The Whispering Master

Chapter Ten

The door of Room 821 was slightly ajar and voices were coming from within. Johnny pushed open the door. Sam was seated on the edge of the nearest bed. Susan Fair occupied the only chair in the room and a chunky man of about twenty-eight or thirty was standing beside Susan’s chair, scowling at Sam Cragg.

“Hello, folks,” Johnny greeted the assemblage.

“Johnny!” cried Sam. “This is Marjorie Fair’s boy friend.”

“From Iowa,” Johnny said.

Doug Esbenshade did not offer his hand. “I chartered a plane,” he said. “I’m going to stay here in New York until I send the man who killed Marjorie to the electric chair.”

“Good luck,” said Johnny.

“Every dime I’ve got will go into this — if it has to go,” Esbenshade continued. “I’ve already engaged a private detective—”

“You could have saved some money,” Johnny said. “I’d have taken the job for half price.”

“You?” Esbenshade shot a quick glance down at Susan. “I thought you said he was a—”

“A book salesman,” Johnny cut in. “But I also have a peculiar talent for criminal investigation...”

“Johnny,” Sam exclaimed warningly, “You promised you wouldn’t—”

“When did I make such a promise?”

“The last time, after we left Las Vegas. You said from then on we’d stick to our business — selling books...”

“Fletcher,” interrupted Esbenshade, “Susan’s told me your story and I’m not at all satisfied with it.”

“For that matter,” said Johnny, “Susan told me about you and I’m not at all satisfied with you.”

Esbenshade reddened. “Now, look here, you...”

Johnny yawned deliberately. He looked pointedly at Susan Fair. “Is he a fair sample of the boys in Des Moines? The rich ones?”

Esbenshade took a quick step toward Johnny. “I’ve a mind to show you—”

“What?”

Esbenshade clenched a fist. What he would have done with it remained undecided, for at that moment the phone rang and Johnny scooped it up.

“Yes,” he said. Then he looked at Esbenshade in surprise. “I guess you told the desk you’d be in my room. This is for you.”

Esbenshade took the phone. “Douglas Esbenshade. Oh, yes, send him up to Room eight twenty-one.” He hung up, a gleam of triumph in his slightly piggish eyes.

“That’s the detective; now maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

Johnny groaned. “I don’t know whether I’m in the mood for another detective today.”

“You’ll talk to this one. He’s the best in the business.”

“Jeez, Johnny,” said Sam, “do we have to? They got a good picture on at the Roxy and I thought since we, uh, since we didn’t have anything else to do tonight, we might...”

“I think that’s a good idea, Sam. Do you mind, folks...”

“I certainly do mind,” Esbenshade blustered.

Susan Fair got to her feet. “Doug, perhaps we’d better...”

Knuckles rapped on the door; good and loud.

“Your boy,” Johnny said to Esbenshade.

“Come in,” Esbenshade called.

The door opened and Jefferson Todd came into Room 821; Jefferson Todd, the World’s Greatest Detective... according to his own advertisement in the Classified Telephone Directory. He was about six feet four inches tall and so lean he had to stand twice in one spot to cast a shadow.

He stopped just within the door, his jaw slack in astonishment.

“Johnny Fletcher,” he said, “By all that’s holy...!”

“Jefferson Todd!” groaned Johnny.

“Jeez,” said Sam, “the long drink of water.”

If Todd was surprised to find Johnny and Sam Cragg here, Esbenshade was even more chagrined to learn that Todd and Johnny were acquainted.

“You fellows friends?” he exclaimed.

Jefferson Todd finally looked at Esbenshade. “Mr. Esbenshade, I presume.”

“Yes,” said Esbenshade. “You were recommended to me by Congressman Wallencooper, but if you and Fletcher here are friends, I don’t know...”

“Oh, it’s all right, Esbenshade,” Johnny said. “We’re not friends’. In fact, Todd hates my guts and I like him, too.”

Todd bared wolfish teeth. “Always the card, Fletcher.” He came further into the room. “I did a little job for Congressman Wallencooper a couple of years ago. He’d got mixed up with some—”

“Tut-tut, Jefferson,” Johnny chided. “You’re forgetting your ethics; a private eye doesn’t talk about his client’s affairs.”

“Mr. Esbenshade,” said Todd, “it shall give me great pleasure to work for you, especially if—” with a dark glance at Johnny — “if Fletcher here is involved in the matter. It has long been my ambition to send him to jail.”

“You should live that long, Todd,” growled Sam. “Say the word, Johnny, and I’ll tie him up into a pretzel knot.”

“As for you, Cragg,” Todd said, “you don’t worry me one bit. You’ve got muscle and—” he snapped his fingers — “that’s what I think of muscle.” He turned to Esbenshade and tapped his forehead dramatically. “It’s this that counts, Mr. Esbenshade. I haven’t failed on a case in three years...”

“My fiancée was murdered here in this hotel, Todd,” Esbenshade began.

“I know all about it,” Todd interrupted. “My friends at Headquarters have given me the whole story...”

“You mean you read about it in the evening paper,” Johnny sneered. “You don’t even know the name of the Homicide man in charge of—”

“Lieutenant Rook,” snapped Todd.

“And he didn’t mention my name?”

“He apparently didn’t consider you worthy of mention.

He told me he questioned some bums in an adjoining room—”

“Bums!” cried Cragg.

“The room doesn’t adjoin,” Johnny corrected. “It’s across the air shaft.”

Jefferson Todd raised the palm of his right hand and walked around the beds to the window. He peered out. The shade of the room that had been Marjorie Fair’s was drawn and there wasn’t a thing Jefferson Todd could see from his vantage point, but he gave it quite a bit of attention and finally turned back, nodding knowingly.

“You’ve got it all solved now,” said Johnny. “Quick work.”

“Doug,” Susan said, suddenly, “this is about all I can stand.”

“You’re the, ah, deceased’s sister?” Todd asked.

Esbenshade answered for Susan. “It’s been a great blow to her, naturally...”

“Naturally,” said Todd. He frowned mightily. “Perhaps you and I, Mr. Esbenshade, could adjourn to your own, ah, quarters and discuss this...”

Esbenshade hesitated, his eye on Johnny. But Susan was already moving to the door. “All right, Mr. Todd,” he said.

He followed Susan out. At the door, Todd turned. “I’ll be seeing you later, Fletcher.”

“Not if I see you first.”

“And your wrestler friend,” Todd added, and went out.

Sam sprang to his feet, fuming. “There’s something about that guy that gets my goat.”

“I’m glad Todd’s in this,” said Johnny, “because where Todd is, there’s money. Big, fat fees.”

Sam’s face turned bitter. “You’re in it already, up to your neck. I can see it, Johnny.”

“Sometime tomorrow, Sam,” Johnny said, soberly, “I’ve got to get a pile of money...”

“You’ve got a pile today.”

“Yes, and that’s why I’ve got to get a bigger one tomorrow.”

“Why? You’ve got two hundred and some bucks.”

“Do you want to know how I got it?”

“No,” Sam said quickly. “I said this afternoon I didn’t want to know.”

“Then just take my word that we’ve got to raise quite a stack of do-re-mi. Dammit, Esbenshade’s got it and he’s dumb enough, but Todd’s got his mitts on him first and Todd doesn’t let go of money. It’ll have to be one of the others.”

“One of what others?”

“One of the Mariota people, I think. By the way — where’s the record?”

Sam threw back the covers of his bed. “I put it back here, for safekeeping. But I don’t see why this is so valuable.”

“It may not be worth a nickel. But I’ve got a hunch it is.”

Sam brought out the Saturday Evening Post containing the Con Carson master record. Johnny took the record out of the magazine, frowned for a moment, then went to the battered desk and opening a drawer, took out a roll of Scotch tape — a leftover from more affluent days. Stepping to the wall he took down one of the hotel pictures — a canal scene in Venice. He placed the phonograph record on the back of it, fastening the edges to the back of the picture with Scotch tape. Then he hung the picture back on the wall. “Can’t tell there’s anything under there.” He inhaled deeply. “Well, let’s go.”

“Where to?”

Johnny shrugged, and picked up the telephone directory. “A vice-president, maybe.” He searched in the directory, couldn’t find the name he wanted, then tried another. He was successful this time. “Or maybe a president.”