“Why, I thought you might make some telephone calls for me. To Chicago. There’s a private detective there named Beeler, who did some work for me once.[1] I want to find out as much as I can about some people who live there... a Mr. and Mrs. James Langford, a Mr. Chats-worth and a Charles Halton. I want to know where they live, how long they lived there, what they do for a living — what their neighbors think about them. In short, I want to know everything there is to know about them and I want to know it before six o’clock this evening. You tell Beller it’s for Johnny Fletcher and that two hundred dollars is being wired to him today.”
“What about the toll charges?” asked Mrs. Cobb, firmly.
Johnny made a clucking sound with his tongue, but Mrs. Cobb remained firm. “I’ll have to telephone Beeler two-three times and he’ll be calling me and reversing the charges. You can run up a hundred-dollar telephone bill like that in no time at all.”
“All right, I’ll pay it — extra.”
“Good!”
“Good!”
Chapter Sixteen
1428 Bonneville was on the far east side of Las Vegas. It was a house very much on the order of Walter Cobb’s, but it was set back farther from the street and was the only house in the block. The street was, at this point, native Nevada sand.
Johnny Fletcher drove past the house, continued for another block, then turned left one block and came back on Doniphan Street.
As they approached the block in which the house was located, Cobb exclaimed in satisfaction. “Perfect! There’s only one window in the rear and it’s such a small one they won’t be standing there all the time, looking out... Stop in the next block.”
Johnny drove another block and pulled up at the curb. Walter Cobb stepped out of the car. He was already wearing a heavy leather belt, which had a loose section that was supposed to go about a telephone pole; spiked pole climbing equipment was attached to his legs.
He winked at Johnny Fletcher and clambered rapidly up the pole. Reaching the top he made a connection to the telephone line and dropped a coil of thin wire to the ground. Then he descended the pole and picking up the loose wire, climbed back into the car.
A quick connection to his little black box in which reposed the induction coil and he put on the headset. A smile of satisfaction lit up his face.
“A beautiful connection.”
“I got an idea while you were up there,” Johnny said. “It might be hours before anyone phones them. Why don’t I run uptown and call them from a pay phone?”
“Oh, splendid!” exclaimed Cobb. “You’ll stir them up and they’ll make a call, is that it?”
“Something like that.” Then Johnny frowned. “But if I take the car you can’t sit on the curb and listen...”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Cobb. “I’ll climb up on the pole and anyone sees me will think I’m a linesman. I can hang up there for an hour, if necessary.”
He got out of the car, carrying his box. Fastening it to his belt, he climbed the pole rapidly. Johnny waited until he had reached the top, then started his car and drove down to Fremont Street. Entering a drugstore he went into a phone booth. Cobb had obtained the telephone number at 1428 Bonneville before they had started the expedition, and consulting a slip of paper, Johnny dialed it.
The phone rang and rang. Then it was taken off and a gruff voice said, curtly, “Yeah?”
“They got him,” said Johnny in a harsh tone.
“Who’s this?” snapped the voice on the other end of the phone.
“I can’t give my name,” Johnny said, “but I’m warning you... the heat’s on...” He put the receiver back on the hook, counted to twenty, then dialed the number again.
The receiver was taken off instantly this time. Johnny laughed into the mouthpiece and hung up. He left the booth, then, had a cup of coffee at the soda fountain and won two dollars in a quarter slot machine. Then he re-entered the phone booth and again dialed the Bonneville number. The line was busy.
Outside he climbed into his car and drove back to Doniphan Street. He was slowing up for Cobb’s telephone pole, when he happened to look out across the field on the north side of Doniphan Street.
There was a shed-like adobe house there and on the veranda a heavy-set man was standing. He had a pair of field glasses trained on Walter Cobb.
The man was Catch ’Em Alive Mulligan.
Johnny kept his car rolling down the middle of the street.
He drove a mile out into the desert on a trail that was the continuation of Doniphan Street, then coming to a ranch yard turned his car and drove back.
Catch ’Em Alive Mulligan was still on the veranda of the little house. But now he had brought out a wicker armchair and was taking things easy. The glasses were in his lap, but he was quietly watching Walter Cobb up on the telephone pole.
Swearing to himself, Johnny drove back to Fremont Street. He entered a drugstore — a different one than before — and dialed the number of 1428 Bonneville Street.
The phone was promptly answered. Johnny said, “Look out for Mulligan,” and hung up.
The message would be a cryptic one to the occupants of the house on Bonneville Street and it would be a warning to Walter Cobb.
The best Johnny could do then was to drive to Walter Cobb’s residence. He parked his car a couple of doors down the street and walked back to the little stucco house.
Mrs. Cobb answered his ring at the door. She had changed her sloppy morning wrapper for a sloppy house dress. “Where’s Walter?” she asked.
“Walking,” said Johnny. “Probably coming home, but I’m afraid to go out and pick him up, because I think Catch ’Em Alive Mulligan’s following him.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mrs. Cobb. “Mulligan gets mad at Walter once in a while, but he owes Walter a favor or two. He tipped Mulligan off to something big only a few months ago that he got by listening in on a telephone... I’ve talked to Beeler in Chicago, Mr. Fletcher...”
“Oh, yes?”
“Twenty-eight dollars’ worth,” Mrs. Cobb said pointedly. “He’s going to call me back as soon as he gets some further information...”
“You mean he’s already got something?”
“Only about Jim Langford; he knew his record. He was arrested on suspicion of murder two years ago, but he was released for lack of evidence. He was barred from the Arlington Race Track last season and he worked as a bodyguard for Barney O’Toole four years ago, but he lost his job when O’Toole was killed. The police questioned him at the time and there was a rumor that Langford himself had killed O’Toole, but nobody seemed to care much so nothing happened.”
“A nice lad,” remarked Johnny. “Probably very kind to his mother, too... Hear anything about Chatsworth?”
“Beeler knew the name, but offhand didn’t know anything about him. But he’s going to check on him. Halton, he never heard about.”
“I forgot to tell you — when Beeler calls back, tell him Halton was All-American once. I’d say about ten years ago.”
“All-American what?”
Johnny shrugged. “Football, I guess.” Johnny, looking out of the front window at that moment, saw a “Lucky Cab” pull up to the curb. Walter Cobb, carrying his black box and spikes, stepped out and paid the cabby. Then he came to the house.
Johnny opened the door for him and Cobb came in. The detective grinned. “I forgot about Mulligan living near there.”
“Did he question you?”
“I practically stepped into his arms when I came down the pole. He said to tell you he’ll see you later today...”
“Me?”
“Oh, he saw you driving by; there wasn’t any use denying that I was working for you.”