The Whispering Master

Chapter Twenty-three

They got out of the taxi in front of the Kamin Building and rode upstairs to the offices of the Mariota Record Company. The door was unlocked and seated behind the switchboard was Violet.

She shuddered when she saw Johnny and Sam.

“You two lads were in my nightmare,” she said.

“Violet,” said Johnny, “for a girl who had a nightmare and has a hangover, you look pretty good to me.”

“Here we go again!”

Johnny grinned. “Hear the good news? Mariota’s back in business.”

“Is that why Sir Orville looked so chipper this A.M.? He said good morning to me — and smiled, when he said it.”

“That’s it. And now — can we see him?”

“You can’t get killed for trying.” Violet winced. “Did I say killed?”

She put a plug into a hole and spoke into her mouthpiece. “Mr. Seebright, Mr. Fletcher is here to see you...” She grimaced and broke the connection.

“He says to tell you he can’t think of a thing he wants to talk to you about.”

“Tell him that I can think of something very important to tell him — the name of the man who killed Marjorie Fair...”

Violet stared at him. “You’re kidding!”

“Tell Seebright.”

“But do you really know?”

“Of course I know. I knew last night.”

“You didn’t act like you knew.”

Johnny smiled gently. “After Seebright, you’ll be the first to know, Violet. So...” He tried the door that led into the offices, but it was latched. Inside Violet pressed a button and the release catch clicked. Johnny opened the door.

“You’d better make him forget I let you in,” Violet cautioned.

“He won’t even think about it.”

Johnny started down the vacant main office, toward Seebright’s door. As he came to Armstrong’s office he saw that the door was open. Armstrong was inside, seated at his desk, his hands thrust in his pockets, looking gloomily at a print on the wall.

“Hi,” Johnny called.

Armstrong made no response and Johnny continued to Seebright’s office. He opened the door without knocking. Ed Farnham was in with Seebright, huddled in a huge leather chair, listening to Seebright lecturing him from behind his big desk. Joe Dorcas lounged on a leather couch.

“The bank...” Seebright was saying, then saw Johnny. He scowled. “Who let you in, Fletcher?”

“I did,” Johnny said. “The switchboard operator tried to keep me out, but I sneaked past her.”

“You can just sneak out again.”

“What’s happened between us, Orville? We were pals last night. Remember...?”

“Get out of here, Fletcher!” Dorcas said irascibly, “and take your friends with you.”

Johnny stood his ground. “You boys are pretty chipper today. You’re getting your loan from the bank and the old goose is hanging high.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And all because you got back one thin little phonograph record!”

Seebright’s mien changed. “Where’d you hear about that?”

“From the person who gave it to you.”

“All right,” said Seebright. “So she told you. Did she also tell you that she told me where she found the record?”

“Yep.”

Seebright glowered. “I’m satisfied, Fletcher. But don’t crowd me or the police are going to hear—”

“Oh, didn’t you tell them?”

“I’ve had enough trouble. I’ve got a business to run here and I’m not going to waste hours or perhaps days, testifying in a courtroom.”

“You mean you don’t care who killed Marjorie Fair?”

“Apprehending a murderer is the business of the police. My business is selling phonograph records.”

“Would you still feel that way if you knew that the murderer — the murderer, I said — is a member of the House of Mariota?”

“You’re talking nonsense again, Fletcher, and I’ve heard enough nonsense from you.”

“Do you or do you not want to know, Seebright?”

Seebright pushed back his swivel chair. “No! And for the last time...!”

Then Ed Farnham spoke the first words Johnny Fletcher had ever heard him speak. “I’d like to know.”

“You’re not too busy, Mr. Farnham?” Johnny asked, with heavy sarcasm.

“Murder isn’t my business,” said Ed Farnham, mildly, “but I think it’s the duty of every citizen to do what he can to... to apprehend a murderer.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Farnham, thank you. And you, Mr. Dorcas?”

“You talk too damn much, Fletcher, but you never say anything.”

“This time I’ll say something. Uh, would it be possible to have Mr. Doniger and Mr. Armstrong come in here?”

Seebright picked up the phone. “Miss Rodgers, ask Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Doniger to step into my office.” He hung up and leaning back in his chair, linked his fingers together over his stomach.

“This better be good,” he said.

Johnny nodded to the man he had picked up in front of the Times Building. The latter seated himself at the far side of a leather sofa. Dorcas looked at him curiously, but as Johnny obviously had no intention of introducing him, he made no overtures.

Armstrong came into the office. “You wanted me?” he asked sourly.

“We’re going to put on a little show,” Johnny said.

“Without me,” Armstrong retorted. “I’m in no mood—”

“Sit down, Armstrong,” Seebright snapped.

“As for you,” Armstrong said to Seebright. “You can go take a running jump out of the window.” But he did not leave the room.

Seebright showed his teeth in a frosty grin. “Mr. Armstrong,” he explained, “is no longer vice-president of the Mariota Record Company and he is — well, to put it bluntly, sore.”

“You reorganized him out?” Johnny asked.

“I had that pleasure, yes.”

The door was opened again and Walter Doniger entered. With him was Douglas Esbenshade.

“Surprise,” said Johnny.

“Mr. Esbenshade, gentlemen,” Doniger said smoothly. “He happened to be in my office and I suggested that he come along.”

“I’m glad he happened to be here,” Johnny said, “because he, too, will be interested in what’s going to be said — and done...”

“All right, Fletcher,” growled Joe Dorcas, “get to it.”

“We’ve a quorum here,” Johnny said, “we could hold a stockholders’ meeting—”

“And how much stock do you have in this company?” Dorcas asked.

“Well, none, if you want to be technical about it. But I think I could get the proxy for five shares.” He looked at Ed Farnham. “From Violet Rodgers.”

The mild little Farnham suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

“As a matter of fact,” Doniger said, “it might be a good idea to hold a little stockholders’ meeting.”

“We’ve already had a directors’ meeting,” Seebright said, impatiently.

“A premature one,” Doniger offered, “Mr. Esbenshade wasn’t here at the time.”

“Mr. Esbenshade is not a director of Mariota,” Seebright retorted.

“He might become one, though,” Doniger said. “Since he happens to own a nice block of Mariota stock.”

“Four hundred twenty-five Common,” Esbenshade said, casually.

The announcement surprised almost everyone in the room, but Seebright looked as if he had swallowed a live mouse.

“Four hundred and twenty-five shares of Common stock?” he cried.

Esbenshade smiled. “I’m down on the books for two hundred — under the name of Martin Preble.”

Seebright looked at Farnham for confirmation. Farnham nodded. “Of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Last year when we needed—”

“Yes, I remember,” Seebright scowled. “But that’s two hundred. You said four hundred and twenty-five...”

“The estate of Con Carson,” Esbenshade amplified. “I made a deal with the East River Trust yesterday...”

Seebright shuddered as if he had suddenly seen a ghost. “It’s funny I wasn’t notified.”

“How much Common do you own, Mr. Seebright?” Walter Doniger asked.

Seebright looked at Farnham again. The treasurer of Mariota took a little notebook from his pocket. “It might be apropos for me to give the names of all the Common stock owners.” He cleared his throat: “The estate of Con Carson,” nodding to Doug Esbenshade, “two hundred twenty-five shares. Martin Preble of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, also Mr. Esbenshade, two hundred shares, Orville Seebright, one hundred fifty shares, Charles Armstrong, twenty-five shares, Joseph Dorcas, two hundred shares, Walter Doniger, five shares and” — he smiled apologetically — “Edwin M. Farnham, two hundred shares.”

“Last, but not least,” said Johnny, but no one paid any attention to him. Something was about to happen in the affairs of the Mariota Record Company and the Common stockholders were interested in that, above everything else. Almost.

Doniger said: “I move that we have a formal stockholders’ meeting.”

“For what purpose?” Seebright demanded. “For the same reason you called the directors’ meeting this morning.”

“There was a reason for that meeting,” Seebright said, “the resumption of this business—”

“With you running it,” Doniger said. “Well, maybe we ought to have a recount of votes.”

“I second that motion,” Armstrong said loudly.

Doniger winked at Armstrong. “Good work, Charlie, old boy, old boy...”

“Thought you’d freeze me out, did you?” Armstrong said grimly to Seebright.

Seebright glowered at Armstrong, then shifted his glance to Esbenshade. “This is the man who—”

“I know, I know,” Esbenshade said testily. “That was another matter. Let’s get on with the roll call...”

“Farnham just called the roll,” Dorcas said. “We all know who owns what.”

“What Mr. Esbenshade meant,” Doniger said, “was that we should vote again on the matter of reorganization of this company — how it should be done... and who should be the new officers of the company.”

“Just a minute,” Seebright cried. “I told you men this morning that I had assurance from the Uptown Trust and Savings Bank of a loan of one hundred thousand dollars. That loan — let me repeat — is contingent upon me being the president and general manager of this firm. Me, Orville Seebright, and no other...”

“As to the loan,” Doniger said easily, “Mr. Esbenshade is willing to advance the same amount.”

“Seventy-nine thousand of which will go to satisfy his lien,” Dorcas snapped.

“An honest debt,” Esbenshade pointed out. “You got the shellac and my shellac company is going to get its money.”

“Vote,” said Armstrong.

“Vote!” cried Doniger.

Seebright surrendered. “All right, lets see how we stand. Ed, how do you vote?”

“I’m F.,” Farnham squirmed. “Armstrong is A...”

“I vote for Mr. Esbenshade,” Armstrong cried ringingly. “Whatever he does.”

“Doniger — no, Carson, comes next. That’s you, Mr. Esbenshade?”

Esbenshade merely smiled.

“Four hundred and twenty-five votes for Mr. Esbenshade,” Farnham announced. “Dorcas?”

“Dorcas passes his vote,” Johnny Fletcher cried.