The Silver Tombstone

Chapter Seven

As they walked toward the elevators Sam gave Johnny a withering look. “Got enough?”

“Why should I have?” Johnny retorted. “This is still easier than working — and better paying.”

“Yes, but you live longer if you work.”

The elevator door opened and they stepped in. They rode down in silence. As they stepped out to the lobby, Sam exclaimed.

“Joe Cotter!”

Johnny had already seen him. The Arizonian was coming across the lobby toward them. “What’re you fellows doing here?” he demanded.

Johnny looked around. “Why, this is a hotel, isn’t it?”

“It is — an expensive one. Don’t tell me you’re staying here!”

“No, we’re not, but we dropped in to see a friend-on the fifth floor. Miss Walker.”

Cotter’s eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding?”

“Not at all. Matter of fact I’m trying to buy a mine from her, a silver mine.”

The man from Arizona bared his teeth. “There’s something awfully fishy about you two... I think I’ll check up on you.”

“Could I recommend a good private detective?” Johnny asked.

Joe Cotter reached out and took a handful of Johnny’s coat. Sam Cragg growled and grabbed Cotter’s right wrist. The big man let go of Johnny. His eyes went to Sam.

“All right, you’re asking for it and you’re going to get it.”

Sam sneered. “When?”

“Maybe sooner than you expect. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that twenty-five you owe me.” Cotter glowered once more at Sam and Johnny, then stepped into a waiting elevator.

“I don’t like that guy,” Sam said to Johnny. “I don’t like him a lot.”

“I’m not exactly in love with him myself.”

They left the hotel, Johnny so absorbed in thought he did not see the line of waiting taxicabs. As a result they walked back to the Fremont.

As they entered the hotel and bore down upon the elevators, Tim O’Hanlon got up from a chair behind a potted palm. There was an ugly look on the house detective’s face. Johnny, seeing it, veered away and went to the desk.

“What room has Charles Ralston got?” he asked the clerk.

The man nodded toward the house phone. “Call his room, please.” Then he recognized Johnny. “Oh, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, respectfully. “Mr. Ralston’s occupying Room 1116. Shall I ring him for you?”

“Don’t bother.” Johnny nodded thanks and headed for the elevators. Passing O’Hanlon he grinned and jerked his head toward the desk. O’Hanlon looked and saw the clerk watching. He muttered under his breath and returned to his seat.

Sam was waiting for Johnny at the elevators. “Eleven,” Johnny said as he stepped in. Sam looked at him inquiringly.

On the eleventh floor Johnny discovered that 1116 was directly opposite the elevators. He knocked on the door. There was no response.

Sam nodded toward the elevator. “Nobody home.”

Johnny shrugged and knocked again. Inside the room a voice cried out in agony. “Go ’way’n lemme alone!”

Johnny chuckled and beat a tattoo upon the door. After a moment it was opened by a man in purple pajamas and the worst hangover Johnny had ever seen.

“What the devil do you want?” Charles Ralston cried.

“Talk, Charlie,” Johnny said and brushed past Ralston into the room.

“I like to talk,” Ralston groaned. “But not this early in the morning. Besides — I don’t know you men.”

“Simple. I’ll introduce us. This is Sam Cragg and I’m Johnny Fletcher. And you’re Charlie Ralston.”

Ralston gripped his head in both hands and sat down on the edge of his rumpled bed. “Excuse me if I fail to show any enthusiasm.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Johnny said, making himself comfortable in a chair. “I’ll do most of the talking anyway.”

“You always do,” Sam Cragg said.

Johnny gave him a sharp glance. Then he gave his full attention to Charles Ralston. “Charlie, just how much would you pay for the Silver Tombstone?”

“Pay? I own it now...” Then he lowered his hands from his head. “Say — who’re you?”

“I just told you — Johnny Fletcher.”

“I heard the name, but who, rather what are you?”

“You mean you never heard of me?” Johnny shrugged. “Well, such is fame. But then come to think of it, you’ve lived in New York all your life. The point is, Helen Walker is the legal owner of the mine...”

“That remains to be seen,” Ralston retorted. “I admit that my grandfather mentioned her in his will, but that will was made under duress...”

“Okay,” said Johnny, “let the lawyers fight that out. And let them split the Silver Tombstone among themselves — for their fees.”

Ralston scowled. “What’s the idea...?”

“The idea is that one of your lawyers, Hugh Kitchen, has already been murdered...”

“What do you know about Hugh Kitchen?” cried Ralston.

“I know that he was murdered in a motel in San Bernardino. And I know that he would be alive today if he hadn’t been messed up in this mine-and-will fight of yours.”

“Are you a policeman?” Ralston cried.

Johnny made a deprecating gesture, dismissing the accusation. “Mr. Ralston, murder breeds murder. And we don’t want any more murders... So... how much will you take to withdraw your claim — whatever the right or wrong of it — to your grandfather’s estate?”

Ralston looked at Johnny a moment. Then he shook his head. “Who sent you here?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“All right, you won’t tell. Then I’ll give you my answer. I’ll take half a million dollars.”

Johnny nodded. “Let me reverse the process, now. How much will you pay for Helen Walker’s claim?”

“Nothing.”

Johnny sighed wearily. “We’re not going to get very far this way...”

“No, we’re not.”

Johnny got up from his chair and in doing so knocked a book off the edge of a dresser. It fell to the floor. Johnny picked it up, saw that the title was Tombstone Days. The author’s name was Jason Lord. He put the book back on the dresser.

“Very well, Mr. Ralston, I will bid you good morning.”

“Good-bye,” said Ralston firmly.

Johnny went out, followed by Sam. As they were waiting for the elevator Sam sniffed. “What a nice waste of time that was.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Sam.”

The elevator door opened and they got in.

“Five,” said Sam.

“No, lobby,” Johnny corrected.

They got out in the lobby, dodged Tim O’Hanlon once more and went to the street. For a half block or so Sam walked in silence beside Johnny. Then he could stand it no longer.

“What’re you up to, Johnny?” he cried.

Johnny yawned. “Oh, I’m a little tired. I thought I’d pick up a book and catch up on my reading. Ah — here’s a store.”

He led the way into a small bookstore. A mild-mannered clerk descended upon them.

“I’d like to get a book called Tombstone Days,” Johnny said.

The clerk shook his head. “I’m afraid we don’t have it. Who’s it by?”

“Jason Lord.”

“Mmm, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it. But I’ll look it up.”

He went to a huge index, turned pages and finally shook his head. “It isn’t even listed. Flow old a book is it?”

“I don’t know exactly. Fairly old, I would say.”

“Then the book is undoubtedly out of print. You may have to get it from a rare book dealer... Why don’t you try Eisenschiml’s place? It’s right across the street.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

They left the store, crossed the street and found a store with lettering on the window: Oscar Eisenschiml, Out of Print Books, Autographs, Prints.

They went into the musty-smelling store. In the rear of a shop a bald, heavy-set man in his early sixties was seated in an old-fashioned rocking chair, reading a yellowed pamphlet. He did not even look up.

Johnny winked at Sam and started toward the back of the shop. “I say,” he said, “I’d like to get a book called Tombstone Days, by Jason Lord.”

“So would I,” said Oscar Eisenschiml, still keeping his eyes on his pamphlet.

Johnny drew a deep breath. “I’ll pay up to ten dollars for the book — if you can get it for me quick.”

Eisenschiml finally lowered his pamphlet and sized up Johnny. “Are you kidding?” he asked, bluntly.

“No, I’ll pay the price.”

“Ten dollars?”

“Yes.”

Eisenschiml got up, went to a rolltop desk and picked up a paper-covered book. He riffled the pages, came to one and read a moment. “Yes,” he said, “a copy of Tombstone Days was sold in 1927 for six hundred and fifty dollars.” He looked at Johnny. “And you’re willing to pay ten dollars for another copy.”

Johnny looked discomfited. “We live and learn. I heard about the book and since I’m interested in Tombstone, I thought I’d like to read about it.”

“You can buy a good book on Tombstone for seventy-nine cents,” the book dealer said. “Probably a lot better than the Lord book.”

“Have you got one — the seventy-nine cent one?”

Eisenschiml looked at him in disgust. “There’s a dump across the street where you can probably pick one up.”

“The dump across the street sent me over here,” Johnny said, drily.

“Yes? Well, tell ’em to keep their customers,” grunted Eisenschiml. He returned to his rocking chair and picked up his yellowed pamphlet. “Wastin’ my time!”

Johnny and Sam left the store. Outside Sam whistled. “Imagine a guy like Ralston payin’ six hundred and fifty bucks just for a book!”

“It isn’t right,” said Johnny. “It isn’t right or fair... Come in here.”

Sam looked at the window of the store Johnny was already entering and uttered a startled exclamation. Then he went into the store after Johnny.

Johnny was already showing a key to the proprietor. “Like to have a key made like this one — only a little different.”

“Like this, only different?” The locksmith turned Johnny’s key over and over in his hands. “Looks like a hotel key...”

“Does it? It’s for the door of my wine cellar. The last butler I had walked off with it. I changed the lock, just in case he should come back some night... and then I lost the new key. But it’s something like this one — I bought two locks at the time; this one’s for my wife’s fur vault...”

“I can’t make a key without having a duplicate key — or the number of the lock.”

“I wanted to get the number, but it was too dark down in the basement.” Johnny smiled pleasantly. The locksmith gave him a sour look and taking Johnny’s key, walked down a ways behind his counter. He studied several huge bunches of keys, finally took one down and began pawing over the individual keys. At last he took a key from the ring. He brought it to Johnny and dropped it on the counter, along with Johnny’s own key.

“Fifty cents,” he grunted.

Johnny picked up the two keys. “You’re sure it’ll fit?”

“Of course it’ll fit. It’s a master key of that series. I shouldn’t ought to sell it, on account of that other key sure ’nough looks like a hotel key and if the hotel association finds out...”

“Thanks,” said Johnny hastily and dropped a half dollar on the counter.

Sam could scarcely wait until they reached the sidewalk before he whirled on Johnny.

“What’re you going to do, Johnny? That was your hotel key.”

“That’s right,” said Johnny. “I want to read Tombstone Days and since I haven’t got six-fifty to buy a copy, I thought—”

“No!” howled Sam. “You can’t do that...”

“Maybe I can’t,” said Johnny. “But I’m sure going to try.” He took a nickel from his pocket and extended it to Sam. “He doesn’t know your voice so run into that drugstore there and telephone him...”

“I won’t!”

“Telephone Charlie Ralston. Tell him...” Johnny thought rapidly. “Tell him you’re the county morgue and that he must come down immediately and identify the body of Hugh Kitchen. No, not identify. He may have done that already. They want to ask him some questions. And while you’re about it, look up the address of the morgue.”

Sam gave Johnny a bitter look, then he took the nickel and went into the drugstore. He was gone about two minutes. When he came out he nodded gloomily.

“I think he took the bait, but I’m not sure...”

“What’s the address of the morgue?”

“Two-eleven West Temple.”

Johnny nodded. “A good half hour each way by taxicab. Five minutes in the morgue. A safe hour. Not enough, but I’ll read fast.” He took a five dollar bill from his pocket. “To be on the safe side, you’d better follow him. See that he goes to the morgue. If he doesn’t and there’s danger of him coming back sooner than I expect you’ll have to telephone me in the room.”

“All right,” Sam said hopelessly. “I’ll go all the way... but I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either,” retorted Johnny.

As they neared the hotel — on the opposite side of the street — the doorman blew his whistle for a cab. As it pulled up, Charles Ralston crossed the sidewalk.

“Go to it, Sam,” said Johnny, clapping his friend on the back.

Sam started across the street. Johnny waited until he had climbed into a second taxi, then he crossed and entered the hotel.

This time Tim O’Hanlon was not in the lobby. Johnny got into the elevator, rode up to the fifth floor, then climbed six flights of stairs to the eleventh. The corridor was deserted when he reached it and Johnny stepped quickly to the door of Room 1116.

The newly-purchased key fitted perfectly and a moment later he was in the room. He bolted the door on the inside, went into the room proper and picked up the copy of Tombstone Days. Seating himself in a chair he turned to the title page. It read: Tombstone days, Being an account of the fabulous boom town of Tombstone in Arizona Territory. By Jason Lord, a resident of Tombstone from its earliest days. Copyright 1889.

Johnny settled back in his chair and began reading. The first chapter told of the discovery of gold on the site of Tombstone, by Ed Schiefelin, a former Army scout. The second chapter continued with Schiefelin’s adventures in the early days of the mining camp. Then the story swung into the boom town days of Tombstone, the coming of the honky-tonk, the gambler and bad man and the resultant peace officers, who were sometimes...

At that point the telephone rang and Johnny Fletcher jumped about six inches. Two chapters, three... he couldn’t have been in the room more than ten or fifteen minutes. Charles Ralston wouldn’t even be at the morgue by this time.

Johnny picked up the phone. He said, cautiously: “Yes?”

“Ralston?” asked a voice.