The Whispering Master

Chapter Twenty

The taxicab pulled up before the Kamin Building and the three climbed out. Johnny paid the bill and they headed for the door of the building. It was a huge glass door and locked but, peering through into the dimly lighted corridor, Johnny could see a man sitting behind a high stand near the elevators. Johnny rattled the door and when that produced no results took a half dollar from his pocket and tapped it on the door.

That got results. The man inside came up to the door and unlatched it from the inside.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We want to go in the building,” Johnny replied. “The Mariota Record office.”

“You work there?”

“Yes, and we’ve got the key.”

The night watchman hesitated, then pulled the door wide open and led them to his little high stand. “You’ll have to sign the book.”

Johnny signed for all three: Jefferson Todd, George Molotov and Helen Smith. Then they stepped into the elevator, which the night watchman operated himself.

On the twelfth floor they went to the offices of the Mariota Record Company, the door of which Violet unlocked with her key. Inside, Johnny switched on all the lights in the main part of the office, then went back and locked the door on the inside.

“Now, what do we burglarize?” Violet asked.

“What is there to burglarize?”

“The safe is locked and I don’t know the combination. If you ask me, there’s nothing here but the office furniture and records.”

“Records,” said Johnny, “where do they keep those?”

“In the stock room.”

“Where’s that?”

Violet led the way to a door and opening it switched on a light inside, revealing a long, narrow room, lined on both sides with shelves. Several contained nothing but office supplies, another contained bookkeepers’ ledgers and several had narrow slots in which reposed several hundred records, all arranged alphabetically.

“If we had a phonograph we could play some records,” Sam said.

“Are you kidding? Every private office here has a phonograph. But it seems kinda silly to come up here at night and play phonograph records.”

“Pay no attention to Sam,” said Johnny.

He cast another glance around the room and was about to leave when his eyes fell on the bookkeepers’ ledgers. “Say are the list of stockholders in any of these books?”

“I’m the switchboard operator. I don’t know anything about the books. But I guess I’ve got the names of all the big stockholders in my own book.”

“But you don’t know who owns what?”

“I know who’s the boss, don’t I?”

“Who?”

“The president, naturally.”

“And who’s next in line; the vice-president?”

“Uh-uh, old Clammy Farnham. He runs the office.”

“But he’s only the treasurer.”

“After Seebright, he’s the boss. At least as far’s the office is concerned.”

Johnny pulled out one of the big ledgers and opened the cover. Inside the pages were headed: Accounts Receivable.

He closed the book and tried another. It said: Disbursements.

He tried a smaller book, opened it casually and became interested. Stockholders, as of the fiscal year ending, June 30, he read. Then he grunted. “Who’s the biggest stockholder in Mariota Records, Violet?”

“The president, I imagine.”

“Seebright’s name is Number Six on the list.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It says here that he holds fourteen thousand four hundred and fifty shares of Preferred and one hundred and fifty of Common.”

“What’s the difference between Preferred and Common?” Sam asked.

“The Common is the voting stock. The Preferred is what the suckers get. If there are dividends, they get them — if the Common stockholders decide to let them have any. The guys that own the Common run the company. Edward Farnham, it says here, owns two hundred shares of Common and twenty-one thousand six hundred of Preferred...”

“More than Seebright?” exclaimed Violet.

“That’s what it says in the book, but even Farnham isn’t on top. That place goes to the East River Trust Company, who, on behalf of Con Carson, owns twenty-five thousand shares of Preferred and two hundred and twenty-five of Common. That’s what the firm gave him, I guess, to come over from Consolidated Records.”

“Yes, but Carson’s dead — and besides, he wouldn’t have been active in the company, anyway.” Violet peered past Johnny into the ledger.

She exclaimed, “Who’s Martin Preble?”

“Number Two on the list, with twenty-two thousand five hundred Preferred and two hundred Common? It says here he lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.”

“Iowa?” exclaimed Sam. “That’s the place where Doug Esbenshade comes from.”

“Right, my boy, Iowa. Only Cedar Rapids happens to be a couple of hundred miles from Des Moines. But I still think you’ve got something, Sam. Yes, I think you have.”

“You mean this Preble is Esbenshade?”

“By proxy, maybe. He could be a dummy for Esbenshade. Mmm, Number Three is none other than our friend, Joe Dorcas, twenty-three thousand shares of Preferred and two hundred Common. Nice going, Joe.”

“Who’s four?” Sam asked.

“Our friend Armstrong, thirty thousand shares Preferred, but only twenty-five Common. In fact, that’s all the Common stockholders there are. But there’s a whole page of Preferred stockholders, down to Charlotte Zyskind, who owns two shares. Oh-oh, here’s Walter Doniger, one thousand shares Preferred. But no Common and — what do you know, Violet Rodgers, five shares Preferred...!”

“My life’s savings,” said Violet bitterly. “Two hundred and fifty bucks, gone blooey.”

“You bought at fifty a share?”

“Well, it was supposed to be worth fifty a share. Now I won’t get a nickel...”

“You say it was supposed to be worth fifty a share? What did you actually pay for it?”

“I didn’t pay anything.”

“You said your life’s savings...”

“That was just an expression. I mean, he told me it was worth two hundred fifty dollars.”

“Who told you?”

“Mr. Farnham, who d’you suppose? He gave me the stock for a... a Christmas present.”

“Farnham,” said Johnny grimly. “I thought you and Doniger—”

“Whaddya mean, me and Doniger? Donny’s married.”

“I’ve met his wife.”

“There’s nothing between me and Donny. He buys me a drink now and then, that’s all. Oh sure, he makes passes at me. Who doesn’t?”

“Does Armstrong?”

“That guy? He’s got X-ray eyes. But he really had it for the Fair girl. When she quit here he was so nervous for a couple of weeks nobody could hardly talk to him.”

Johnny closed the ledger. “Suppose we take a look in the private offices...”

“What for?”

“For whatever we find in them.”

Violet, almost completely sober by this time, struggled with her loyalty to the defunct Mariota Record Company and pouted for a few minutes. But when Johnny led the way into Charles Armstrong’s office and discovered all the drawers of the steel desk, securely locked, she brightened. The door of Farnham’s office was locked and Violet’s key did not turn the lock. Nothing was locked in Orville Seebright’s office, but there was nothing interesting, or incriminating, in the desk. In fact, it contained very little. Mr. Seebright was an orderly man.

Doniger’s office revealed some nice pictures of his wife and children and a few personal bills from liquor stores, a dentist and a tailor, but very little else.

The office clock in the main office said that it was ten minutes after one. Johnny gave up in disgust. “I might as well go home and go to bed.”

“That’s where I’m going right now,” Violet declared.

She headed for the front door, Johnny and Sam followed, but as Violet reached for the door, Johnny stopped at the switchboard. “Let me see your private telephone directory.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s against the rules to let anyone have the home addresses and telephone numbers of the employees.”

“Whose rules?”

Violet hesitated, then took a small key from her purse and unlocked a drawer. She took out a black loose-leaf book.

“Here it is, with the addresses and telephone numbers of everybody.”

Johnny picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and opened the book. He found that Doniger lived in Scarsdale, Farnham on West 72nd, Joe Dorcas in Newark and Charles Armstrong on Sutton Place. He wrote all their addresses on a slip of paper and was about to put the book back when he turned the page from the d’s to the f’s and saw Marjorie Fair’s name. Her address had been on Forty-eighth, but a line was drawn through that and above it was written: Forty-fifth Street Hotel.

“How’d you know Marjorie Fair lived at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel?” Johnny asked.

“Is that what it says in the book?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s right; I keep the book up pretty well.”

“That’s fine, but who told you she lived at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel?”

“She made an audition for the company just last week. I suppose she gave me her address at the time. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be in there, would it?”

“You mean she was up here, at the time of the audition?”

“Where else would she make it?”

“I thought at the plant, in Newark.”

“Our recording room’s here.”

“Where?”

“Right over there. I didn’t take you in, because there’s nothing there.”

Johnny strode to the door that Violet indicated, threw open the door and switched on the lights inside. He went into a room twenty by thirty, in which stood three or four microphones, a bandstand and a phonograph recording machine.

Sam and Violet followed him into the room.

“There’s nothing in here,” Violet said.

“Nothing, but the evidence of who killed Marjorie Fair,” Johnny said, tersely.

“You’re crazy!” exclaimed Violet. “I was here when she cut the record. It was right before Con Carson made his—”

“I know,” said Johnny. “Who else was here at the time?”

“Nobody,” said Violet. “Nobody, except the people who were supposed to be.”

“And who were supposed to be?”

“When Marjorie cut the record, or Carson?”

“You said Marjorie went on right before Carson.”

“That’s right. And she waited out in the waiting room for the verdict, which she got right after Carson got through...”

“Was she supposed to wait?”

“No, but she insisted and when I went in about the telephone call I told Mr. Armstrong—”

“What telephone call?”

“The one for Carson. I wasn’t supposed to ring this room, so I came over. The red light went out, so I came in and told Mr. Carson he was wanted on the phone. Then he left. Mr. Seebright didn’t like it, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it...”

“When you came in to give Mr. Carson the message, Violet, who was in the room?”

“It was full of people.”

Johnny gritted his teeth. “A minute ago you said there was nobody here.”

“I said only the people that were supposed to be.”

Johnny said, very patiently: “Close your eyes a moment, Violet — try to get a picture of this room as you saw it when you came in to give that message to Con Carson. Now... tell me who was in this room when you came in?”

Violet kept her eyes tightly closed. “Well, there was Mr. Carson and the orchestra and Jimmy Bailey, the leader and... and Mr. Seebright, of course. And Mr. Armstrong and Donny Doniger. And Mr. Dorcas was over by the recording machine. I guess that’s about all.”

“About all isn’t close enough. Think — was Farnham in here?”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so. He doesn’t care much about music. He’s the treasurer of the company, you know.”

“What about Marjorie Fair?”

“Oh, she was out in the waiting room. It wasn’t until after Mr. Carson left that Dorcas called her in. Or was it Mr. Armstrong? No, come to think of it, Armstrong and Marjorie weren’t on speaking terms any more...”

“Hold Marjorie a moment, Violet. Let’s come back in here with Con Carson. Just where was everybody in the room when you came in?”

Violet frowned mightily. “Well, Con — Mr. Carson was by that microphone over there; the musicians were all in their places and Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Seebright and — gosh, I don’t know where they were. I was looking for Mr. Carson; in fact, he was about the only one I did see.”

“Once more,” Johnny persisted. “Where was Mr. Dorcas?”

“At the machine, of course. The red light went out just as I got to the door, so they must have been recording... yes, now I remember, Mr. Dorcas was fooling around with the machine...”

“And Seebright?”

Violet shook her head. “I don’t remember. I told you I was bringing in a message to Mr. Carson and he was the one I was looking for. He... he called me sweetheart and — uh, patted me...”

“Where?” asked Sam.

Violet gave him a dirty look. “Not where you think.”

Johnny thought for a moment. “After Carson left, Armstrong called in Marjorie Fair, you said.”

“No, he came out to tell her the bad news.”

“Had you gone back to the switchboard when he went out to see her?”

“Oh, no. I... I was still here.”

“Who was taking care of the switchboard?”

“Nobody, in fact there was a call when I came back out here with Mr. Carson.”

“You followed him out?”

“Yes — I left the recording machine room the same time he did. That’s when — when he patted me. While we were walking out to the switchboard. He was in a good mood. Because of going to Hollywood, I guess. He asked — if I’d like to go to Hollywood with him—”

“Did you?”

“With Con Carson? Are you kidding?” She sighed. “I said yes, and then he left.”

“If you said yes, how come you didn’t go with him?” Sam asked.

“Because he was only giving me a line.” She shuddered. “But if he’d been on the level, I’d be dead now. As a matter of fact, I am dead right now. Dead tired. I’m going home...”

Johnny switched out the lights in the recording room. At the outer door he took another last look over the offices, then shaking his head, followed Violet and Sam out into the hallway.

They rang for the elevator and, after being taken down to the lobby, were compelled to sign the register again. Fortunately, the names Johnny had written were on the same page and he merely copied them. The night watchman wrote 1:45 OUT after the signatures.

Outside, they walked to the Grand Central Terminal where Johnny saw Violet into a taxicab. Then he and Sam went down into the subway and took the shuttle train across to Times Square.