The Whispering Master

Chapter Fifteen

It was shortly after one o’clock when Sam Cragg returned to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel. He expected Johnny to be waiting for him and was surprised when he found the room locked. He opened the door with his own key and went in.

The place looked as if a cyclone had struck it. The beds were torn up and scattered all over the floor. Even the rug was turned back. The picture of the canal scene in Venice was on the floor.

The master phonograph record was gone.

“Holy cow!” Sam cried, aloud.

He went to the phone. “Bell captain,” he said.

A couple of minutes later he was seated in the Morris chair staring at the wreckage of the room, when Eddie Miller knocked on the door and came into the room, in response to Sam’s invitation.

Eddie surveyed the room. “What’s the game?”

“Whaddya mean, game?”

“Fletcher’s figured out something he’s going to pull on Peabody.”

“Eddie,” said Sam, “get ready for a shock. We’re not pulling anything on Peabody. Johnny and me left this room about three hours ago. It was all nice and clean like the maid left it this morning. Johnny hasn’t come back yet and me, I just got in about three and one half minutes ago. It was like this when I come in.”

Eddie Miller put his tongue in his cheek. “Your jewels been stolen, maybe?”

“Nothing was swiped, Eddie. It’s just — well, Johnny’s going to blow the roof off when he comes back and sees this. I suppose I should call up Peabody, but aside from who’s behind in his room rent he doesn’t know a damn thing about this hotel. You do, Eddie, so I want to know what’s been going on around here today.”

“Nothing at all.”

“Nobody came asking for us?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any suspicious-lookin’ birds in the lobby?”

“Half of the guests of this hotel look suspicious, but that don’t mean nothing.”

“What about packages? Nobody with a package leaves this hotel that you don’t know about it.”

“Nobody left the hotel with a package that shouldn’t have. Besides — you said nothing was stolen.”

“Nothing that was worth anything.”

“Then something was taken?”

“I made a phonograph record of my voice yesterday. It’s gone and a record ain’t something you can carry out in your pocket.”

“You could break it up and carry the pieces in your pocket and nobody’d know it.”

“This was a master record, made out of aluminum, stiff aluminum. You couldn’t bend it without a sledge hammer.”

“A guy could carry it under his coat.”

“Did anyone?”

Eddie scratched his head. “Not that I know of. Honest, Sam, I’m on your side. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. People go up and down in the elevators all day long. I don’t know them all — and I don’t see them all. What goes on in the rooms above the lobby is something we never know about... until after it’s done, usually. Besides, since this murder yesterday — well, the place is crawling with cops. And private detectives. Jefferson Todd, the famous detective’s been in and out of the hotel...”

“Today?”

Eddie nodded. “He’s working on the case, but for who I don’t know. He’s been up to see the Fair girl, I know. And I saw him leave the lobby right after lunch with that big butter and egg man from Iowa, who’s been with Miss Fair.”

“Esbenshade. We’re working for him.”

“How do you mean?”

Sam scowled. He shouldn’t have spilled that. But it was too late. “Oh, we’re doing a little work for him.”

“What kind of work?”

“Detective work, Eddie, what do you think?”

Eddie looked at the damaged beds. “I see. Then I don’t think you can blame the hotel for this.”

“Because we’re working for Esbenshade, this is our fault, Eddie? How do you figure that?”

“Well, you’re asking for trouble, when you’re mixing with murderers, aren’t you?”

“I catch the guy who tore up this room,” growled Sam, “and there’ll be blood all over the wallpaper.”

Without knocking, Jefferson Todd opened the door and came in. “My, my,” he said, looking at tie damage.

Sam sprang to his feet. “You got hands, Todd? Or ain’t you used to knocking on doors?”

“I heard your voice, so I just pushed open the door.”

“Well, push it shut again, as you go out.”

Todd said: “Where’s Fletcher?”

“Hiding under the bed.”

“You’re a very funny man, Cragg,” Todd said sourly. “Ever think of going on the stage?”

“I got a offer last year from George Abbott. He was gonna put on a play called The Dumb Detective. It was all about a private dick who called himself the greatest detective in the world. I told him I couldn’t play the part because I wasn’t dumb enough.”

“I guess I’ll be getting back to work,” Eddie Miller said, suddenly and slid out of the room.

“Did you lose something here, Todd?” Sam snapped.

“I want to see Fletcher. Any objection to my waiting for him?”

“Yes.”

Todd sneered. “He’s trying to muscle in on me.”

“So?”

“That glib tongue of his sold Esbenshade a bill of goods. You tell Fletcher I’m not going to put up with it.”

“All right, I’ll tell him you’re going to slap his wrist. Anything else?”

“I’ll save it for Fletcher,” snarled Todd and stalked out of the room.

Sam gave up and began straightening up the beds. He put the sheets and blankets back, with a few wrinkles here and there and kicked the rug back into place. He was just finished when the phone rang. Sam lunged for it.

“Yes?”

A man’s voice said, “Is this Mr. Fletcher?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Never mind who’s calling,” said the voice on the telephone. “Let me talk to Fletcher.”

“He ain’t here now. But this is Sam Cragg, his assistant I’ll take a...” Sam stopped as he realized he was talking into a dead phone.

He hung up and stared at the telephone. The things Johnny got into! And where was Johnny now? Sam had wasted a lot of time over in Newark, waiting outside that drugstore. Johnny should have been home an hour.

On a sudden impulse, Sam picked up the phone again. “Miss Susan Fair’s room,” he said to the operator.

The operator rang the room, but after a moment said to Sam: “I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”

Sam slammed down the receiver and leaving the room, rode down to the lobby. He went into the cocktail lounge, just off the lobby, and ordered a glass of beer at the bar. He was tilting it to his mouth, when he looked into the back-bar mirror. Susan Fair and a wisp of a man Sam had never seen were seated in a booth.

Carrying his glass of beer, Sam headed for the booth.

“Hi, Miss Fair,” he greeted Susan.

Susan Fair did not seem overjoyed at seeing Sam. “Hello,” she said shortly.

Sam seated himself across from Susan, crowding the skinny man back into the booth. He said: “Johnny’n me are working for Mr. Esbenshade, now. Did he tell you?”

Susan frowned. “No, I hadn’t heard. Where — where is Mr. Fletcher?”

“I left him over in Newark.”

“Newark,” exclaimed the man beside Sam. “What’s he doing over there?”

Sam turned and looked over the other man quite frankly. “You know Johnny?”

“I’ve met him.”

Susan Fair said: “Excuse me, Mr. Cragg, this is Mr. Armstrong.”

Sam’s face lit up. “Oh, Armstrong, huh? You’re one of the suspects...”

Armstrong recoiled. “Suspects!” He shot a quick glance at Susan Fair. The girl looked down at her cocktail glass which contained the remnants of a dry martini.

Sam said, naively: “Johnny was tellin’ me about you. Says he went a couple of rounds with you yesterday.”

“Is that what he called it?” Armstrong asked, grimly. “And did he refer to me as a suspect?”

“Yep.”

“Who else does he call a suspect?”

“Seebright, Joe Dorcas, a guy named Doniger and you.”

“What’s the matter with Ed Farnham?”

“He said Farnham didn’t amount to anything.”

Susan Fair suddenly looked up. “Mr. Cragg — please... do you mind?”

“Mind, what?”

“Mr. Armstrong and I...”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Sam said cheerfully. “I don’t mind. Like I said — me’n Johnny are working for Esbenshade. Which is the same as working for you. Johnny figures one of these guys knocked... did for your sister...”

“Mr. Cragg,” Armstrong said sharply.

“Huh?”

“Miss Fair prefers that you leave.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything.”

Armstrong’s mouth twisted contemptuously. “Are you as stupid as you pretend to be?”

Sam’s huge hand shot out and grabbed Armstrong’s throat. “Why, you wizened little monkey, I got a good notion...”

Armstrong sputtered and choked and tried with both his hands to tear away Sam’s grip, but it wasn’t until Sam loosened the hold that Armstrong was able to free himself.

Sam got to his feet and waved away the bartender, who was already coming around the bar to intercede. “Sorry, Miss Fair,” he said and with simple dignity walked out of the cocktail lounge.

In the lobby he waited for the elevator and the clerk caught sight of him. “Mr. Cragg!” he called.

Sam walked over to the desk. The clerk reached into the key slot and took out some slips of paper. Since they carried their keys with them and seldom received any but bad news, Sam and Johnny had gotten out of the habit of stopping at the desk.

Sam was surprised therefore to receive the message slips. There were four. Three of them read: “Mr. Seebright telephoned. Anxious to have you call him.” The fourth read: “Miss Rodgers called.”

Sam took the slips and went up the eighth floor. In his room he got the telephone directory, turned to the m’s and got the number of the Mariota Record Company.

A few moments later, the hotel operator connected him. “Look,” said Sam, “I’m calling for Johnny Fletcher...”

“It’s about time,” exclaimed Violet Rodgers. “Put him on, I want to talk to him.”

“He ain’t here. I was just calling to tell Seebright that I found his message in our box and I thought maybe Johnny—”

“Mr. Seebright’s called Fletcher?” Violet Rodgers asked.

“Of course, that’s why I’m calling... This is the Mariota Record Company, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know Mr. Seebright had been trying to get Fletcher. I... I wanted to talk to him myself...”

“Who’re you?”

“Violet Rodgers.”

“Oh,” said Sam, “I got a message here from you, too. What’d you want to talk to Johnny about?”

“Something personal.”

“Well, he ain’t here. I thought maybe Mr. Seebright might know where he was.”

“Mr. Seebright hasn’t been in the office all day.”

“Then where’d he call from?”

“His home, no doubt.”

“What’s the number there?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out the home numbers of the staff.”

Sam grunted. “Who’re you working for now, Seebright or the creditors?”

Violet Rodgers hesitated. “You’ve got a point there, lad,” she said then, “the number is Plaza five one one two seven... And look, if your friend Fletcher shows up, tell him to buzz me right away. Until five-thirty I’ll be here at the office and after that, the same place he and I were yesterday evening. Got that...?”

“Got it.”

Sam hung up and called Plaza 5-1127. Mr. Seebright was not at home, a gruff voice told Sam.

“How do you feel today?” Sam asked the man who gave him the Seebright data.

“Who’s this?” the voice on the phone snapped.

“Oh, just the guy who slapped you around last night,” said Sam and, chuckling, hung up.