“Wiggins,” wheezed a voice. “I’ve got something for you. My operator—”
“Never mind,” said Johnny, “the case is closed.”
“Wait a minute,” cried Wiggins. “This is personal...” He spoke for a moment and Johnny’s face lit up. He said, “Thanks” and hung up. He looked at Sam and rubbed his hands together. “Wiggins’ man lost me last night, Sam, so he began backtracking. He traced us back to the Eagle Hotel—”
“Ouch!” said Sam. “The flea bag that evicted us two weeks ago...”
“The same joint,” said Johnny, “hot cockroaches and running mice in every room. But it was home for us, Sam. And they’ve got a telegram there. From Mort Murray... He’s out of hock, Sam, and sending us a shipment of books, prepaid. Get that, Sam, prepaid...!”
“We’re back in the book business!” Sam beamed. “Then I don’t have to work here for thirty-nine years?”
“That’s right, Sam. We’re free men.”
“About that sales manager position, Fletcher,” said Harry Towner. “The job pays fifteen thousand a year...”
“Take it, Johnny Fletcher!” cried Linda Towner.
Johnny shook his head. “And see you coming in here to visit your husband every few days? Unh-uh, I couldn’t stand that...”
“My husband? Who are you talking about?”
“Freddie, who else? The guy loves you. He’s so jealous he had me shadowed. And if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have solved this mess.”
“Yes,” said Linda, thoughtfully. “That was rather intriguing about Freddie. I didn’t know he had it in him.” She came across the room, kissed Johnny on the mouth and said:
“So long, Johnny. And good luck!”