The Whispering Master

Chapter Twenty-four

All eyes went to Johnny. Dorcas said evenly, “Who the hell asked you to talk for me?”

“Why,” said Johnny, “I think we ought to hold up the rest of the voting for awhile. Because I’d like to prove to the rest of you here that Mr. Joseph Dorcas is the man who — who killed Marjorie Fair...!”

Joe Dorcas sprang to his feet. “Goddam you, Fletcher...!”

Johnny held up a chiding finger. “Sticks and stone, Mr. Dorcas...!”

“You’ll take that back, or...”

Sam Cragg moved easily in between Johnny and the advancing Dorcas. “Or what...?”

Dorcas tried to side-step Sam, but the latter reached out, placed a hand on Dorcas’ chest and pushed gently. Just enough to throw Dorcas back against the couch, where he seated himself heavily.

“I won’t stand for this,” Dorcas said thickly.

“Mr. Dorcas,” said Edwin Farnham, “shut your mouth awhile, will you?”

“That’ll cost you, Farnham,” Dorcas snarled.

“Let him talk, Joe,” Seebright said suddenly.

“I’d like to hear him,” Esbenshade said quietly.

“As the majority stockholder, Mr. Esbenshade,” Johnny said, “you’ll hear, although you may not like everything you’ll hear.”

“I’ll listen just the same.”

“Marjorie Fair,” Johnny said, “got a job in this office, because she thought the contacts would advance her career as a singer. Armstrong,” Johnny pointed dramatically at the vice-president. “You fell for her, but she couldn’t see you, could she?”

Armstrong said: “That’s my own business.”

“Maybe it is,” said Johnny, “and maybe it isn’t. Anyway, you made things so uncomfortable here for Marjorie that she quit her job. But that didn’t stop you from annoying her. And then — when Marjorie was given an audition by the company you raised such a fuss about it that her recording was voted down.”

“I didn’t like her voice,” Armstrong said tonelessly.

“You didn’t like her voice because all it said to you was no, no, no, no...!”

Armstrong gripped the arms of his chair.

Johnny looked at Dorcas. “Dorcas, you bought shellac from the Iowa Shellac Company, seventy-nine thousand dollars worth of it. Mr. Esbenshade gave you credit for it and when he told you about a friend of his who was in New York, trying to get a start in the recording business, you offered her an audition. It was a small favor to do for a man who was willing to give you seventy-nine thousand dollars worth of credit, that you couldn’t get anywhere else...”

“I voted for Marjorie,” Dorcas said warmly.

“That, you did. But you didn’t vote hard enough, or long enough. And neither did Mr. Seebright or Mr. Doniger, or Mr. Farnham, because by that time you had cut a wax of Con Carson’s latest song and it was only a matter of a week or two before the company’d be back in the black. It wasn’t so important to keep a creditor happy. But then a catastrophe struck Mariota. Con Carson was killed and his last record — and the only one you had — disappeared...”

Johnny paused. “Stolen, Mr. Dorcas?”

“How should I know? It disappeared.”

“Yes, it disappeared. Shall I tell you how?”

“I don’t give a good gosh—” began Dorcas.

“I do,” said Esbenshade. “Tell us, Fletcher.”

“Marjorie Fair’s recording was made here in the office studio, just before you made the one of Con Carson. In fact, you made it while you were waiting for Con Carson. When Carson showed up and you shooed out Marjorie, Con Carson ripped off his song twice, didn’t he? And then he breezed right out, because he got an important phone call... Mr. Seebright, while Carson was yodeling, what were you doing?”

“Listening, of course.”

“Yes, but during the intermission between the first and second singing of the song, to whom were you talking in the studio...?”

“Nobody, that I recall...” Seebright’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “Charlie, weren’t you harping at me then... about the Fair girl...?”

“I wasn’t harping. I talked to you—”

“And Dorcas,” Johnny cut in, “at the instrument was watching you. He knew from what was already said... and probably from seeing Seebright give it to you, that the Marjorie Fair record was a dead duck. And he couldn’t quite hold himself in. He said... what was it you said, out loud, while Carson was singing, Mr. Dorcas?”

“I know better than to talk when the machine’s going,” Dorcas snapped.

“Do you really? Then weren’t you even aware, while the microphone was on that you said, in a distinct, very, very angry whisper... ‘Damn you, Seebright!’ ”

“I said nothing of the kind.”

Johnny appealed to Seebright. “Have you played the record since you got it back?”

“No, but I can do it...”

“You can play it later. It’ll bear out what I’m saying because I played it. After Carson rushed out of here, Dorcas took the record over to the plant with him. The next day Carson was killed and everybody got excited about his last record. And Mr. Dorcas discovered that he didn’t have the record. He didn’t have it, because it had gone out of the studio five minutes after Con Carson... It was given to Marjorie Fair, who was waiting for her verdict, out in the reception room, by... who did give her the record?”

“I did,” Armstrong said. “That is, I gave her the recording of her voice.”

“And broke the news to her, too, that you were turning her down? All right. But the record you gave her, Armstrong — it was handed to you by Dorcas, wasn’t it?”

“Why, yes, the records are his, once they’re made...”

“It is customary to give disappointed auditioners their recordings?”

“It isn’t customary, but Marjorie asked for hers. So I asked Dorcas and he gave me—”

“The Carson record.”

“I didn’t look at it.”

“If I gave Armstrong the wrong record, it was a mistake,” Dorcas said sullenly.

“A mistake, yes. You were so mad you didn’t know what you were doing. You gave him the Carson record and put away the Fair record. And then, the next day, after Carson was dead you got out the record and ran it off. You found what you thought was the Carson record was actually the Fair record. You guessed how the mistake had occurred, but by that time you had a scheme in your brain. Carson was dead, he couldn’t make another record. And you knew where the single, remaining Carson record was. You went to get it — and you killed Marjorie Fair... only... you didn’t get the record. Marjorie Fair sailed it out of the window, right across the air shaft into my hotel room, where it landed on the bed, without a scratch...”

“Is that how you got the record?” Seebright cried.

“That’s how.”

“Prove I killed her,” snarled Joe Dorcas, “prove I killed her.”

“I will — in a minute. But first, tell us, what your idea was for the record? Were you going to sell it to the highest bidder, or were you going to wait until the Mariota Record Company went on the auction block and you could buy the company for a song, find the long-lost Carson record and be back in business?”

“You can’t prove a thing!” Dorcas persisted.

“Mr. Seebright,” Johnny said, “have you got the Carson record handy?”

Seebright pointed to the phonograph.

Johnny went to the machine, and flicked the switch that started the phonograph.

Con Carson sang. He sang Moon on the Desert, then began singing it again. And then, suddenly a harsh voice said, said over the singing: “Damn you, Seebright...”

Johnny shut off the machine. “I appeal to you, gentlemen. Is that the voice of Joe Dorcas?”

“It is,” Seebright said promptly.

Armstrong nodded. Doniger looked popeyed.

“All right,” Dorcas admitted, “I forgot myself. But that doesn’t prove I killed anyone. It proves exactly one thing — that I was sore at Seebright at that particular moment. And that’s all it proves. That and not one thing more...”

“That’s right,” said Johnny, “that’s all it proves. Just that you were sore enough at Mr. Seebright for giving in to Charles Armstrong that you were willing to wreck the company. That’s all it proves. Gentlemen, you’ve all noticed a strange face in this room and some of you may wonder who this man is.”

He walked toward his hired hand. “You, sir, may I ask your name?”

“Clifton Mainwaring.”

“Do you mind telling us where you live, Mr. Mainwaring?”

“Why, at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel.”

“That’s the same place I live — and the same place Marjorie Fair lived...”

“That’s right. As a matter of fact, we all live on the same floor.”

“Oh? What is your room number?”

“Eight thirty-two. It’s right across the hall from Room eight twenty-nine.”

“Eight twenty-nine was Miss Fair’s room.” Johnny nodded, then suddenly stooped and looked straight into Clifton Mainwaring’s face. “Mr. Mainwaring, two mornings ago, at around eight-thirty in the morning, when you were leaving your room, did you happen to see someone coming out of Miss Fair’s room... someone who walked from the room very, very quietly, as if he was hoping no one would see him...?”

“Yes,” said Mainwaring.

“Did you get a look at that person’s face?”

“Why, yes — a rather good look, because I thought he was acting suspiciously.”

“And that face... have you seen it here in this office, today?”

“That’s a lie!” screamed Joe Dorcas. “You never saw me. There wasn’t a goddam soul out in that hall...”

He reeled to his feet and stood there, swaying.

Johnny faced him, coldly, remorselessly. “Mr. Mainwaring is going to identify you at the police station and he’s going to identify you again in court. He saw you and he’s going to swear to it...”

Joe Dorcas sobbed, reeled and suddenly ran... straight for the window. He went through the glass, head first.

Sam Cragg was quiet all the way back to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel. And Johnny Fletcher was not in a talkative mood, either. But as they entered Room 821, Johnny whirled on Sam and snarled: “All right, I bluffed him. But he was guilty as hell — and the cops would have sweated it out of him, anyway. All they needed was somebody to do their deducing for them. That’s all I did.”

“I didn’t say a word, Johnny.”

“But you’ve been thinking...”

“I was thinking of something else, Johnny. That grand that Esbenshade didn’t give us. Tomorrow we catch it.”

“Oh, that,” said Johnny, “forget it.”

“Forget eleven hundred bucks we ain’t got?”

“We’ve got four hundred dollars, haven’t we?”

“That’s seven hundred short.”

“Four hundred,” said Johnny, “will get the junk from the hockshop.”

“What good’s that going to do us?”

“It’s twelve o’clock,” said Johnny. “We’ve got all afternoon to take the stuff back—”

“Back to where?”

“The stores where we bought it — naturally. I kept the sales slips from all of them.”

“You think they’ll take it back?”

“What else can they do? They say, no, I tell them, I made a mistake — I didn’t have as much money in the bank as I thought I had. The check I gave them is going to bounce. Am I a crook, when I come back of my own free will and return merchandise for which I can’t pay? Are they going to turn me over to the cops, or the bonding companies?”

Sam stared at Johnny. “But can we come out that way?”

“Of course we can. Oh — we lose a little, yes, the interest we paid to all the pawnshops, but you remember we got three hundred from Esbenshade. So, we’re out that much.” He shrugged. “We had the use of the money for a couple of days... and you got your pants back...!”