“May be a while,” Johnny said to the chauffeur of the hired car.
“That’s all right, sir,” the man said. “I’ve a book to read.”
They got out of the Cadillac and walked up to the front door. Johnny leaned on the door button. The chimes were still bonging inside when a liveried butler opened the door.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
“That’s right, Wilkins. I just stopped in to offer my condolences to Jess.”
“It’s a very sad thing, sir,” said the butler. “Mr. Carmichael is taking it very badly.”
“That’s only natural.”
The butler consulted a leather booklet in his hand. “I’m afraid I don’t have your name here, sir.”
Johnny looked at him blankly. “Are you supposed to have it?”
“Yes, sir, you see, there are so many people who try to call on Mr. Carmichael that he found it necessary to make up a list of his friends to whom he is in.”
“And my name isn’t in the book? Well, what do you know about that?”
“If you could tell me the nature of your business. Joseph, at the gate, said that — that you were a customer, but I didn’t understand—”
“Then why’d you let me through the gate?”
Wilkins looked at Johnny uneasily. “Well, Joseph said that your car—”
“...was a Cadillac. If I’d come up in anything smaller I suppose I couldn’t even have gotten this far?”
“I didn’t mean that, sir. It’s only that...” The butler again took refuge in his leather book. “Are you a friend of Mr. Carmichael’s?”
“From the looks of things,” Johnny said coldly, “I guess I’m not.” He paused, then added sarcastically, “But if it isn’t asking too much of you, I’d appreciate it if you’d just step in and tell Jess that Johnny Fletcher is here.”
“And your business?”
Johnny turned and struck Sam violently on the shoulder. “Now, how do you like that?” He turned back to Wilkins. “Tell Jess that I’m a customer of his. Tell him that. No more and no less. And if he still doesn’t want to see me, that’s that.”
The butler walked off, crossing the large wide hall and entering a door which he closed behind him. He was gone four or five minutes, then returned.
“Mr. Carmichael will see you in the library.”
He led the way through a drawing room, another hall, then opened a pine-paneled room and stood aside. Johnny and Sam went into the library, a room some twenty by thirty feet in size, lined with bookshelves containing mostly leather-bound and other unread books.
9
Jess Carmichael was seated in a large green leather chair. Across the room, a younger man stood examining the tooling on some of the leather volumes.
Carmichael looked at Johnny, frowning. “Fletcher?”
“That’s right, Mr. Carmichael. May I offer my condolences...?”
Carmichael made an impatient gesture of dismissal. “I never saw you before in my life.”
“Neither have I seen you, sir.”
“Why’d you tell Wilkins you were an old friend?”
“I never told him anything of the kind.”
Carmichael scowled. “I never forget a name or a face. Fletcher? No, I’m certain. I’ve never done business with you.”
“Oh, yes, you have,” Johnny said. “I’ve been a customer of yours for a good many years.”
“Ridiculous! I’m the only man in my entire organization who knows the name of every customer we’ve got. What stores do you represent?”
“None, but—”
“That’s what I thought. You’re not with the A & P, or the Safeway Stores, or even the IGA.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“Then who the devil are you?”
“A customer. I’ve bought at your stores for twenty years, more or less. Not only in New York, but in other cities.”
A strange expression came over Jess Carmichael’s face — an expression very much like that of a man who has bitten into an apple and discovered therein a half of a fat worm.
“Say that again!” he cried.
“I’ve bought at your stores for twenty years.”
“You’re a... a retail customer?”
The young man turned from the bookshelves and studied Johnny Fletcher thoughtfully.
Johnny said, “That’s right. And I’ve always been a booster of the Carmichael Stores. Your prices have been good, your merchandise has been fine. Up until recently. I think you should know, however, that I’m not satisfied with your corned beef hash. It used to be that there was plenty of good red meat in a can, but I bought one last week on Forty-fifth Street — Store Number eleven forty-four, in case you’re interested — and I had to search for the meat. Potatoes, that’s all there was in the can, potatoes and here and there a teentsy-weentsy bit of the old corned beef...”
Jess Carmichael bounded out of his chair. He took two quick steps toward Johnny, then stopped. There was a wild look in his eyes.
“Who... who sent you here?”
“No one. I came on my own. Uh, this is my friend, Sam Cragg.”
“Harya, Mr. Carmichael,” said Sam, extending his hand.
Carmichael did not even look at Sam. His eyes threatened to bulge from his head. He shook his head and his eyes went to the young man by the bookshelves. “James, who would perpetrate a joke at a time like this?”
“I couldn’t say, Uncle,” replied the young man. “It’s most certainly in bad taste.”
He came forward, “I say, old boy, don’t you know that Mr. Carmichael’s son — my cousin, Jess — was, ah, I mean died today?”
“Of course I know it. That’s why I’m here.”
“Eh?”
Johnny looked past Carmichael and saw a newspaper on a desk. He crossed to the desk and picked up the newspaper, “My name’s in here,” he said. “Ah, yes, here...” He read, “ ‘...The two men, John Fletcher, and Sam Cragg, were described by Miss Cummings as—’ ”
“Cummings!” cried Jess Carmichael, “Don’t mention that woman’s name in this house.” He stabbed a well-manicured forefinger at Johnny. “And you — I remember your name now; you’re the man the police suspect of killing my son.”
“No,” said Johnny, “Lieutenant Madigan’s already cleared me.”
“Who’s Lieutenant Madigan?” Carmichael demanded.
“Homicide, in charge of the investigation. A very good man. I’ve helped him now and then.”
“You’ve helped him?”
“My hobby,” Johnny said modestly. “Crime detection. When the police fail, that’s where I come in.”
“Oh, say, now,” expostulated the young man. “You’re spreading it on a bit thick now, aren’t you?”
Johnny regarded him sharply. “I don’t believe I got your name.”
“I’m James Sutton.”
“One of the suspects?”
Sutton showed petulance. “Here, now, I’m Mr. Carmichael’s nephew.”
“A prime suspect, too,” declared Johnny. “The nephew’s always the chief suspect and in nine cases out of ten he turns out to be the murderer.”
“I think,” said Jess Carmichael, “I’ve had about all of this that I can take. Mr. Fletcher, I’ve had a difficult day and tomorrow morning I must talk to the deputy police commissioner—”
“You mean he hasn’t questioned you yet?”
“Why should he? He had the decency to respect a man’s privacy at a time like this.”
“Mr. Carmichael, I’ll put it to you bluntly,” Johnny said. “Do you want to, ah, apprehend the murderer of your son?”
“Of course I do,” snapped Carmichael, a glint coming into his eyes, “and I promise you that he will be apprehended — and punished. If it takes every dollar—”
“It won’t,” Johnny said. “It won’t cost you much at all. For a modest fee, I’ll run him down.”