The Silver Tombstone

Chapter Eight

Johnny blinked at the telephone receiver. The voice definitely was not that of Sam Cragg. In fact, it sounded muffled, hoarse; a disguised voice.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, making his own voice hoarse.

It was the wrong thing to do. The voice on the wire tumbled. “Who is this?” it demanded. “It isn’t Ralston.”

“It’s the house detective,” Johnny retorted.

“The house detec...” began the voice on the wire, then stopped. A click sounded in Johnny’s ear and the wire went dead.

Johnny hung up, scowled at the phone a moment, then looked at the door. His position was precarious. In a matter of moments he could be discovered.

But he hadn’t yet found what he hoped to find in the ancient book. Well, there was only one thing to do. Johnny did it. He picked up the book, slipped it under his coat and departed.

There was no one in the hall and it wasn’t until he was descending from the seventh to the sixth floor that he encountered anyone — Bellboy Number Three, the smart lad with whom Johnny had matched wits the day before.

“Hi, Eddie,” Johnny greeted the bellboy.

“The name’s Julius,” retorted Bellboy Number Three and continued on his way.

Johnny shook his head. Julius was the last person he wanted to meet on this predatory expedition. The meeting might prove embarrassing in the long run.

He continued to his room, let himself in and shot the bolt on the inside. Then he took up a comfortable position in an easy chair and again opened the book on Tombstone. The volume accidentally opened in the back and Johnny discovered for the first time that it contained an index. And one of the first names that caught his eye was: Walker, Jim. Page 211.

Johnny turned to page 211. It was the beginning of Chapter Eighteen and bore the title: “The Silver Tombstone.” Johnny shook his head in admiration-clever, these writers, making things so easy.

He began reading:

There was more about the Silver Tombstone, but Johnny put down the book and reflected upon Jim Fargo. An outlaw and a killer, who read poetry; who was no good whatever upon earth but in dying gave the world a fortune.

Johnny sighed heavily and let the book rest upon his knees. Again it fell open at the index and he began to scan it. After a moment he exclaimed. The legend, Tompkins, Dan, Page 117 had caught his attention. He turned to page 117 and found the reference to Tompkins, Dan.

“One of the original discoverers of the Apache Dance, Dan Tompkins sold his share for forty dollars and a pair of mangy mules.”

Johnny chuckled. The descendant of the original Dan Tompkins had inherited a certain share of his ancestor’s naïveté. Johnny looked for the name Ralston in the index, but could not find it. He tried Cotter, but drew a blank. Turning the page the name Henderson, Milo, caught his attention. He found the reference to Henderson on page 307. It read:

“A former Apache scout, Milo Henderson came to Tombstone in the first weeks of its existence, established the weekly newspaper, The Tombstone Lode and when the town grew so that he was enabled to make it a daily, sold out and retired to the San Carlos Mountains to become one of the biggest ranchers in the state...”

That was as far as Johnny was to read for some time. There was a soft tapping on the door. Johnny closed the book.

“Who is it?” he called peevishly.

“Helen Walker,” came the quiet reply.

Johnny whistled softly and sprang to his feet. He started for the door, then realized that the book was in his hands. He looked around for a place to hide it and saw the sofa. Stepping to it he picked up one of the three cushions, put the book underneath and dropped the cushion back into place. Then he went to the door and unlocked it.

There was a worried expression on Helen Walker’s face as she came into the room. “Surprised to see me?”

“A little,” Johnny admitted. He pointed to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

Helen Walker started for the chair, then detoured to the sofa. Johnny winced until Helen sat down on the cushion next to the one under which he had hidden the book.

“Decided to accept my offer for the Silver Tombstone?”

“No.” Helen hesitated, then added, “Not yet.”

Johnny seated himself in the big easy chair, facing her. The girl was primed; she had thought things over, was puzzled by his entry into the situation. And worried. So much so that she had been willing to swallow her pride and come to his hotel room... to pump him.

Johnny smiled and said nothing.

There was quiet for several seconds, then Helen saw that if anyone was to talk it would have to be Helen. “Just who are you, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Johnny Fletcher.”

“I know your name. Perhaps I should ask, what are you?”

“Just a guy trying to get along.”

“The offer you made for the mine — that wasn’t on your own behalf, was it?”

“No.”

Helen Walker inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “All right, Mr. Fletcher...”

“Johnny...”

Helen looked at him steadily and it seemed to him that there was more color in her features. “Johnny, then,” she said. “I guess I’ve got to confide in you. I’m worried...”

“About what happened in San Bernardino?”

Her eyes tightened in sudden pain. “I wasn’t in San Bernardino. I mean — I came through the town, naturally. You have to, driving from the east. But I... I knew nothing about... that thing.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“Everything. I’m alone and everybody is opposed to me. My cousin, Tompkins...”

“I heard you last night.” Johnny inclined his head toward the window.

She nodded. “They’re trying to take the Silver Tombstone away from me.”

Johnny looked at her thoughtfully a moment. “You suspect, of course, that the Silver Tombstone is a valuable mine?”

“That seems obvious. It’s been shut down since 1886, but now suddenly everybody wants it. There can be only one reason. As a matter of fact, Tompkins admitted that he had discovered a rich vein of silver.”

“Supposing he has and supposing he sits tight. I understand it would cost a fortune to explore the shafts and find his vein. Are you in a position to put the money into the mine?”

“I have an automobile,” said Helen Walker. “And something like two hundred dollars in cash. That’s all.”

“What has Charles Ralston got?”

“A friend in New York who’ll back him for any amount. That’s where Hugh Kitchen came in; he was the representative of Charles’ friend... a man named Mainwaring, who owns a department store.”

Johnny screwed up his mouth. “Then it looks bad — Ralston has the money; Tompkins knows where the silver is. You...”

“I own the Silver Tombstone.”

“A hole in the ground. I read a book once in which there was a line that’s always stuck in my mind. Something about, ‘it takes a silver mine to run a silver mine.’ ”

Helen Walker leaned back wearily. At the same time her right hand dropped on the cushion beside her and she became aware that there was a bulky object under the cushion. It was the most natural thing in the world for her to raise the cushion.

She did — and found the book. The title registered instantly. “Tombstone Days!” she exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

Johnny made a careless gesture, but Helen sat up and looked at him sharply. “This isn’t... Charlie Ralston’s?”

Johnny coughed lightly. “He loaned it to me.”

“Then it was Charlie who sent you to me?”

“No,” Johnny denied promptly, then winced as he realized that the denial narrowed the list of suspects down to one. Dan Tompkins. Helen saw it instantly.

“Tompkins!” she accused.

Johnny nodded.

“That simple-minded desert rat!” Helen exclaimed scornfully. “And he told you to offer three thousand for a mine that may be worth a million.”

“He knows where the silver is,” Johnny reminded her pointedly. “He told me that he spent two years poking around the innards of the Silver Tombstone before he found the lode.”

Helen got to her feet. “But if you’re working for Tompkins how come you...?” She held up the book.

“Ralston loaned it to me.”

She gave him a strange look. “Do you mind if I don’t believe that? As a matter of fact, Charles stole this book. It belonged to Uncle Jim. Right after one of Charles’ last visits he was looking for the book and couldn’t find it. He suspected Charles. Uncle Jim was greatly put out; he wanted me to have the book. Said it was one of a very few still in existence.”

She put the book under her arm.

Johnny got up. “Wait a minute.” He held out his hand. “I’ve got to return that book.”

“It’s mine!”

He shook his head. “Fight that out with Ralston-after I return the book.”

“I’m not going to do any more fighting — with anyone.”

Grimly Johnny advanced upon her. She retreated, then tried a quick flanking movement and headed for the door. Johnny dove after her, caught her about the waist. She whirled in his grasp, a fist doubled up. Johnny tried to duck, but took the punch on his cheekbone.

“Hey!” he exclaimed.

“Let me go!” she cried, struggling furiously.

It was the most natural thing in the world for Johnny to kiss her. She tried to hit him again and Johnny kissed her again. She stopped struggling.

After a moment Johnny released her.

“Okay?” he asked.

Her color was fourteen shades pinker. “I’ve got to go,” she murmured.

Johnny slipped the book out from under her arm. “When will I see you again?”

“Call me — this evening.”

He nodded and opened the door for her. After she had gone he stood for a moment, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. Then he sighed, locked the door and went back to his chair. He opened the book and tried to find his place.

The panels of the door resounded to the rapping of knuckles.

“Open up, Fletcher!” cried the harsh voice of Tim O’Hanlon.

“Sold!” exclaimed Johnny, under his breath. “Sold by a dame.” Aloud he exclaimed: “I’m not interested in making any horse bets.”

“Still clowning, eh? Well, there’s a man here’ll do some clowning with you. He’s from the police department...”

“Open up,” a new voice.

Johnny groaned. He looked at the windows. It was ten feet across space to the room of Dan Tompkins. He was trapped. He got up and going to the door, unlocked it.

Tim O’Hanlon pushed into the room. He was followed by a heavy-set man of about forty.

“Lieutenant Meeker of the cops,” O’Hanlon chortled.

Lieutenant Meeker took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He consulted it.

“You’re the owner of a 1932 Ford Sedan, License No. 07A834?”

“No,” said Johnny.

The detective frowned. “We’ll go into that later. The night before last you stopped at a motel in San Bernardino...”

Johnny shook his head. “Wrong again.”

“I can prove that,” Meeker snapped.

“Go ahead.”

Lieutenant Meeker stepped to the door of the bedroom, looked in, then turned back. “You have a friend named Sam Gragg...”

“Bingo!” exclaimed Johnny. “That time you win.”

“All right, wise guy,” said Meeker, showing his teeth. “We’ll continue this down at the station...”

“You have a warrant?”

“I don’t need a warrant for a murder charge.”

Johnny held up his right hand, palm to the detective. “Now, wa-ait a minute; fun’s fun, but you can carry even fun too far. What’s this about murder?”

“We’ll talk about it at the station. The sheriff of San Bernardino County’s on his way here.”

“Still feel like clowning, Fletcher?” asked the house detective, who was enjoying himself immensely.

“Let’s see,” said Johnny, “you’re in on this, too. Fine. I’ll make you a co-defendant in my suit for false arrest.”

“Okay,” said O’Hanlon. “I’ll give you something to really sue about.” He walked up to Johnny, grinned wickedly and suddenly hit Johnny on the jaw.

Johnny went back, then recovered and started for O’Hanlon. Meeker caught hold of him. “Hold it!” the detective cried.

“Lemme at him, the big stiff!” Johnny yelled. “I’ll pin his ears down for him.”

Still struggling with Johnny, Lieutenant Meeker looked over his shoulder at O’Hanlon. “You had no call to do that O’Hanlon.”

“He’s been asking for it,” O’Hanlon retorted.

Johnny suddenly relaxed and the lieutenant let go of him. Johnny seated himself in the Morris chair. “All right,” he said, “let’s get this straight. Who’m I supposed to have murdered?”

“A man named Kitchen,” grunted Meeker. “But we’ll go into it down at the station...”

“What about a lawyer?”

“You can call one after we book you... if we book you.”

“Why can’t I call one now?”

“Because it’s against the rules.” Meeker gestured impatiently. “Come on, let’s get going...”

“He’s stalling,” exclaimed O’Hanlon. “He’s expecting that fat friend of his.”

Meeker scowled. “On your feet, Fletcher.”

Johnny sighed wearily, and put Tombstone Days under his arm. “All right, fellows, I guess you’ve got me.”

Meeker took his arm. “I could use cuffs...”

“Never mind, I’ll go quietly.”

They left the room and went to the elevator, where O’Hanlon pushed a button. The indicator showed that a car was already coming up. It stopped on the fifth floor and the door opened.

Sam Cragg was the sole occupant of the elevator. He blinked as he saw Johnny between the two detectives.

“Cops!” cried Johnny.

“That’s his pal!” yelled O’Hanlon.