The Whispering Master

Chapter Three

Down in the lobby, Johnny encountered the bell captain, Eddie Miller, as slick a little man as ever shook down a hotel guest. Eddie was built like an overgrown jockey and he knew all the answers and practically all of the questions.

“I hear you’re gonna be with us another week, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, cynically.

“That’s right, Eddie, I got in just under the wire.” He took the bell captain’s arm and led him to one side. “Look, what’s the dope on the business up on the eighth floor?”

“Jeez, are you mixed in that?” Eddie exclaimed.

“I’m one of the chief suspects,” Johnny said, proudly. “The only trouble is, I have a sweet alibi.”

“Then what’re you worried about?”

“I’m not worried. Just curious. The girl was about my size and I would have been doing something about it except that I’ve been a little short of what it takes.”

Eddie Miller chuckled. “Ain’t that normal for you?”

“What do you mean?” Johnny exclaimed indignantly. “I’m almost never broke. Why, two months ago I was worth fifty thousand bucks.”

Eddie grinned cynically. “I’m only the bell captain, you don’t have to sell me a bill of goods. Anyway, broke or rich, I’m on your team, Mr. Fletcher. I always have been.”

“All right, then tell me about the little lady who got—” Johnny finished the sentence by drawing a finger across his throat.

Eddie Miller shook his head. “Uh-uh, choked.”

“Then it wasn’t suicide.”

“Oh, no. It’s murder and whoever done it almost got caught in the act.” Eddie looked surreptitiously around the lobby. “Her sister tried the door and it was locked. Then she came downstairs and got Peabody to go up with a key. By the time they got there — the door was unlocked...”

Johnny exclaimed. “You mean, the killer was inside when the sister was up the first time?”

“That’s right. He snuck out while the girl was getting Peabody.”

“Wait a minute,” Johnny said, “there’s something screwy about this. You say the sister went up and tried the door and when she found it was locked she went down and got Peabody to let her in; she must have been suspicious to do a thing like that, otherwise, why wouldn’t she think her sister had gone out for breakfast or something?”

“ ’Cause she just got in from out of town and didn’t have any place to wait.” Eddie Miller rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Funny thing, the Fair dame was in the same spot as you — she was gonna get the French key at noon.”

“She was broke?”

Eddie nodded. “She owed three weeks’ rent.” He shook his head. “A girl with her looks!”

Johnny groaned. “If I’d only known!”

“Yeah, you’d a put her bill on yours,” Eddie said, sarcastically.

“I can always raise money if I have to,” Johnny said.

“Well, you raised some this morning.”

“And I’m going to get some more before night — a lot more.” He looked at the clock in the lobby. “I’d better be starting.”

Eddie Miller looked wistful. “I’d give something to go around with you and watch you raise that money.”

Johnny grinned. “Work out your own routines.” He winked at Eddie and left the hotel. Outside he walked a half block to Seventh Avenue and turned left to Times Square.

He descended to the subway level and was just in time to catch an express. A few minutes later he got out at Fourteenth Street and climbing to the street walked back to Sixteenth Street.

A few doors off Seventh Avenue he entered a gloomy loft building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He approached a ground glass door bearing the lettering: Murray Publishing Company, Mort Murray, President.

The door was locked. Johnny rattled the knob angrily. Mort was his sole hope of getting Sam back into his clothes.

“Damn it, Mort, you can’t do this to me!” he cried, rattling the door again.

A heavy-set man came puffing up the stairs and bore down on Johnny.

“Let me try it,” he said. Johnny stepped aside and the big man knocked on the door. “Telegram, Mr. Murray,” he called. “Important.”

There was no sound from inside.

The heavy-set man exclaimed peevishly. “That’s the third time I’ve climbed these steps.”

“You don’t look like a Western Union boy,” Johnny said.

The other took a folded document from his pocket. “How many of these would I deliver if I told them I was a bailiff?”

“Oh, so you’re what’s keeping Mort away from his office? And because of you, I’ve got to suffer...”

“Huh?”

“I’m trying to put the bite on him.”

The big man snorted. “Fat chance.” He held up the summons. “This’ll keep him broke for awhile.”

“How much is it for?”

“Six hundred smackers, that’s all.”

Johnny was impressed. “You mean Mort was able to stick somebody for six hundred bucks?”

“That’s what it says on here. The one I slipped him a couple of weeks ago was for four hundred if I remember right.”

“Mister,” said Johnny. “You want some good advice? Throw that paper away, because what Mort has inside isn’t worth four hundred bucks, much less a grand.”

“It says on the door he’s a publisher; publishers have money...”

“There are publishers,” said Johnny, “and publishers.”

The bailiff shrugged. “I only deliver ’em.” He shook his head and started for the stairs. Johnny followed and chatted pleasantly with the bailiff until they reached Seventh Avenue, where the bailiff turned right to Fourteenth Street.

Johnny looked around and saw a hardware store between Sixteenth and Seventeenth Streets. He entered.

“I lost the key to my office,” Johnny said to a clerk. “Wonder if you’ve got some skeleton keys.”

“We don’t handle them,” the clerk replied, “but we can make you a key for your lock.”

“How much?”

“A dollar for the key, but we’ll have to go to your place and that’ll cost three dollars.”

Johnny had seventy cents in his pocket. “For that much I’ll leave the place locked,” he retorted. He started to leave the store when he saw a display of long, thin screwdrivers, the novelty kind with plastic handles.

“How much are these?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

Johnny bought one and returned to Mort Murray’s office on Sixteenth Street. He examined the lock and grinned. It was a Yale type lock, but was not fitted too closely to the door.

He inserted the screwdriver in the crack, pressed the edge of it tightly against the lock of the bolt and twisted to the right. The bolt moved left a thirty-secondth of an inch. Retaining pressure he eased the screwdriver back to its starting position and repeated the process. Twice more and the door was open.

With the screwdriver still in his hand, Johnny pushed open the door... and looked at the astonished face of an enormously fat woman.

“I thought that door was locked!” the woman exclaimed.

“It was,” Johnny gulped, “but Mort gave me the key...”

“Mort who?”

Johnny pointed at the door. “Mort Murray, the, uh, boss.”

“Oh, you mean the fella used to have this place...”

“Used to have?”

“He was evicted. I took over this morning...”

“I was here a half hour ago.”

“I just got in.”

Johnny shot a quick glance about the one-room office. Stacks of books lined two walls. Each one bore the title, Every Man a Samson.

“If Mort’s been evicted, how come his books are still here?”

“The superintendent of the building hasn’t had time yet to take them out.”

Johnny moved carelessly over to one of the stacks and took down a dozen books. Then he reached into a paper carton and took out a six-foot length of chain.

The woman watched him through narrowed eyes. “Making yourself at home, aren’t you, Mister?” There was no uneasiness in her tone.

Johnny shrugged. “Mort and me was sort of partners.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh, I was on the road selling these books and Mort, uh, Mort took the mail orders.”

“Is that so?”

The woman moved around from behind the roll-top desk and went to the door, blocking Johnny’s egress. “Put them back,” she said.

“What, these books?”

“Yes.”

“Look, lady,” Johnny said, “the superintendent’ll sell ’em for waste paper. He won’t get a cent apiece for ’em...”

“Put them back!”

Johnny tried the old charm. “Miss, I need these books.”

“You can have them — for two dollars ninety-five cents apiece. That’s the price that’s marked in them.”

“I paid Mort fifty cents apiece...”

“...Or,” continued the fat woman, “you can pay Murray’s back rent. Three months at forty dollars a month.”

“A bank owns this building,” Johnny said, “a bank or a mortgage company. They don’t give a good gosh damn for people like you and me.”

“Save it, chum — it’s the Sailor’s Institute who owns this building. They’re the toughest landlords in the world. They hold their superintendents responsible...”

“All right, so it’s the superintendent. But how’s he going to know about a dozen measly books...?”

“I’m the superintendent.”

Johnny regarded her bitterly. “The Sailor’s Institute, and a woman superintendent...” He shook his head sadly and put down the books. “I know when I’m licked.”

“What’s the chain for?”

Johnny turned back to the lady superintendent. “It’s part of the pitch. I’ve got a partner... I put this chain around his chest and he takes a deep breath and breaks the chain...”

“By taking a deep breath?”

“He’s the strongest man in the world.”

The woman came forward and took the chain from Johnny’s hand. She examined it closely. “And after he breaks the chain?”

“Then I sell the books. It’s a physical culture hook — tells people how to be strong... like Young Samson, my partner...”

The woman let one end of the chain dangle to the floor. “Let me get this straight, your partner puts this chain around his chest, takes a deep breath and breaks the chain — like this...!”

The lady superintendent put one foot on the end of the chain, gripped it about three feet from the floor and heaved... The chain snapped in two.

“Like that.”

Johnny looked steadily at the Amazon. “Like that!”

“It’s a phony,” the superintendent said, “I never read the book and I broke the chain without half trying. It’s got a weak link or something...”

“Good-bye,” said Johnny and opened the door. He went through, descended the stairs to Sixteenth Street. He had lost twenty-five cents on the deal and Sam Cragg was still at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel in his underwear.