“The police are quite capable of doing that,” Carmichael said coldly. “And now I must bid you good evening.”
“Very well, sir, but if you should change your mind, I’d like to give you my address...”
“That won’t be necessary. I shall not change my mind.”
Johnny hesitated. He looked at Sam Cragg, who was regarding him anxiously.
“Very well, Mr. Carmichael.”
“I’ll go out with you,” James Sutton offered. “Good night, Uncle Jess.”
“Good night, Jim, good night.”
The butler was hovering about in the hall and led Johnny, Sam and Sutton to the front door. As they stepped out a convertible squealed to a stop beside the limousine that had brought Johnny and Sam out to Manhasset.
A girl sprang out and came running toward the door. “Jim,” she cried, “how is he?”
“Taking it pretty badly,” Sutton replied.
“I would have come sooner, but then you know...” She stopped and looked sharply at Johnny and Sam.
“Fletcher’s my name,” Johnny offered. “This is my friend, Sam Cragg.”
“You’re from the police?”
“Not exactly, Miss.”
Sutton exclaimed, “Don’t try exchanging words with him, Hertha. He’ll mix you all up.”
“Hertha,” grinned Johnny. “That’s from Swinburne — the goddess of the nether regions, or something like that.”
The girl looked at Johnny, puzzled. “I don’t believe I ever met you.”
“That’s my loss,” Johnny said gallantly. “I’d be glad to call on you tomorrow.”
“Go in and talk to the old man,” Sutton said quickly. “He needs someone to cheer him up.” He took Johnny’s elbow. “D’you mind giving me a lift into town, old boy?”
Johnny minded, but Sutton was using pressure to steer him to the limousine. “All right,” he said, “as long as you’re twisting my arm.”
They got into the limousine, with Johnny sitting in the middle of the rear seat. “The Barbizon-Waldorf,” Johnny said to the chauffeur, “unless I can drop you somewhere along the way.”
“The hotel’s fine,” Sutton said easily.
The car started down the winding driveway. Johnny leaned back. “Hertha,” he said musingly. “Fancy name. Wouldn’t go well with Smith, though, would it?”
“You’re fishing again,” Sutton accused. “All right, I’ll bite; her last name’s Colston. She was Jess’s fiancée.”
“Jess, Junior? I thought a little lady named Alice Cummings—”
“Miss Cummings,” Sutton said firmly, “was not his fiancée.”
“She thinks she was.”
“Oh, I imagine she tried her best to hook him.”
“She hooked him for a mink coat,” said Sam.
Sutton shrugged. “What’s a mink coat?”
“Are you kidding?” cried Sam. “Them mink coats cost two-three thousand bucks.”
“Some cost considerably more.”
“Even two-three thousand is all right for a doll who didn’t even pay for her rabbit fur.”
“Rabbit fur?”
“Miss Cummings bought a sixty-nine dollar and fifty cent special about four years ago,” Johnny explained. “The bill was so small it slipped her mind.”
“Well,” said James Sutton, “that’s interesting. But how do you know all this about Miss Cummings?”
“That,” said Johnny, “is how we got into this. We skip-traced her and collected the dough.”
“Is that your business? Skip tracing, I believe you called it.”
“I was just helping out a friend.”
“A friend?” exclaimed Sam. “Kilkenny ain’t no friend of ours. Not after what he done to you.”
“A skip tracer,” mused Sutton. “It sounds like an interesting vocation. Suppose someone moves and doesn’t leave a forwarding address — is it possible to find them?”
“Kilkenny found us,” exclaimed Sam. “On account of a measly old mandolin that I couldn’t play anyway...” He stopped as Johnny dug his elbow into his ribs. “What’s the matter?”
“Mr. Sutton isn’t interested in mandolins, Sam.”
“I’m interested in skip tracers,” Sutton said. “You were saying about Miss Cummings — how you traced her. Just how did you do it?”
“There are tricks to all trades.” Johnny gave Sutton a quick sideward glance. “I imagine the grocery business has its tricks, too.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Aren’t you in the grocery business?”
Sutton smiled. “I own a few shares of Carmichael stock, but I’m not in the firm.”
“You like Wall Street better?”
“Tut tut, no more fishing. Let’s stick to skip tracing.”
“All right,” said Johnny, “let’s. You want somebody skip-traced?”
“Possibly.”
“Then I’m your boy. There isn’t a skip tracer in the business who can do a better job.”
“Who is this Kilkenny Mr. Cragg mentioned?”
Johnny made a deprecating gesture. “Small stuff. He collects old mandolin accounts. If you’re looking for an old mandolin, I guess Kilkenny’s as good a man as any. But if it’s something important, Johnny Fletcher can do it quicker and better.”
“I like the way you got in to see Cousin Jess,” Sutton said. “Mmm, could you locate a man who, let’s say, disappeared twelve years ago?”
“You name him and I’ll find him.”
“What does a skip tracer usually get?”
“Ten bucks,” Sam volunteered inadvertently.
Johnny gave him the elbow again. “Finding a missing person isn’t skip tracing. It’s detective work.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” asked Sutton. “A person owes a bill, you’ve got to find him to collect.”
“Skip tracing a man who owes a bill is minor-league stuff. But a man who’s missing, uh, that takes real detective work. And you know what the better detective agencies charge.”
“I haven’t the slightest,” Sutton said. “This is all new to me. I’m willing to pay a fair price, though, to find my cousin—”
“Your cousin?”
“Lester Smithson.”
“What relation is he to Jess Carmichael, senior?”
“Nephew, same as I am. Uncle Jess had two sisters, Della and Carrie. Lester was Della’s son. Carrie Carmichael was nr mother.”
“Your aunt and your mother are both dead?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm,” said Johnny thoughtfully. “I catch on. With Jess the third dead, that leaves you the next of kin.”
“Except for Lester.”
“Yeah, sure, but if he’s dead, you’re the heir.”
“I don’t know. Uncle Jess could leave his money to the Smithsonian Institution, you know.”
“Not if you play your cards right. That makes a difference.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“The fee for finding Lester. Since you’re the heir to the Carmichael grocery stores, I’ll naturally have to charge you a larger fee.”
James Sutton chuckled. “You’re a character, Fletcher. All right, name your price.”
“A hundred dollars a day.”
“Isn’t that a little stiff?”
“It might be for the ordinary detective agency,” Johnny admitted, “but when you hire Johnny Fletcher, you’re hiring the best.”
“Let’s say fifty dollars a day.”
“For my A Number One work?”
“Your best. Fifty dollars a day. And there’s got to be time limit, of course.”
“Ten days?”
“Five. Fifty dollars a day, for five days and a, ah, bonus of two hundred when you succeed.”
“Seven days and a five hundred dollar bonus?”
“Very well.”
“And a retainer of, say, two hundred?”
“I’ll send you a check tomorrow.”
Johnny frowned. “Couldn’t you pay something now — just to bind the agreement?”