The Whispering Master

Chapter Twenty-one

Despite the fact that it had been after two o’clock when he went to bed, Johnny was up and dressed at eight in the morning. He had not slept well. Murderers had stalked through his dreams, murderers and policemen and bank tellers.

As he came out of the bathroom he looked at Sam Cragg, snoring blissfully. Sure, Sam could sleep. He let Johnny do the worrying and the conniving. And Johnny had never failed him.

Although how he would manage today, Johnny hadn’t the slightest idea. He had stretched himself out too far the day before. It was a physical impossibility for one — or two — men to scurry about and make purchases and pawn the merchandise and make bank deposits and withdrawals; enough of them to keep solvent. Eleven hundred dollars, deposited in eight banks, would save him. But Johnny was short about seven hundred of those eleven hundred dollars.

Well, tomorrow fifty-four merchants would be after him; fifty-four merchants whose checks had bounced for lack of funds. Fifty-four merchants would notify four or five bonding companies, all of which would promptly begin hounding the authorities to apprehend a large-scale check passer.

Johnny picked up the phone. “Room service, please,” then, “Room service? Johnny Fletcher, Room eight twenty-one. I’d like some orange juice, and an order of ham and eggs, a dish of oatmeal and a stack of flannel cakes, with a side order of sausage. And some home-fried potatoes and a pot of coffee...”

Sam Cragg sat up in bed. “Make that two!”

“Make that two orders of everything,” Johnny said into the phone and hung up.

Sam yawned prodigiously. “What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“What’re you doing up so early?”

“Big day ahead of us, Sam. Or have you forgotten?”

Sam winced. “Ouch!” He swung his feet to the floor. “Why don’t we buy a car and light out for Canada? Wouldn’t it be the easiest thing to do?”

“Probably — if they didn’t extradite crooks from Canada.”

“Isn’t there some country from where they can’t extradite people?”

“There’s one in Central America, but I forget which it is. Guatemala or British Honduras. But I don’t like the food in those countries. They used too much pepper.”

“We could do our own cooking.”

“We tried that the winter we were snowbound for four weeks in that shack up in Minnesota. Remember? You made a dried apple pie.”

“The apples were no good.”

“Neither was the crust — and the cooking wouldn’t have been appreciated by a starving Hungarian. Uh-uh, we’ve got to face it here, Sam. Seven hundred bucks today or some tall running tomorrow.”

“How come only seven hundred? You said eleven last night.”

“We’ve got around four hundred in cash.”

Sam got up from the bed and went to the chair on which lay the morning paper he had bought on the way home the night before. “Four hundred, eh? Then, relax, Johnny.”

He opened the paper. “El Lobo’s running today at Santa Anita and as usual the handicappers have got him down the line. Mmm, six furlongs and he’s listed at eight to one. Let’s see, who’s running against him...? Fighting Frank, three to one, Sir Bim, ten to one, Miss Doreen, four to one, High Resolve five to one...”

“Dogs, every one of them,” said Johnny sarcastically.

“...El Lobo’ll win by three lengths. That four hundred will bring us thirty-two hundred Johnny.”

“I don’t doubt it. By the way — what was the name of that horse that was such a sure thing a year or so ago — the one on which we sank the bankroll...?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The horse that went to the post a one to two favorite and came in eighth in an eight-horse race?”

“Gay Dalton? He died, a few months ago.”

“From sorrow?”

Sam threw down the paper. “Okay, okay, I was only trying to help.”

“I appreciate it, Sammy, old boy. Now, if you could locate a nice floating crap game somewhere I might be tempted. Or maybe a little table-stakes poker game, with a sociable bunch of second-card dealers...”

Someone knocked on the door and a voice called: “Room service.”

Sam opened the door and a waiter rolled in a cart, on which reposed a huge tray containing their breakfasts. Right behind waiter came Lieutenant Rook and Sergeant Kowal.

“For the love of Mike, Lieutenant,” cried Johnny, “are you going to spoil my breakfast?”

“I couldn’t eat my own, thinking about you,” retorted Rook. He came into the room and stood to one side while the waiter prepared the dishes. Kowal’s nose sniffed like a rabbit’s as he inhaled the odors emanating from the tray.

The waiter went out and Rook closed the door behind him. “Go ahead and eat,” he said.

Johnny looked at him sharply. “Aren’t you feeling well today?”

“Never felt better in my life.”

“Well, something’s up; you’re too pleasant.”

“Oh, I’m just going to make a pinch this morning.” He nodded toward the windows. “The man who killed the little girl over there.”

Johnny seated himself on the bed and picked up his glass of orange juice.

“Who’s the man?”

“Fella named Esbenshade...”

Johnny choked on his orange juice. “Esbenshade was in Iowa when Marjorie Fair was killed.”

“Says who?”

“Well, wasn’t he?”

“He registered at the Barbizon-Waldorf Hotel last Friday.”

Johnny put a forkful of ham into his mouth. “He couldn’t have registered on Friday and gone back to Iowa?”

“He was at the hotel Tuesday morning, the day Marjorie Fair was killed.”

Johnny pointed to the telephone. “Pick that up and call Susan Fair’s room. Ask her just one question... how she got in touch with Douglas Esbenshade, when she told him about the death of her sister...?”

“Oh, I asked her that yesterday. She says she telephoned him long distance and he flew to New York, in a chartered plane. Only she didn’t talk to him long distance and he didn’t fly here in a chartered plane. He was already here.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “So Susan Fair lied. Now, tell me why Doug Esbenshade killed the girl he loved?”

“She threw him over, didn’t she? Guys kill girls for that every day in the week. And she was two-timing him, wasn’t she? Forty-seven dames get killed by guys, every month, for two-timing.”

Sam Cragg swallowed a huge mouthful of food. “So she owed three weeks’ room rent and threw over a guy with a million bucks, huh?”

“Money isn’t everything,” Rook said sullenly.

“That’s what they told me in school,” retorted Johnny, “but I read a piece in the paper yesterday, where a school teacher was arrested over in Jersey City for shoplifting.”

“Yeah, and I know a guy worth ten million who’s got stomach ulcers from worrying.”

“And if he didn’t have the ten million he’d worry twice as much and have twice as many ulcers. But to get back to Doug Esbenshade, if you’re going to arrest him this morning why come to me...?”

“Because I don’t like it,” Rook snapped. “But I’ve got to make an arrest today. The captain’s riding the hell out of me. I’ve got to make an arrest today and I’ve got to make it stick, or I’m going to be walking a beat out on Staten Island — and I just bought me a little place out in Mount Vernon.” He added bitterly: “Do you know how long it takes to go from Mount Vernon to Staten Island — twice a day?”

“About as long as it took you to come up here and ask me for help.”

“Who’s asking you for help?”

“Then why’re you here?”

Rook scowled. “Jefferson Todd came down to Headquarters last night, about eleven o’clock.” He made an expressive gesture. “Yes, I know, he’s a pompous fourflusher, but about once every three years he gets onto something. He told me you got an awful beating yesterday.” Rook grunted. “And he didn’t lie about that.”

“Did he tell you how I got it?”

“He was up at the Harlem Station and they ran him out — that’s why he came downtown. I got it out of him that he was interested in a Harlem cop named Holtznagle who made a pinch about seven o’clock at a Hundred and Thirty-fifth and Lenox...”

“A lad named Georgie.”

“Georgie Starbuck, Holtznagle says.”

“He knows him?”

“Georgie’s got a record. Strong-arm stuff.”

“He’s got a partner, a fellow named... about five-eight or nine, thirty-five, thirty-six...”

“Sherman Hoke,” said Rook.

“All right,” said Johnny. “Get Georgie and Sherman Hoke and ask them who it was hired them to beat me up. When they tell you, forget Doug Esbenshade and grab the lad the boys name. He’s your killer.”

“The only trouble is finding Georgie and Sherman,” grunted Rook. “I put out a call for them at eleven-thirty last night. I haven’t had a nibble. They’ve gone into a hole. But look, Fletcher, why should Georgie and Hoke want to beat you up?”

“They thought I had something they wanted.”

“What?”

“A phonograph record.”

“What sort of phonograph record?”

“A master recording of the latest Con Carson yowling...”

“Put out by the Mariota Record Company?”

Johnny nodded. “And the reason the company went into bankruptcy yesterday.”

“How can a company go into bankruptcy just because of one record?”

“This company could — because that record’s worth about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Con Carson was killed a few days ago, in a plane accident. This is the last number he recorded. It’ll sell a million copies... if anyone ever puts it into production...”

“That record,” said Rook. “What made Georgie and Sherman think you had it?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. But they sure’n hell tried to make me give it to them.”

“Did you?”

Johnny grinned. “How could I? When I didn’t have it?”

“What made them think you had?”

“You asked that question before.”

“I’m asking it again.”

Johnny frowned. “Maybe it was my own fault. The night before, I crashed a directors’ meeting of the Mariota Record Company. I asked them what a Con Carson record was worth—”

“And?”

“They offered me five thousand for it.”

“But you couldn’t sell it to them because you didn’t have it?”

“That’s right.”

“Who was at this directors’ meeting?”

“Orville Seebright, the president, Armstrong, vice-president, a fellow named Farnham, another named Dorcas and a guy named Walter Doniger.”

Lieutenant Rook studied a worn spot in the rug on the floor, then suddenly he looked up at Johnny Fletcher, as if hoping to catch a fleeting, give-away expression. “Which one of them killed Marjorie Fair?”

“You think Douglas Esbenshade killed her.”

“I do, but I want to know who you think is the guilty one.”

“What difference does it make what I think.”

“Because you’ve been dipping your beak into this more than you’ve a right. You’ve poked and pried and you’ve gotten someone so scared that he took the trouble to beat the hell out of you. That means you’ve picked up some things you weren’t supposed to — from the murderer’s viewpoint. I want to know what those things are.”

“I’ll give you a tip, Lieutenant. The switchboard operator over at the Mariota Record Company got a threatening letter telling her to keep her mouth shut...”

“Her trap,” corrected Sam.

“All right, her trap. The girl knows something the murderer’s afraid of... the only trouble is she doesn’t know what it is she knows. And that’s me, Lieutenant. I know something — yes. Only I don’t know what it is.”

Rook groaned. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll sift it out and maybe I can make sense of it.”

Johnny drew a deep breath. “The Mariota Record Company signed up Con Carson, the crooner. How or why, isn’t important; except that they practically gave him the business to get him away from Consolidated Records. Carson made one record — not even a good one — and then was called to Hollywood. He took a plane and was killed in Nevada, along with about twenty other passengers. So the recording the company made of Con Carson is the last Carson record there will ever be. It’s worth a hundred thousand dollars to Mariota... or would have been worth that, if it hadn’t disappeared...”

“Do you think the company could have staved off bankruptcy if the record hadn’t been stolen?”

“Of course they could have... Only the record wasn’t stolen—”

“But you said—”

“I said it disappeared. The people over at Mariota think it was stolen, that is, all except one of them. He figured out where the record went...”

Lieutenant Rook exclaimed. “What’re you trying to do — leave me hanging on the cliff? Where did the record go?”

“Marjorie Fair got it. She was scheduled to make a recording at the same time as Con Carson. They had the orchestra there and they wanted to polish her off, without having to bring them in again. So, while waiting for Carson they gave her a once-over lightly. Carson came in and they shooed Marjorie out. But she waited out in the reception room for the verdict. After Carson left, the executives of Mariota voted against Marjorie. She asked them for the master of her recording. Somebody sent it to her, or gave it... at least that’s what they thought. But a mistake was made and Marjorie received, instead of her own record, the one made by Con Carson. And because of that she was murdered...”

“I follow you part of the way, Fletcher,” said Rook. “The business about the Carson record meaning life and death to the company. But this mistake about sending the record to the girl — why should that be a motive for murder...?”

“That’s the part I’m working on now.”

“What do you mean you’re working on it?”

“I’m thinking about it — why the mistake should make someone want to kill Marjorie Fair.”

Rook exclaimed angrily. “It doesn’t make sense. Who mailed the record to her — a clerk in the office? Anybody can make a little mistake like that — you don’t kill for it.” Suddenly he stabbed a forefinger at Johnny. “Say — the company turned her down: she got sore at them and then somebody made a mistake and sent the Carson record to her...” His eyes widened in astonishment. “That’s it! That’s it! She saw what the record was, knew how important it was to the company... and she called them up. ‘Pay, boys,’ she told them, ‘pay or you never see this record.’ It was life and death to the company, so... she got killed and the killer grabbed the record.”

“That’s a good theory,” said Johnny. “It was the first one I thought of. There’s only one trouble with it, one thing wrong with it.”

“What?”

“Whoever killed her didn’t take the record back to Mariota. He didn’t save the company.”

Rook’s face fell. Then he cocked his head to one side.

“He’s holding the record for ransom — he knows they’ve got to pay... any amount...”

“Who, the receiver?” Johnny snorted. “Do you think a receiver will pay a ransom — and let a company get back on its feet? You underestimate receivers. They liquidate companies... and pay themselves nice, fat salaries and perquisites.”

“You’re telling me! There was a ward heeler down in my precinct, whose uncle was a judge. The judge appointed him receiver for a furniture company... and when the receiver got through liquidating the company he was fixed for life. I think the creditors got four cents on the dollar.”

His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Say, Esbenshade’s the biggest creditor of Mariota, isn’t he? It was kinda silly of him to throw the company into bankruptcy. As long as they were a going concern he had a chance to get his money, or most of it, but by closing them down, he’s going to lose quite a roll...”

“On the other hand,” said Johnny, “he could have made a deal to move into the company.”

“Why didn’t he? From the company’s viewpoint it was better than going into receivership and losing everything.”

“You’re getting warm now.”

“What do you mean — warm?”

“Marjorie Fair was Esbenshade’s girl — he put the squeeze on them to give her an audition... and then they turned her down. So he got sore and threw them into receivership.”

Rook thought of that for a moment but didn’t like it. “If he thought that much of the girl...”

“Yes,” said Johnny, “if he thought that much of her, he wouldn’t kill her, would he?”

Rook slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “What’d you have to tell me that for? Now, I can’t arrest him.”

“If you had arrested him, you’d have bought yourself a one way ticket to Staten Island.”

“Maybe that’s where I ought to be?” Rook said bitterly. He jerked his head at Sergeant Kowal. “Come on...!”

Kowal started for the door, but Rook turned back to Johnny.

“Look Fletcher, do you or do you not know who killed Marjorie Fair?”

“If I knew,” said Johnny, “I could collect a thousand dollars this morning... and I need a thousand dollars more than the devil needs a deep-freeze cooler.”

His, lips protruding in a big pout, Rook left the room.

When the door was closed, Johnny turned to Sam and exhaled heavily. “He almost had me a couple of times.”

“What do you mean, Johnny?”

“When he got on the subject of me getting beat up, I was afraid he was going to ask why someone thought I had the record.” Johnny shook his head. “That’s such an obvious question, too.”

“I don’t see what’s so obvious about it.”

“You’re thinking like Rook, Sammy. You and I don’t work for Mariota Record Company. We never had any contact with them until Marjorie Fair was killed... so how could anyone have thought I had such a record? Unless he knew.”

“Repeat that, Johnny!”

“He had to know I had the record. And the only way he could have known would have been for him to be in Marjorie’s room when she sailed it over here. And the person who was in that room killed Marjorie Fair.”

Sam blinked once or twice, then exclaimed. “Why, sure, Johnny. The guy killed her because she threw it over here.”

“Well, maybe not quite. Maybe he had to kill her because he revealed himself to her — or his intentions. They had a fight and she managed to throw the record over here. Then he had to go through with it, and kill her.”

Sam nodded. But there was a cloud in his eyes. “Yeah, Johnny, only there’s something that bothers me...”

“What?”

“Georgie and that other guy — Sherman. They worked you over to make you give them the record. They were working you over when they made you telephone me. And then — then the record was already gone.”

Johnny smiled wanly. “That is what’s been driving me crazy, since yesterday evening. The murderer hired those lads to dig up the record, but somebody else got it... Or, was it the murderer himself?”

“What’d be the point in that?”

“To cover up. To throw me — or the police — off the track.” Johnny picked up a piece of cold toast from the breakfast tray and nibbled at it. “There’s one other thing keeps annoying me.”

“All of it annoys me,” declared Sam.

“Last night,” Johnny mused, “Orville Seebright and Susan Fair together at the Club Mague.”

He suddenly nodded, as if coming to a decision and headed for the door. “Wait here, Sam.”

“Where you going?”

“Upstairs. I want to ask the fair Susie a personal question.” He left the room and climbing the stairs, knocked on Susan Fair’s door.

She called from inside: “Yes?”

“Johnny Fletcher,” Johnny said. “Like to talk to you a minute.”

Susan’s voice was quite cool. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see you right now.”

“It’s important.”

“I’ll see you down in the lobby, in about an hour.”

“You’d better see me now,” Johnny said, meaningly.