The Whispering Master

Chapter Eight

Eddie Miller was standing just within the door of the hotel, staring gloomily out upon Forty-fifth Street. He brightened as Johnny came through the door.

“You made it!” he cried, indicating the suit in Johnny’s hand.

“Made what?”

Eddie grinned. “You were just taking that suit out for an airing?”

“Naturally.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Fletcher, Sam Cragg told me. You hocked the suit this morning to keep Peabody from locking you out. You didn’t have a dime, but in a couple of hours you raised enough dough to get the suit out of hock.” He shook his head admiringly.

Johnny coughed and took the bank book out of his pocket. “I also raised a little money, over and above...” He opened the book and let Eddie take a peek at the entry.

“Two hundred and fifty bucks!” Eddie cried. He stared at Johnny in fascination. “Mr. Fletcher, if I had what you’ve got I’d be a millionaire in a couple of years.” In his admiration, he gripped Johnny’s arm. “Tell me — how’d you get all that money...?” A sudden thought struck him. “Or is the bank book a phony?”

“I don’t have to stoop to anything like that,” Johnny said. He drew out a fat roll of bills — all ones, but Eddie couldn’t see that for Johnny gave him just a glimpse. “I got a little small change, too.”

“Oh, my God!”

Johnny winked and went into the hotel. Opening the door of Room 821, he found Sam Cragg seated on his bed, in the pose of The Thinker. He sprang to his feet when he saw the suit of clothes.

“You got it, Johnny!”

“Of course,” Johnny said, indignantly. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“You put the bite on Mort?”

“Mort,” Johnny said, sadly, “is out of business. He was evicted, for nonpayment of rent.”

“Then how’d you get this money?”

Johnny thought of the things he had been compelled to do, to get Sam’s suit out of pawn. “That, Sam,” he said, softly, “shall remain a secret between God and me...”

“Huh?”

Johnny tossed the suit on the bed. “Put it on and ask no questions. Your hairy legs offend me.”

Sam slipped on his trousers. “More people seen those legs today...!” He cocked his big head to one side. “Including a little lady, the likes of which you’ve never seen.” He indicated the window. “Her sister.”

“I saw her through the window, myself.”

“I didn’t see her through the window. She was here — sitting right in that chair you’re sitting on.”

“Susan Fair was in this room?”

Sam nodded. “That’s what I said. She’s even better-lookin’ than her sister...”

“What’d she want?”

“Talk, I guess, just talk. She didn’t say. She’s stayin’ here in the hotel.”

“What room?”

“Right above us, nine twenty-one. Uh, she said she’d like to talk to you, too.”

Johnny got up and started for the door. With his hand on the knob he turned. “You said a lot of people saw your bare legs today... who else besides Miss Fair?”

“Well, Peabody and the copper, this morning and then while you were gone about a million people came in here...”

“Who?”

“The maid and the disinfectant man and the vacuum man and the man from the disinfect — say, he was here twice...” Sam screwed up his face. “That’s funny, come to think of it, it wasn’t the same guy... the second fellow, I mean.”

“What’d he look like?”

“He wasn’t wearing overalls, like the first fellow.”

“Then how’d you know who he was?”

“He said he was from the disinfecting company... I was sore, they kept coming in here, one after the other, so when this guy opened the door, I threw the telephone book at him.”

“But what did he look like?”

“I didn’t notice. He was — just a guy...”

“Sam,” said Johnny, “all you did was throw a phone book at the man who killed Marjorie Fair...”

Sam blinked. “W-what...?”

Johnny stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He went to the staircase, climbed to the ninth floor and knocked on the door of Room 921.

“Yes?” called a voice inside.

“Johnny Fletcher,” Johnny called. “I understand you wanted to see me...”

The door was opened by Susan Fair. For once, Johnny thought, Sam is right; she is more attractive than her sister.

“Will you come in?”

Johnny stepped into the room, that was a duplicate of his own, except that it contained only one bed, instead of two. He turned, saw Susan start to leave the door ajar, then close it. In Iowa, you kept a hotel door open when you had a male visitor. She had started to do that, then remembered she was now in New York.

She came into the room. “Won’t you sit down?”

Johnny seated himself, but Susan Fair remained standing. Her face was drawn and her eyes were bright, but otherwise she showed no undue strain. Yet Johnny sensed that she was fighting to control herself.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” he said, lamely.

She made a gesture, accepting the condolence. “I’m going to see that the person who did it is punished. I’m having her — her body sent home, but I’m going to stay here until... until...” She stopped, on the verge of breaking down.

Johnny said: “The New York Police Department is the finest in the world. They’ll take care of—”

“No!”

There was so much vehemence in the word that Johnny looked at her sharply.

“I’m going to get him myself. I’m going to make him pay...!”

Johnny got to his feet. “Go back to Iowa, Miss...”

“I talked to Doug, long distance,” Susan went on. “He’s flying here. Together—”

“Doug?” Johnny asked.

“Doug Esbenshade. Peggy’s fiancé...”

Johnny seated himself again. “You mean your sister was engaged to marry a man back in Iowa?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought—”

“She wanted a year, to see what she could do with her voice. Doug was willing to let her try. The year was up — a month ago.”

“And she didn’t go back?”

“She even stopped writing. That was why — why I came here. We got worried. The family, Doug—”

“Your father and mother are both living?”

“Oh, yes. I... I couldn’t tell them. That’s why I phoned Doug. He’s telling them.”

Johnny looked down at his hands, then up at the smart beige suit that Susan was wearing. “Your family is not... well, poor...”

“Why, no. Dad’s got a small business.”

“This Doug?”

“He’s one of the richest men in Des Moines. His father owned a big department store. He died two years ago. Doug was the only son.”

Johnny shook his head. “I don’t understand it.” As Susan looked at him, puzzled, “Your family isn’t poor, your sister’s fiancé has a mil — well, a lot of money... yet she was being locked out for nonpayment of rent...”

Susan stared at Johnny for a moment, then exclaimed poignantly. “So that was it. That’s why she wouldn’t come back, why she stopped writing. Her money was gone and she — she didn’t want anyone back home to know. It was just like Peggy. She was so proud she would die, before she’d admit...”

Neither Johnny nor Susan knew that Marjorie Fair had planned just that.

Johnny said: “Did your sister write you — I mean, before she stopped writing altogether — of her life, in New York?”

“Oh, yes, she wrote two and three times a week. She told me everything, what she did, the people she met—”

“You knew then that she worked for the Mariota Record Company?”

“Yes, she took the job for the contacts. Her ambition was—” Susan stopped and looked sharply at Johnny. “Your roommate told me you’d never talked to Peggy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how do you know so much about Peggy?”

“I went over to the Mariota Record Company this morning.”

“Why?”

Johnny hesitated. “This morning the police lieutenant came into my room and questioned me. He seemed to think I was the logical person to have kil — I mean, he intimated that I was under suspicion, so when I happened to be in the neighborhood of the Mariota offices I went in...”

“What did you find out?”

“That she had worked there and had left six months ago.”

“I could have told you that.”

“But I didn’t know you this morning.”

Susan Fair looked down at Johnny, her forehead creased in thought. Finally, she said: “Mr. Fletcher, what is your business — what do you do for a living?”

Johnny shrugged. “I’m a book salesman.”

“And the big man who lives with you?”

“He’s my assistant.”

“He’s sick.”

“Why, no — he just felt like staying in bed today.”

Susan drew a deep breath. “I’m going to talk frankly, Mr. Fletcher. When Lieutenant Rook and the hotel manager returned to Peggy’s room this morning after talking to you they said... some things about you...”

“I can imagine.”

“What is a hustler?”

Johnny grinned faintly. “Which one called me that — Peabody?”

“Yes.”

Johnny coughed gently. “The term hustler is a rather loose one. Generally, it means a man who lives — well, without working. Working, at a regular job.”

“Well, how do you make your living, then?”

“The New Yorker hustler, and there are hundreds of them around Times Square alone, ekes out a miserable existence by smalltime sharpshooting. He steers suckers to floating crap games, he collects a few bets on the numbers game, he touts on horse races, he knows where to get you a bottle of Scotch — for a price. He makes a buck where he can.” Johnny shook his head. “I never thought of myself as a hustler. I’m a book salesman, probably the best in the country...”

“Yet, Mr. Peabody said you owed three weeks room rent, even now...”

“So did your sister.” Johnny got to his feet, smiled at Susan Fair and left the room.

Down in Room 821, Sam Cragg, dressed for the street, was waiting for Johnny Fletcher. He was feeling quite chipper. “A guy don’t appreciate clothes until he hasn’t got any. I never felt so naked in my life as I did today. Especially, when that good-lookin’ babe was here.”

“Weren’t you in bed?”

“Yeah, but I kept thinkin’ about the pants I wasn’t wearing. Uh, what’d you think of her?”

“She doesn’t like me, on account of Peabody told her I was a hustler.”

“That Peabody,” growled Sam. “C’n you imagine, he was goin’ to lock out this girl’s sister? Some day that guy’s going to give me an opportunity and he’s going to take a good long vacation from locking people out of their rooms.”

Johnny went to Sam’s bed and threw back the covers. He grunted as he retrieved the metal phonograph record. “Like to hear this, Sam?”

“Yeah sure, but how’re we going to play it when we ain’t got a phonograph?”

“They’ve got them in stores, haven’t they?”

Johnny picked up an old Saturday Evening Post, slipped the record between the pages and headed for the door. Sam followed.

Down in the lobby, Peabody scowled at them from behind the desk. Johnny went up.

“I say, there’s a little balance I owe you, isn’t there...?”

“You know very well there is,” Peabody said, sourly.

“How much is it?”

“Twenty-four dollars and sixty-five cents.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“It’s enough,” Peabody said, sarcastically. “And don’t tell me you’ve got the money to pay it.”

Johnny drew a wallet out of his breast pocket and opened it about an eighth of an inch. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to get some cash, when I was at the bank... A check be all right...?”

“And what would I do with one of your checks?”

Johnny made a clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Have I ever given you rubber?”

He drew a bank book out of his pocket, put it flat on the desk and moved it daintily toward Mr. Peabody, with his little finger. Mr. Peabody sniffed and picked up the book. Then he almost swallowed his false teeth.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars!”

“Just a small account I started at a near-by bank, for convenience,” said Johnny, carelessly.

“This is ridiculous,” cried Peabody, “this morning you didn’t have—”

“I told you last week, I had a remittance coming from home.”

“Remittance! Home! You haven’t got a home—”

“I resent that.” With a flourish Johnny drew out his checkbook, the one from the bank where he had the straight commercial account. Sam Cragg suddenly poked his elbow. “Nix, Johnny!” he whispered hoarsely.

Johnny ignored his friend and reached for the pen on the desk. “I better make this out for a hundred, so I’ll have enough cash for this evening.”

Mr. Peabody regarded him sullenly. “The bank’s closed for business, but it’s only four-thirty and it so happens that I know one of the tellers at this bank... Do you still want to give me a check?”

“Why, of course.”

“All right,” said Peabody, “make it out — but wait a minute.”

Johnny yawned and leaned his elbow on the desk. Across the lobby, Eddie Miller was watching him, like a ferret peering down a rathole.

Mr. Peabody stepped into his office, behind the desk. He closed the door.

“He’s calling the bank,” Sam exclaimed to Johnny.

“Naturally.”

“He’ll find out, Johnny.”

“Natch.”

“But we ain’t got any money in that bank — not there or in any other bank.”

“Are you sure, Sam? I’m under the impression that we have accounts in three different banks.”

“Aw, cut it out, Johnny!”

Mr. Peabody came out of his office, his face rather red. “You just started that account this afternoon.”

“That’s what I said.”

Mr. Peabody picked up the check that Johnny had made out. He looked at it, snapped the paper, half expecting it to stretch, then shaking his head and mumbling under his breath, he stepped to the cash drawer. He gave Johnny seventy-five dollars and thirty-five cents.

“You realize, of course, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, “that I told my friend not to permit you to withdraw your account until this check is cleared.”

“From you, Mr. Peabody,” Johnny said, pleasantly, “I expected that.”

He picked up his money and turned away from the desk. He continued counting the money, all the way through the lobby — for Eddie Miller’s benefit.

As soon as they had gone through the revolving door, onto the sidewalk, Sam gripped Johnny’s arm. “Johnny — where’d you get the roll?”

“I raised it.”

“Yeah — but how...?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Sam looked into Johnny’s rather grim face and suddenly shook his head. “No, no, I guess I’d rather not know. I worry.” He cleared his throat. “Will there be cops around?”

“No,” said Johnny. But under his breath, he added, “If I don’t break a leg tomorrow.”