The Whispering Master

Chapter Eleven

Johnny and Sam stepped out of the taxicab in front of the big apartment house on Park Avenue as a liveried doorman held open the door for them. He followed them into the lobby.

“Mr. Seebright?” Johnny said.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Mr. Jonathan Fletcher and secretary.”

The doorman went to a house phone and buzzed Seebright’s apartment. “Mr. Jonathan Fletcher and secretary to see Mr. Seebright,” he said, into the phone. He listened a moment, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned to Johnny.

“Mr. Seebright is in the midst of a business conference. He wants to know if it’s important.”

“I think it’s very important,” Johnny said.

The doorman said into the phone: “He says it’s extremely important, sir. Very well.” He hung up. “Apartment twelve C.”

In the automatic elevator Sam grunted. “Important, huh?”

“To me, yes. And for all I know it might be important to Seebright. How do I know?”

“Oh, I’m not complaining, Johnny. The old boy with the brass buttons downstairs couldn’t throw me far, anyway.”

The elevator reached the twelfth floor. Apartment C was nearby. Johnny pressed the door buzzer and the door was opened by a butler, who topped Sam Cragg by a couple of inches and was just as broad through the shoulders. Sam sized him up with interest.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the butler said smoothly.

“Mr. Seebright is expecting us, I believe,” Johnny said, loftily.

“It better be good, though,” said the butler, grimly.

Sam began to smile.

A door opened and a thin, nervous-looking man of about fifty popped out into the reception hall. “Yes, yes, what is it?”

“Mr. Seebright,” said Johnny, “is your conscience clear?”

Seebright gasped. “What was that?”

“Are you sleeping well these nights?”

Seebright shot a quick glance at his butler, who was hovering nearby. “Look,” he said, “I’m in the middle of a very important business conference; I only let you come up because you convinced the doorman down below that you had something important to tell me...”

“I have.”

“Well, out with it.”

“Here?” Johnny indicated the butler.

“Jerome is in my confidence,” Seebright said, testily.

Johnny shrugged. “It’s about Marjorie Fair.”

“Who the devil is Marjorie Fair?”

“You don’t know?”

“I never heard the name before in my life.”

“She worked for you,” said Johnny, “and she was murdered today.”

“Oh, that,” snorted Seebright “Armstrong told me about it.”

“And Doniger?”

“What the devil does Doniger know about it?”

“I don’t know — I’m asking you.”

Seebright looked again at Jerome, his butler. “Are you a police officer?”

Johnny shook his head and Seebright gestured to Jerome. The big butler came forward. “On your way, gentlemen.”

“The bum’s rush,” Johnny observed.

An eager light came into Sam’s eyes. “Yes or no, Johnny?”

“In a minute.” He looked at Seebright. “Mr. Seebright, how much is the Con Carson record worth to you?”

Seebright, about to walk off, whirled back. “What do you know about the Carson record?”

“Call off the sheep dog.”

Seebright signaled to Jerome, who was already reaching for Sam Cragg — a lucky reprieve for Jerome, only he didn’t know it.

Seebright glowered at Johnny, then came to a sudden decision. “Come inside with me.”

He turned and went through a door. Johnny followed him down a long hall, through another door into a beautifully paneled den, clouded with tobacco smoke. Seated about in leather armchairs were Charles Armstrong, vice-president of Mariota Records, Doniger, the sales manager, and two other men.

Seebright stopped just within the door and announced dramatically: “Gentlemen, this man claims he knows something about the Carson record.”

“I already know Mr. Armstrong and Doniger,” Johnny said. He waved pleasantly, “Hi, fellows.”

“The others are Joe Dorcas and Edward Farnham.”

Armstrong got to his feet. “Mr. Seebright, I think you ought to know that this man called at my office this morning, pretending to be a policeman...”

“I never said I was,” Johnny retorted.

Seebright made an impatient gesture. “Sit down, Armstrong.” He turned to Johnny. “This is a director’s meeting, Fletcher. I brought you in to talk to these men, because I don’t want them to think I’m doing anything behind their backs—”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do anything like that,” said Johnny.

“Now, talk,” Seebright snapped.

“About what?”

“The Carson record — that’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. I guess so.”

“All right, how much?”

Johnny brightened. “Right to the point. You tell me how much?”

“If the decision was mine alone,” Seebright said, “You’d get the toe of Jerome’s boot.”

“We can’t do business on that basis.”

“I don’t want to do business with you,” Seebright snarled. “But I’ve got a board of directors. They have minds of their own; bright minds. They ought to be bright, anyway, because they certainly don’t use them very often...”

Joe Dorcas, a sullen-faced man of about forty, bared his teeth. “You haven’t done so well with your own brain, Orville.”

“I didn’t let the record get stolen,” Seebright retorted.

“Neither did I.”

“No, maybe you didn’t let it get stolen.”

Dorcas sprang to his feet. “Are you insinuating that I had something to with its disappearance?”

“I’m not insinuating, Dorcas. I’m telling you, right out. You — or one of these other great brains — stole the record. This man here” — stabbing a wizened finger at Johnny — “is in cahoots with one of you.”

“Uh-uh,” said Johnny, “I’m not in cahoots with anyone.”

“Bah! You never got that record by yourself.”

Armstrong got slowly to his feet. “Mr. Seebright, I’ve had just about enough of this. I’m going home...”

“You’ll go when I dismiss you, Armstrong,” Seebright said. “And that goes for the rest of you. We’re going to settle this business right here and now. All right, we’ll pay the ransom for the record. The question is, how much?”

“I hear you talking, gentlemen,” said Johnny Fletcher.

“You shut up,” Seebright snapped. He pointed at Armstrong. “How much?”

“You know what it’s worth to us, Seebright...”

“I do — but we’re not paying that for it. Because we haven’t got the money. Five thousand, Armstrong?”

Armstrong raised his shoulders and let them fall again. Seebright whirled on Doniger. “Doniger?”

“Five thousand’s all right with me,” Doniger replied.

Seebright turned to Edward M. — for Milquetoast — Farnham. He said: “Farnham?” Then he brushed him aside with an impatient gesture, as of no consequence. “Dorcas? Is it five thousand?”

“In Confederate money — yes,” Dorcas growled.

“You’re against paying for the record?”

“Yes!”

“You’re outvoted.” Seebright turned to Fletcher. “Five thousand dollars is our best offer.”

“You railroaded that through,” Johnny said, easily.

“It’s all you’ll get.”

“For a Con Carson record?” He shook his head. “If I had a Carson record I’d ask a lot more than that for it.”

“If you had a Carson record?”

“Yes.”

Seebright looked narrowly at Johnny. “Have you, or have you not, got the Carson record?”

Johnny looked surprised. “Me have a Carson record? Where would I get it?”

“I’m in no mood for games, Fletcher.”

“Murder isn’t a game, Mr. Seebright.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Marjorie Fair was murdered.”

Orville Seebright gritted his teeth. “We were talking about the Con Carson record. Have you or have you not got it?”

“No.”

“You said you had it.”

“I said nothing of the kind,” Johnny retorted. “I asked you what you’d give for the Carson record and right away you brought me in here.”

Seebright went to the door, opened it and yelled: “Jerome!”

Johnny put his tongue in his cheek and looked at the paneled ceiling. Jerome did not appear. Seebright yelled again into the hallway: “Jerome, damn it!”

There was a loud thump somewhere near the outer hall. “Somebody fell down,” Johnny said.

Seebright called for the third time. “Jerome, come in here and throw this man out.”

“Oh, is that why you want Jerome?” Johnny asked, innocently.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and a cruel look came over Seebright’s wizened face. But it was replaced by an expression of astonishment as Sam Cragg appeared in the doorway.

“Jerome can’t come,” he said. “He’s had an accident...”

“I don’t believe it!” cried Seebright.

“Ten’ll get you twenty, Jerome’s counting daisies,” said Johnny.

Joe Dorcas came forward. “You manhandled Jerome?” he asked Sam.

Sam grinned. “You mean that sissy out there?” He winked at Johnny.

Johnny said: “Shall we go, Sam?”

Seebright and Dorcas followed them out to the door, where Jerome was sitting on the floor shaking his head, only one-quarter conscious. In passing, Sam stooped and shoved Jerome’s head back to the floor. It struck the hard wood with a nice thump.

But in the elevator going down, Johnny was glum. “We still haven’t got a client.”

Sam was happier than he had been for a long time. “He had a nice grip, that Jerome lad, and his footwork wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t take it at all.”

“Five thousand,” Johnny muttered.

“Huh? Five thousand, what?”

“The record. That’s what they offered me for it.”

“And you didn’t sell it?”

“It was Seebright’s attitude. He wasn’t interested in Marjorie Fair. It was the record he wanted, nothing else.”

Sam groaned. “Look, I feel sorry as all hell about the babe, but we didn’t know her. She’s dead but we didn’t do it and five thousand is five thousand...”

“He’ll pay ten tomorrow.”