“May 26th,” Sam repeated. “That’s Gemini... yeah, sure... this is your lucky period. You’re all right — if you watch yourself and don’t have business dealings with strangers.”

Tompkins grunted. “It says that in your book? Madame Zarini told me just the opposite. Said good fortune was going to come to me through two strangers... Of course, if you’re going to believe your book...”

Johnny struck Sam’s shoulder. “Put that book away or I’ll make you see some stars. There’s work to be done—”

Sam put away his book. “What work?”

“You’re coming with me to see Helen Walker.”

Tompkins was regarding Sam with a peevish look, but Johnny herded him and Sam out of the room. They left Tompkins in the corridor and descended to the hotel lobby.

As they stepped out of the elevator a suave, neatly dressed man with a white carnation in his lapel called to Johnny. “Mr. Fletcher...!”

Just behind the suave man, Big Tim O’Hanlon leaned against a pillar, grinning wickedly.

“Mr. Fletcher,” said the man with the carnation. “I’m Mr. Stuart, the manager. I’m sorry to inform you that a mistake was made yesterday in giving you the suite. It is our custom to ask for, ah, payment in advance on suites...”

“I see,” said Johnny grimly. “Well, if that is the custom of the hotel — how much is my suite per week?”

“Per week?” Mr. Stuart seemed surprised. “Why, ah, there’s a ten per cent discount... Sixty-three dollars.”

Johnny pulled out two fifties. “Please credit me with the balance.”

Mr. Stuart’s mouth fell open. Then he became all fluttery. “I, ah, Mr. Fletcher, I, ah, I’m sorry I had to mention this to you. A little mistake, ah, perhaps...”

“Perhaps,” said Johnny. “And now, since we’re talking about customs and rules and regulations, do you mind if I make a suggestion? It’s customary in the better hotels — as you may have heard — to invite criticisms of service, et cetera...”

“Oh, by all means. I would greatly appreciate any suggestions.”

“Well, it’s just this — shortly after I checked into my suite yesterday a large, uncouth individual knocked on my door and under the pretext of being the house detective — an imposter, of course — hinted that he knew a good thing in a horse race and—”

“No!” cried Mr. Stuart.

Johnny raised his shoulders expressively. “I could hardly believe it myself. Such brazen touting! I knew he couldn’t be the house detective, yet—” He blinked. “Why, I do believe that’s the man over there...”

Mr. Stuart whirled and saw O’Hanlon. He started toward him. Johnny gestured to Sam. “Come along, old boy. Mustn’t be contaminated...”

“Serves him right,” growled Sam.