The Whispering Master

Chapter Seventeen

Sam hung up the receiver, after talking to Johnny Fletcher on the phone. His jaw slack, he stared wildly about the room. Johnny was on a spot, he had gathered that much. And it was up to Sam to get him out of it. But how...?

He was to meet a man on a street corner. That was good enough. Sam thought he could hold onto whatever man showed up and convince him that it was wise to lead him to where Johnny was being held. And there Sam’s two fists could get to work.

But Johnny’s instructions had been explicit. He was to bring the phonograph record with him. Without it, the man he was to meet probably wouldn’t come up to Sam and identify himself.

The phonograph record.

A phonograph record. They all looked alike from a distance, didn’t they?

Sam slammed out of the room, rode down to the lobby in the elevator and saw Eddie Miller standing beside his little stand at the far end of the lobby. He hurried over to him.

“Where’s the nearest place that they sell phonograph records, Eddie?” he asked.

“Why, there’s a place over on Seventh Avenue, right around the corner...”

Sam winced. That was the place he and Johnny had visited the day before. He didn’t think he would be welcomed at the particular store.

“I don’t want to go to that place,” he said. “Isn’t there another shop handy?”

“I can’t think of any offhand. You see them everywhere when you aren’t looking for them, but when you want one...”

Sam groaned and whirled away from Eddie, leaving the bell captain staring after him. He burst out of the hotel and half ran, half walked over to Seventh Avenue.

He entered the phonograph shop and, of course, out of a half dozen clerks, the one he didn’t want came up. He recognized Sam. “A package of needles?” he asked sarcastically. “Or do you want to examine the twelve hundred dollar model again...?”

“I want a record,” said Sam, “that’s all — and I want it in a hurry.”

“A record?” the salesman smirked. “What good is a record without a phonograph to play it?”

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. “Gimme a record and give it to me quick.”

The salesman shrugged. “What record?”

“Any record, I don’t care what it is.”

“But that’s ridiculous. No one buys just any record...”

Sam strode past the salesman to a rack. He reached in and brought out a record. “This — how much?”

“Seventy-five cents, plus city tax.”

Sam thrust a dollar bill into his hand. “Keep the change.”

He ran out of the store and headed for the Times Square subway station, several blocks away.

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the subway station at Lenox and 135th. Holding the phonograph record conspicuously in front of him, he walked to the street corner.

Georgie, at the moment, was on the opposite corner, standing in front of a drugstore. He spotted Sam immediately, but remained where he was, dragging on a cigarette butt.

No one approached Sam, but Georgie didn’t like the way Sam kept looking around. Finally, Sam crossed the street and took up a stand only ten feet from Georgie.

Georgie waited a moment, then threw away his cigarette stub. He walked up to Sam and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Is that a phonograph record, chum?” he asked.

Sam whirled and sized up Georgie. He was a nicely built lad, Sam thought. Husky enough to make it interesting.

“It ain’t a pie plate,” he retorted. “Give it to me.”

“Why?” Sam demanded.

“Because your pal ain’t going to feel so well if you don’t.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Sam said. He pushed the phonograph record into Georgie’s face, breaking it into about a thousand pieces. Then he grabbed Georgie’s right arm and clamped on a double wristlock.

Georgie cried out, in anger and alarm. “This is gonna cost Fletcher his life...!”

He hit Sam in the face with his free fist, a blow that, would have been much harder, had Sam not put vicious pressure on the double wristlock. Georgie screamed and went back. Sam followed, side-stepped and threw Georgie to the sidewalk. If Georgie hadn’t gone down his arm would have been broken.

But the fall broke Sam’s hold and he rolled quickly aside as Sam lunged for him. His feet came up and one of them caught Sam in the chest. Sam went back, grunted and came forward as Georgie struggled to his feet, tugging at his right hip pocket.

Sam caught Georgie’s shoulder, whirled him around, just as Georgie’s hand came free of his pocket. It held a leather-covered blackjack, which he swung at Sam’s face.

Sam let go of Georgie and ducked, even as he drove a smashing blow through at Georgie. He took the blackjack on his left shoulder, but his fist caught Georgie’s face and knocked the ruffian back against the drugstore. Georgie barely missed the plate glass window.

In the middle of the intersection, a policeman’s whistle blasted. But Sam didn’t hear it. He was moving forward to decimate Georgie.

Georgie was reeling, but he still had the blackjack in his fist.

Feet pounded the pavement. Johnny Fletcher’s voice cried: “Sam...!” Sam didn’t hear him. He was watching the blackjack in Georgie’s hand and cocking his right fist for the haymaker. Johnny Fletcher grabbed Sam’s arm and then ducked, as Sam whirled and struck. The fist swished past Johnny’s ear, missing him by about one-sixteenth of an inch. Then Sam recognized Johnny.

“Johnny...!”

The policeman’s whistle blasted again, nearer. Johnny caught Sam’s arm. “Come on...!”

They ran then, leaving Georgie and his blackjack to the mercies of the Harlem policeman.

Fifty yards away, Johnny shot a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Georgie mixing it with the policeman, blackjack against club. The blackjack lost and Georgie went sprawling to the pavement.

Then Johnny and Sam whirled around a corner and shot across the street. There they slackened their pace to a walk and Johnny caught his breath.

“What happened, Johnny?” Sam panted.

“I walked into something.”

Sam studied Johnny’s face. “Jeez, you sure took a beating.”

“About eight of my ribs are floating.” He thrust a hand into his pocket. “And I’m out sixty dollars on the deal.”

“They took your dough?”

“They took it and split. But I got Joe’s share back, with a little extra. Too bad I didn’t have time to go through Georgie.”

“Georgie’s the lad with the blackjack? I woulda murdered him in another minute...”

“You did well enough... Hey, taxi.”

Brakes squealed as a cruising taxi pulled up beside them. Johnny and Sam piled in.

“Forty-fifth and Broadway,” Johnny said. “And whip up the horsepower!”

A half hour later they climbed out in front of the Forty-fifth Street Hotel. While Johnny waited for the elevator, Sam stepped to the desk. There was another telephone slip. Sam got it and handed it to Johnny as they stepped into the elevator.

The message was from Seebright. It said: “Important you phone me. Plaza 5-1127 until eight, after that, Club Mague.”

“What time is it?” Johnny asked the elevator operator.

“I don’t know, I haven’t got a watch.”

“I’ve got eight of them,” Johnny exclaimed, “but they’re all in pawnshops.”

The elevator operator grinned at the joke. He was new at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel and didn’t know Johnny Fletcher. On the eighth floor Johnny and Sam got off the elevator and hurried to their room. Inside, Johnny scooped up the phone.

“What time is it, sweetheart?” he asked the operator.

“Ten minutes after eight,” was the reply.

“Well, get me the Club Mague, will you, precious? And have them page a guy named Orville Seebright. Call me back when you get him on the phone.”

He hung up and headed for the bathroom. He recoiled when he saw his face in the mirror. Both eyes were in mourning; the left one swollen to a slit. There was a mouse on his left cheek and a few other assorted bruises, including a bad cut on his mouth.

He started the hot water in the bathtub and began stripping off his clothes. As he climbed into the tub he groaned. Sam came into the bathroom.

“Shall I call a doctor?”

“What for?”

“You don’t look so good. Maybe you better go right to bed, after you soak awhile. A good sleep’ll help.”

“If I had time to sleep. See if I’ve got a clean shirt in the drawer, will you?”

Sam exclaimed. “You’re not figuring on going out!”

“I’ve got to. I’ve only got three hundred and ten dollars to meet those eleven hundred dollars’ worth of checks tomorrow. We’ve got to get the murderer of Marjorie Fair and grab that thousand bucks from Esbenshade. We’ve used up all the banks within walking distance and it’s going to be tough kiting checks tomorrow. And even if I make them good tomorrow, we’ll be working the banks in Brooklyn the day after.”

Sam groaned. “Couldn’t we just skip town?”

“And have every bonding company in the country after us? You murder somebody and only the cops are after you. They’re easy compared to the bonding companies that cover the banks and stores. Giving rubber checks is almost as bad as stealing a car. Uh-uh, we’ve got to make those checks good tomorrow — and keep them good!”

Sam started to leave the bathroom. “Hey — that guy Georgie, the cop grabbed him... well, the fellow that hired him, isn’t he...?”

“Yes,” said Johnny, “but he isn’t going to volunteer any information to the cops.”

“They can sweat it out of him.”

“If they knew there was something to sweat for.” Johnny shook his head. “If the cops break this case, we don’t get one thousand bucks. Catch on?”

“Yeah, but couldn’t you tell Esbenshade that Georgie knows who killed his girl friend? That’s almost the same as naming the guy yourself.”

“It’s what I’m thinking of, Sam. Call up the Barbizon-Waldorf and tell him we’re coming over to see him with some information. I’ll try to sell him on the idea that we’ve earned the grand.”

Sam went into the bedroom, while Johnny stepped out of the tub and began drying himself. Before he was finished, Sam came to the bathroom door.

“He went out, they said.”

“Try Susan’s room upstairs.”

Sam grimaced. “Me and Susie ain’t on such good terms.”

“How come?”

“Well, I went into the saloon downstairs to get a beer and there was Susie with this guy Armstrong. Armstrong insulted me and I kinda choked him a little. Susie didn’t seem to like it.”

“Armstrong and Susan Fair,” mused Johnny. “Armstrong had a crush on Marjorie.”

“Oh, they didn’t look like that,” Sam said. “They was just talking together, serious-like.”

Johnny began dressing himself. “Call her room.”

Sam did, but received no answer. “You’d think people would stay home.”

“Maybe they’re having dinner together?” suggested Sam. “I’m so hungry myself I could start eating the furniture. But there isn’t time to eat.”

The phone rang and Johnny went out and caught it up. “Yes?”

It was the hotel operator. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but they say at the Club Mague that Mr. Seebright isn’t mere. Shall I try again later?”

“No,” said Johnny. “Thanks.” He hung up. “I guess he’s on the way over. Well, we’ll run over, too, and maybe get time to grab some dinner.”

Sam headed into the bathroom to clean up.

It was nine o’clock when they got out of a taxi in front of the Club Mague, a dive in the basement of a dingy brown-stone building on Fifty-second Street. A liveried doorman gave them the once-over and opened the door reluctantly.

Inside a velvet rope was up, even though Johnny, looking into the restaurant, saw vacant tables. The head waiter shook his head condescendingly.

“All filled up.”

“Where?” asked Johnny. “You got room in there for Coxey’s army.”

“Reserved, all tables reserved.”

Johnny dug into his pocket, and bringing out his money, sorted out a five dollar bill. The head waiter looked at it and at Johnny’s unprepossessing face. “Sorry,” he persisted. Johnny swore under his breath and skinned out a ten-spot “Bet you this can find a table.”

The waiter palmed the tenner and took down the velvet rope. “Right this way, sir.” He led Johnny and Sam to a tiny table at the far, far end of the room where the lights were dim. He held out a chair for Johnny and said, solicitously, “An accident, sir?”

“Fight,” said Johnny.

“Ah, Madison Square Garden?”

“Alley. Just an alley fight...”

The head waiter smiled vacantly and signaled to a waiter. When the latter came up, Johnny brushed away the thirty-six sheet menu. “Two steaks,” he said, “and a ham sandwich apiece for an appetizer, while we’re waiting. And two double Scotches for me and one for my friend...”

“Make that two for me, too,” said Sam.