The Whispering Master

Chapter Twelve

The door shivered under the violent banging of a fist and Johnny Fletcher rolled over in bed and opened one eye. He looked at the door and groaned. In the other bed, Sam Cragg snored lustily, his slumber undisturbed.

“Go way,” Johnny called to the door.

Knuckles beat another tattoo on the door and the voice of authority announced: “This is Lieutenant Rook, Fletcher. Open up.”

Johnny threw back the bedcovers and shuffled to the door. He unlatched it and blinked into the angry face of the man from the Homicide Department.

“Can’t you come back in the morning?” he complained.

“What the hell do you think this is?” Rook demanded.

“The middle of the night...”

“It’s after eight.”

“That’s what I said — the middle of the night.”

“You got up early enough yesterday, according to your story...” Rook came into the room, revealing that there was someone behind him. Sergeant Kowal.

Kowal followed his superior, his lips curled back to show tobacco-stained teeth. “This is him, Lieutenant,” he said.

“I thought it would be.” Rook scowled at the sleeping form of Sam Cragg. “Every time I see that big lug he’s in bed.”

Sam’s snoring stopped and his eyes opened. “I heard that.” He sat up and scratched his body to the accompaniment of a yawn.

“Get your clothes on, Fletcher,” Lieutenant Rook said, testily.

“What for?”

“Because I’ll be taking you for a little ride.”

“A pinch?”

“It could be. There are some questions I want to ask you.”

“Ask them here. I’m not in the mood to go down to your crummy station.”

“You’ll come if I ask you.”

“Not without a warrant I won’t. And if you had one you’d have flashed it on me.”

Rook jerked his thumb toward his assistant. “What was the idea of impersonating an officer yesterday?”

Fletcher looked at Sergeant Kowal. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you,” said Kowal. “I caught you red-handed, giving Armstrong the third degree.”

“Not me,” Johnny retorted. “I never told Armstrong I was a cop — and I never told you that”

“You acted like one.”

Johnny grinned icily. “I put my hand on your shoulder and I spoke patronizingly — like an important character. Is that acting like a cop? Answer yes or no.”

Rook swore. “Goddamit, Fletcher, there’s something about you gets me mad.”

“You know, Lieutenant, you don’t make me very happy either.”

Rook clenched his fists in a mighty effort to control himself. “Sit down, Fletcher,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I never hit a man when he’s sitting down and. I don’t want you to tempt me too far.”

Johnny seated himself on the bed and Rook went to the shabby Morris chair and sat down.

“All right, now,” Rook went on, “what were you doing up in Armstrong’s office yesterday?”

“Talking to him.”

Rook gripped the arms of the chair. “Why?” He held up a hand to check Johnny’s reply. “Wait a minute. You told me yesterday you didn’t even know the girl across the way. You’d never talked to her. You knew nothing about her death, you had a perfect alibi. Her death — and her life — didn’t concern you in the least. Then why — why, in God’s name, did you rush right over to the place she worked and start browbeating the man who...?”

“The man who...?” Johnny repeated.

Rook caught himself. “You heard me. Why did you go over to the Mariota Record Company?”

Johnny remained silent.

Rook said, ominously: “How did you know she had ever worked for the Mariota Company?”

“I didn’t. I found that out when I went up there.”

“All right, then — what made you go there? How did you connect Marjorie Fair with that one company?”

Johnny drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She was interested in singing — I could hear her through the window, couldn’t I?”

Rook’s eyes slitted. “And because she sang in her bathroom, you rushed right over to the Mariota Record Company?”

“She had a good voice,” Johnny said. “I guessed she could have been a professional and I figured a record company might know something about her.”

“There’s more than one record company in this town.”

“I picked the Mariota Company because I like their records. It was sheer accident — and a coincidence that that was the outfit where Marjorie Fair had worked.”

“But she wasn’t a professional; she was only trying to get in...”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Then Armstrong — how did you happen to pick on him, of all the executives of the company?”

“The switchboard operator did that. I mentioned Marjorie Fair’s name and she sent me in to see Armstrong.”

Rook shook his head. “You’re lying, Fletcher.”

“You can go back to Headquarters and get your warrant, Lieutenant. Then you can drag me down and ask me questions until you’re blue in the face and you’ll get the same answers. And a suit for false arrest, afterwards.”

“And that goes for me, too,” cried Sam. He got out of bed and went to the clothes closet.

Rook watched him. “Oh, you’ve got clothes today.”

“Something wrong about a man having clothes?” Sam snapped.

“You didn’t have any yesterday.” Rook’s lip curled contemptuously. “You were about to be locked out for nonpayment of rent and you” — turning to Johnny — “pawned his suit to pay something on the rent.”

“That’s a libel,” Johnny said warmly.

“Is it? I came back yesterday evening; the elevator man said you brought his suit back in the afternoon. He noticed it because he knew you’ve only got one suit apiece...”

“My tailor’s making us three apiece now. We left our warm weather clothes in Florida.”

Lieutenant Rook got to his feet. “You’re a couple of four-flushers and I’m not going to waste any more time on you. I’ve wasted too much already. I’m just going to tell you one more thing. Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, or so help me, I’ll throw you in jail and forget that you’re there.”

“Good-bye, now,” Johnny said sarcastically.

The two detectives stormed out of the room. Sergeant Kowal, the last to go out, slammed the door so that the windows rattled.

Johnny sprang for the clothes closet. “Damn that guy, it must be almost nine o’clock. I’ve got to hurry...”

“What for? We’re not going any place.”

“I am,” said Johnny. “And maybe you are, too.” He pulled on his trousers, turned back to the bed stand and scooped up the phone. “What time is it?” he asked the operator.

She told him and Johnny slammed down the receiver. “Nine-fifteen. We’re going to have to work like hell.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his money. He counted it hurriedly. “Seventy-one dollars. Damn, it’s not enough... Who’ll cash a check for you, Sam?”

“What for, Johnny? Seventy-one bucks is more than—”

“Don’t ask questions, Sam — there isn’t time. Who do you know will cash a check for you, up to fifty or seventy-five dollars?”

“Well, Coyle’s Pool Room on Broadway...”

“Get over there right away. Here, I’ll write out a check...” Johnny went over to the battered table that served as a desk and caught up a pen. As he wrote he said: “Is there any other place you know that’ll cash a check?”

“What’s the matter with the bank?”

Johnny winced. “No!”

“You mean you haven’t really got that dough in the bank, Johnny?” Sam asked in alarm.

“I have, but I don’t want to cash a check there.” Johnny tore the check out of his book. “I’ve made it out for seventy-five. Here’s another fifty. The minute you get the money for the check, rush over to this pawnshop...” He took a ticket from his pocket. “Get all the stuff this calls for and bring it here to the room. Got that?”

“Yes, but—”

“I said, don’t ask questions. Time is of the essence, believe me. Better take a taxi from the pool room to the pawnshop. Now, get going...”

Sam was already pulling on his coat. He left while Johnny hurried to complete his own dressing. He left the room only two or three minutes after Sam.

With twenty-one dollars in his pocket and a number of blank checks he rushed over to Sixth Avenue and began buying — a camera and flashlight equipment, a cheap wrist watch, a secondhand portable typewriter — a chipped diamond ring, a pair of opera glasses and a few other completely useless articles. His cash and checks lasted him until ten minutes to ten, then he hurried back to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel.

He was only a step behind Sam Cragg; the latter was piling stuff on the beds, a banjo, a mandolin, some cameras and jewelry, a few articles of wearing apparel, a watch or two.

Sam cried aloud when Johnny came in carrying the new merchandise. “For the love of Mike, Johnny, are we starting a novelty store, or something?”

“Grab it all up, Sam, there’s no time to waste.”

They loaded themselves down and left the room. Down in the lobby, they encountered Eddie Miller, the bell captain, who was so astonished by the sight of them and the merchandise that he could not even bother them with questions. Outside, they piled everything into a taxicab and a few minutes later began unloading in front of Uncle Ben’s Shop on Eighth Avenue.

Uncle Ben stared at them goggle-eyed as they entered the store. “So you are a burglar,” he cried. “I got suspicious of you yesterday...”

“Cut it out, Uncle,” Johnny said harshly. “I haven’t got time for words. Get your pencil — check the stuff in, with the top prices and give me the cash.”

“I wouldn’t touch it,” Uncle Ben howled. “The cops come around every day, looking for hot stuff and I’m not going to get caught—”

“Believe me, Uncle Ben,” Johnny said fervently. “Not one piece of this junk, I mean merchandise, is hot. It was bought, on the level, open and aboveboard and I’ve got receipts for every piece here...” He took a fistful of paper from his pocket.

Uncle Ben took the receipts from Johnny’s hand, began to examine them. “All of this stuff was bought only yesterday and some today...”

“I know it.”

“Then what’s the idea?”

“No idea. I buy high and sell cheap. That’s the way I make my living.”

“You’re crazy!”

“All right, so I’m crazy. Just give me the cash for this and let me out of here.”

Uncle Ben began mumbling to himself, but got out his pencil and scribbled down figures. “I’ll give you three hundred and fifty dollars for the lot and I’ll be sorry for it,” he announced after a minute or two.

“Give it to me!”

Uncle Ben was taken aback. “What, no haggling?”

“I haven’t got time.”

“I never heard of a man who didn’t have time for dickering. Especially you. You weren’t bad yesterday, not half bad...”

“I told you I haven’t got the time.”

“I’ll make it three-sixty,” Uncle Ben said, in a tone of disappointment.

“All right, all right.”

“Not a penny more than three-seventy-five...”

Johnny groaned. “Give me the money...”

Morosely, Uncle Ben counted out the money. Johnny snatched it from his hand and was separating it as he slammed through the door. The taxicab was still waiting at the curb and Johnny bounced in. Sam followed and before the cab was rolling, Johnny thrust a hundred dollars into his hand.

“I’ll let you off at the bank on Seventh and Times Square,” he said. “I want you to start a Ten-Plan Checking account and meet me in front of the bank on Fifth and Forty-seventh. Don’t waste any time. Keep rolling...”

“I think the man was right,” Sam said thickly. “You’re crazy.”

“If you know of any other way of keeping out of jail, tell me...”

“Jail!” cried Sam.

“That’s where they send people who kite checks — and get caught...”

“What do you mean, kite checks?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing since yesterday?”

Sam winced. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Then don’t make any more remarks. Just do what I tell you... Here’s your bank.”

The taxi stopped and Sam got out. Johnny directed the driver to take him to his bank on Fifth Avenue, the one where he had the straight checking account. There he cashed a check for one hundred dollars. With it and a hundred dollars of his remaining money, he crossed the street and started another regular checking account in another bank. Two blocks away he went into a third bank and with seventy dollars started a new Ten-Plan account. That left him with about three dollars and fifty cents in his pocket.

And it was time to go back to the first bank and meet Sam. He found him waiting, bank book and checkbook in hand.

“Now, we start buying again, Sam,” Johnny announced. “You come with me and watch how it’s done, then I’m going to turn you loose on your own.”

Sam said not one word as they went into a jewelry store and bought a wrist watch for seventy-five dollars.

“Get the idea?” Johnny asked, after they had left the store. “You give them a check, but try to do it with such an air that they don’t call the bank. If they do, you’re all right, because you’ve got the money in the bank; but once they call the bank, that account’s dead and you can’t write out any more checks on it — not until we cover... Now I’ll go in this store and you go into that one. I’ll meet you over by that mailbox, as soon as you get through.”

Johnny went into the adjoining store and bought a trinket, then rejoined Sam.

Sam exhibited a wrist watch. “Ninety bucks... but they called the bank.”

Johnny swore. “You must have acted nervous, or doubtful. I guess I’ve got to do it all myself. But here, you can pawn these two watches and this rhinestone bracelet. They cost two hundred and forty dollars and you shouldn’t take less than ninety dollars for them — eighty at the very least. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

Sam nodded morosely and they again separated.