The Whispering Master

Chapter Sixteen

Johnny Fletcher’s body was a solid, aching mass of bone and flesh. Dried blood was plastered over his left cheek and chin. A tiny trickle of warm, new blood was running from the right corner of his mouth.

He looked through a haze at the giant, Georgie, who stood over him.

“Never saw a guy sleep so long from a coupla little smacks,” George grunted.

“How long was I out?” Johnny asked.

Georgie stooped and twisting his fist in Johnny’s coat collar, dragged him across the room. He dropped him limply on the sofa. Johnny saw Joe, then. He was seated before a low table, a few feet away, playing solitaire. He caught Johnny’s eye.

“Well, Fletcher?” he asked. “Do you need any more coaxing?”

“Yeah,” said Georgie. “You was lucky before. You kicked me and that made me mad, so I knocked you out. But I’m not mad, now, and when I slap you around again, I ain’t going to hit hard enough to anes — anesthetic you.”

“Anesthetize,” Joe corrected.

“It’s really gonna hurt this time.”

Johnny looked from Joe, to Georgie, then back to Joe. “I’m no hero,” he said. “Not for free. Give me back my money and you can have the damn record.”

“What money?” asked Georgie.

“The four hundred dollars you and Joe split.”

Georgie showed snaggled teeth in what was supposed to be a grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Money’s too hard to get in the first place,” said Joe, cheerfully. “We’ve got a rule about giving it back.”

“So just pick up the telephone nice and call your pal, huh?” said Georgie.

“What’ll I tell him?”

“The record,” Joe said. “He’s to bring it to the corner of Lenox and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. He’s to stand there, until Georgie comes up and asks him for it.”

“Does he know Sam?”

“I lamped him this a.m. when you’n him left the hotel.”

Johnny raised himself from the couch to go to the telephone and could not quite repress a groan. He picked up the phone, dialed the number of the Forty-fifth Street Hotel and said: “Room eight twenty-one.”

Sam’s voice came over the phone. “Hello, who’s this?”

Johnny pressed the receiver tightly to his ear and lowered the mouthpiece. He looked at Joe. “There’s no answer.”

“Johnny!” cried the voice of Sam Cragg, “where are you...?”

Johnny hung up. Joe threw down his cards and got up. “Whaddya mean, no answer? I distinctly heard talking.”

“The operator...”

“Is the operator a man?”

Joe gestured to Georgie. The big man started for Johnny. Hastily, Johnny took off the receiver. “I’ll try again.” He dialed the number and got Sam.

“What’s happening, Johnny?” Sam cried in panic.

“Listen, Sam,” said Johnny. “I want you to get the record from behind the picture.”

“It’s gone,” Sam exclaimed. “Somebody swiped it.”

“From under the picture, near the bathroom,” persisted Johnny.

“But it’s gone, I’m telling you.”

Johnny went on: “Take the subway to Harlem. Stand on the corner of Lenox and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street until a man comes up and asks you for the record. Got that?”

“But I can’t bring the record, Johnny,” Sam wailed. “I told you it’s gone—”

“And you’re not to bring anyone with you and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Catch on?”

Joe reached down and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hang up!”

Johnny put the receiver back on the hook. It was up to Sam, now. Although what Sam could do, he didn’t know. The ransom instructions were simple enough, but the fulfilling of them was foolproof. Sam didn’t have the record and if he couldn’t deliver it to Georgie...

Joe said: “It’ll take him about a half hour to get to Lenox and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. Better get down there now, Georgie, so you can spot anyone that might be loafing there and you won’t confuse them with any newcomers.”

Georgie slapped his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “And there better not be any monkey business!”

Johnny returned to the couch and Joe went back to his table. But as Georgie left the room, Joe took out his little .32 and put it on the table within easy reach.

“We could play a little gin while waiting,” Johnny suggested.

“And you make a grab for the gun?” Joe smiled. “That’s how Billy the Kid got out of jail. I read about it in a book. He killed the jailer, with his own gun.”

“That’s the trouble with people these days. They read too much.”

“So you sit there on the couch, nice and quiet. And if you make a sudden move — well, you still get a hunk of lead in your kneecap.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Johnny said. “I’ll match Sam against Georgie. Two falls out of three and we’ll let Georgie have the first fall.”

“Oh, your friend’s tough, is he? Georgie fights for keeps.”

“So does Sam, and I’ll make it even more interesting. You can tie Sam’s right arm down to his body.”

“You’re crazy, Fletcher. What’d be the point in letting them fight?”

“A little side bet.”

“What would you use for money?”

“Sam carries our bankroll. He’s got a thousand dollars in his pocket right now.”

Joe looked sharply at Johnny. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“It interests you?”

“It’s what we’re getting for this job.”

“Then you’re a piker. I was offered five thousand for that phonograph record last night.”

Joe exclaimed angrily, “Who offered you five grand?”

“A fellow named Orville Seebright: There were some fellows with him, fellows named Dorcas, Doniger, Armstrong and Farnham...”

“Never heard of them,” said Joe. But there was a slight pause before he said it.

“A thousand dollars,” said Johnny. “And all you’ve got to do is to tell me the name of the man who hired you for this caper.”

“It’s too late.”

“We can get to the corner before Georgie meets Sam.”

Joe slammed his fist on the table so hard that his cards bounced up and scattered over the floor. “I’ve never double-crossed a client in my life.”

“Ethics?”

“Damn right. It’s your reputation in this racket that brings you the business. You double-cross a customer and it gets around. We said we’d do this for a G and keep our mouths shut.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “You can have the record and I’ll still give you the thousand dollars—”

“Without the record?”

“Yes. You’ve made four hundred already, you can get your thousand from the customer... and another thousand from me. A total of twenty-four hundred dollars.” He paused for emphasis. “A nice day’s work.”

Joe stared at Johnny, his mouth slightly open.

“Fourteen hundred,” said Johnny, “or twenty-four hundred.”

“No, goddamit!” cried Joe. And to brush away the temptation, he began gathering up the cards. His mind still preoccupied, he stooped to pick up those that had fallen to the floor.

That was when Johnny started moving.

From near the floor, Joe saw Johnny diving for him. He cried out hoarsely, started to jerk up to reach his gun that was lying on the table.

Johnny hit the table and sent it crashing over Joe and spilling the gun. Then Johnny was swarming over the table. Joe was muscular and tough, but he wasn’t Georgie. And he hadn’t taken the beating Johnny had taken. He was only trying to protect his financial interest and resist a medium-sized beating.

Johnny was fighting — for everything.

He used his fists, elbows, teeth, knees and even his feet. He clawed Joe, smashed him with his fists, kneed and kicked him. And when Joe tried to gouge out his eyes, he used his teeth on Joe’s hands.

He dragged him across the room, away from the vicinity of the gun, banged his head on the floor, pounded and battered him with his fists. And within thirty seconds of the launching of the attack, Joe lay on the floor, a quivering hulk of flesh.

Johnny got to his feet, searched for Joe’s .32 and, finding it, stuck it in his pocket. He started for the door, but detoured to stoop over Joe. He got all the money out of Joe’s pocket, then picked up his head and banged it back on the floor... to make sure that Joe would get a nice long sleep.

Then he left the apartment and staggered down the stairs.