The Whispering Master

Chapter Nineteen

Orville Seebright came back to the table. He seated himself and looked reproachfully at Johnny. “I’ve just had to assure Mrs. Doniger that there isn’t and hasn’t ever been anything between her husband and a switchboard operator named Violet”

“Who said there was?”

“They seemed to think you intimated such a thing.”

The waitress brought the steaks for Johnny and Sam.

“Where’re the ham sandwiches?” Johnny demanded.

“The cook says he hasn’t got no more ham and furthermore, customers we got plenty of, customers that don’t all the time send things back to the kitchen.”

“That’ll hold me,” said Johnny, “but remember, comes the revolution and the customer’s going to be right again.”

“Maybe,” said the waiter. He slammed down the dishes and went off, in the direction of the kitchen.

Johnny shook his head sadly. “And I was going to give him a fifty cent tip!”

Jefferson Todd and Doug Esbenshade bore down on the See-bright-Fair-Fletcher-Cragg table. “Well, well,” said Johnny. “Look who we’ve got here.”

“Whom,” corrected Todd.

“Just to pick a fight, Jefferson, I stick to who—”

“Fletcher,” said Esbenshade, “I’d like a word with you.”

Johnny got up. “Me, too, with you.” He led the way to the men’s washroom, where he handed fifty cents to the attendant. “Mind stepping out for a minute?”

The attendant went out. “Fletcher,” Esbenshade began, “I’ve been thinking things over and I’ve decided—”

“I’m ready for that thousand dollars,” Johnny interrupted.

“What thousand dollars?”

“The thousand you said you’d give me when I got the murderer.”

“What are you talking about?” Esbenshade demanded angrily.

“We made a deal, didn’t we? A thousand dollars when I gave you the name of the person who killed Marjorie Fair.”

“And you know?” Esbenshade said, grimly. “And can prove it?”

“The police will prove it.”

“All right, what’s the name?”

Johnny evaded a direct reply. “About seven o’clock this evening a man was arrested at the corner of Lenox Avenue and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. He attacked a policeman with a blackjack, but was beaten into submission. He gave me what you see on my face. He was hired to do it by the man who killed Marjorie Fair.”

“Who?”

“The police can make him tell.”

“But you don’t know yourself?”

“After all, Mr. Esbenshade, I was kidnapped and tortured for hours. I was glad enough to get away. But that’s a technicality. The police are very good at making people tell things.”

Esbenshade went to the door of the washroom. He opened it and looked out for a moment. Then catching someone’s eye he signaled. After a moment Jefferson Todd came into the washroom with Doug Esbenshade.

“Todd,” Esbenshade said, “you told me that you had an in with the police department.”

“Sure,” Johnny said, “he can fix a parking ticket anytime, by paying the fine.”

Todd scowled at Johnny. “I’ll have some things to say to you later. What is it you want to know from the police, Mr. Esbenshade?”

“A man was arrested this evening,” Esbenshade said, then looking at Johnny: “Where did you say?”

“One Hundred and Thirty-fifth and Lenox, in Harlem...”

“And?”

“Fletcher claims that this man was employed to beat him up. Employed by the man who killed Marjorie Fair.”

Jefferson Todd snorted. “You see, Mr. Esbenshade, this is the sort of thing I meant — the man gets into a brawl somewhere and makes a story of international intrigue of it.”

“Are you talking about me, Todd?” Johnny demanded.

“I wasn’t talking about Sherlock Holmes.”

Johnny reached under the washbowl and brought out a Manhattan telephone directory. He found the number he wanted and took a nickel from his pocket. Then he stepped to a wall phone, took down the receiver and dropping in his nickel, began dialing.

“Hello, Police Station?” he asked a moment later. “Well, look, one of your officers arrested a man this evening, shortly after seven o’clock. On the corner of Lenox and one Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. The man attacked an officer with a blackjack and I believe the policeman had to subdue him with his club... What...? You’ve got the report right there? That’s right... Officer Holtznagle, a fine man... Eh...? No, no, I was merely one of the witnesses. ’Bye...!”

He hung up. “He didn’t handcuff Georgie and while he was putting in the call for the wagon, Georgie made a break for it. He got away...!”

Todd laughed raucously. “See what I mean, Mr. Esbenshade?”

“Are you calling me a liar, Todd?” Johnny asked savagely.

“What do you think?”

Johnny brought out another nickel. “Here, you call the Harlem Police Station, this time...”

Todd brushed away the suggestion. “Oh, there might have been some such incident in Harlem. It’s nothing unusual. You probably saw a squib in the paper. But the man involved is probably someone you never even saw in your whole life.”

Johnny looked at Esbenshade. The Iowan’s face was cold and impassive. “Keep the money I gave you, Fletcher. But forget the rest of it, will you?”

“If I’m not working for you,” Johnny said grimly, “I’ll work for myself. And I’ll get the man who—”

“And stop annoying people,” Esbenshade went on curtly.

Johnny slammed out of the washroom. He returned to his table. “Come on, Sam!”

“But I ain’t through eating yet, Johnny,” Sam protested.

“You’ve had more’n I’ve had.” He nodded to Seebright and Susan. “Excuse us, please...”

“Think over what I’ve told you, Fletcher,” said Seebright.

Johnny didn’t bother to answer. He started to leave and the waiter who had served them, headed him off. He had a bill for fourteen dollars and eighty cents in his hand. “Your check, sir...”

Johnny noted the amount. “That was a great dinner, garçon. And well served.” He took a ten and a five dollar bill from his pocket. “Keep the change.”

The waiter said some things, but Johnny was too angry to bother retorting. He stalked out of the Club Mague.

A taxi was at the curb. Johnny and Sam climbed in.

“Where to?” asked the cab driver.

“Forty-fifth Street Hotel,” replied Johnny and instantly changed his mind. “Make that the Grand Central Station.” To Sam he explained: “Violet Rodgers.”

“She said she’d be at the Commodore at five-thirty. It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“So I’m late.”

“Yeah, about five hours.”

“She may still be waiting.”

She was. She sat at a corner table, an empty glass in front of her, her body rigidly erect, her eyes glazed.

Johnny sat down at the table. “Sorry, Vi, I didn’t get your message until a little while ago.”

“J-Johnny Fle-Fletcher,” Violet said thickly, “I wouldn’t wait for any man, no matter who he is. When I say six o’clock, I mean six o’clock. I’m going home.”

“Sure,” said Johnny, “why not? I’m going your way; I’ll drop you off.”

Violet struggled to get to her feet. She wouldn’t have made it if Johnny hadn’t helped her. Then she looked owlishly at Sam Cragg.

“Who’re the two fellows with you, Johnny?”

“The one on the right is my pal, Sam Cragg.”

“H’arya, Vi,” said Sam.

“H’arya, yourself. Hey, Johnny, walk to the subway with me, willya? Wanna talk with you.”

Johnny took her arm and with Sam on the other side, assisting, they led Violet Rodgers out of the bar, to the sidewalk and into a taxicab. They got in and seated themselves, Sam on Violet’s right, Johnny on the left.

“What station do you get off at, Vi?” Johnny asked.

“Whatsamatter? Don’t you think I know I’m not in a subway? I’m not drunk, you know. I live on Eighty-fourth Street, near Second Avenue.”

“Eighty-fourth and Second Avenue,” Johnny called to the driver.

The cab jerked off and Violet grabbed Johnny Fletcher’s hand. “Listen, big boy, I wanna talk to you. I’m scared, see...”

“Of what?”

“Of what... of what happened to Marjorie Fair. You think I don’t know anything about that, huh? Well, I do — I know more’n anybody thinks, see. And the fella that did it knows that I know, see? Otherwise he wouldn’t a sent me this letter...”

She fumbled in her purse and finally found a soiled and folded envelope. Johnny took it from her hand, saw that it was postmarked Station C, New York City. It was addressed in smudged and penciled printing: Miss Violet Rogers, Mariota Record Company, Kamin Bldg., New York, N.Y.

Inside was a sheet of cheap ruled paper on which had been pasted, in words clipped from a newspaper, the message:

“When’d you get this?” Johnny asked, soberly.

“It came in the mail this morning. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“It says here to keep your trap shut.”

“Yeah, well I did. I kept it shut all day, didn’t I? I didn’t say a word to nobody at the office. And I didn’t tell the police that I got a threatening letter. The fella that wrote this isn’t kidding and I know enough to keep my mouth shut.”

Johnny hesitated. “Just what is it you’re not supposed to tell anyone?”

“That’s the thing that gets me. I don’t know.”

“You just got through telling me that you know more than anybody thinks.”

“I guess I do.”

“Well, what?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Look, Vi,” cut in Sam Cragg. “How can you know something when you don’t know something?”

“Stop tryin’ to confuse me, big boy. I know plenty.”

“What?” Johnny repeated patiently.

“I got this letter, didn’t I?” demanded Violet, indignantly. “It says to keep my trap shut, don’t it? That means I know something I’m not supposed to tell.”

“For the last time, Violet,” said Johnny, “what do you know?”

“For the last time, Johnny Fletcher, I don’t know what I know. But I must know something or I wouldn’t have got this letter. That’s simple, isn’t it?”

“If it is, I’m a Quiz Kid.”

“Let’s try it again,” said Violet Rodgers. “I know somethin’ the person who killed Marjorie Fair knows I know. Only I don’t know what it is. D’you understand that?”

Johnny exhaled wearily. “Have you got a key to the office?”

“What office?”

“The Mariota Record Company office.”

“Of course I have. Why...?”

Johnny leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver. “Change that to Lexington and Forty-second.”

Brakes squealed and the taxi made a careening U turn and began to zoom southward.

“Hey, where we going?” Violet demanded.

“To your office, to see if we can find out what you know.”

“We can’t go to the office in the middle of the night.”

“Why not? You’ve got a key, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“But what...?”

“You two — you don’t work for Mariota.”

“If you want to be technical, neither do you. But you’ve got a key and we can get in.”

“That’d be burglary.”

“So it’s burglary.”

Violet groaned. “I need a drink.”

“You’ve had a drink.”

“I had two, but they’re beginning to wear off.”

“That’s fine,” said Johnny.