Sutton shrugged. “It was just one of those things. Spur of the moment, Uncle Jess. I guess I should have minded my own business. Forget it, please.”
“No,” said Carmichael. “I’ve missed Lester.” He paused. “He’s my nephew, the same as you are.” Pain crossed his features. “Now that Jess is gone, you and Lester are the only family I have. I... I know that Jess and Lester were never very friendly. I know, too, that it was probably Jess’s fault, but now that he’s dead I don’t seem to remember those things. Or attach any importance to them. The memory of Lester these last few years isn’t so... so strong. But I remembered the boy...” He stopped and swallowed hard. Then he became brisk again. “Fletcher, hold that vivid imagination of yours in check for a moment and tell me, honestly — do you think you can find Lester?”
“Yes, Mr. Carmichael, I can. That is, I can find him anyone can.”
“Weighing sugar?” Johnny knew when to be discreetly silent and Carmichael nodded. “I’m going to let you try. Here...” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a wallet. He skinned out five bills. “Here’s five hundred dollars. There’ll be a thousand more when you find Lester Smithson. All right?”
Johnny took the bills and looked sharply at Sutton. The latter shrugged. “Thanks, Mr. Carmichael. It’s a deal. There’s just one question I want to ask you. Exactly when and where did you last see Lester?”
Pain again flitted across the grocery magnate’s face. “I wish you hadn’t asked me that.” He looked at Sutton. “Perhaps you’d better tell him, James.”
“If you wish, Uncle Jess. It was at the Harover Club. We were all having lunch there and — well, I guess we’d all had one drink more than we should have. My cousin Jess and Lester — they had words and Jess threw a cup of black coffee in Lester’s face. I’m afraid the coffee was rather hot. Lester walked out and that’s the last time any of us saw him.”
“This was twelve years ago?”
“Last August.”
Johnny stowed away the five hundred-dollar bills. “I’ll get busy, Mr. Carmichael.”
“I’ll expect to hear from you.”
Johnny nodded and stepped to the door. Out in the hall, he took the five bills from his pocket. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen any of you boys,” he said fervently.
12
Returning to the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, Johnny entered Room 821 and found it empty. He looked in the bathroom, but Sam was missing. Puzzled, he rode down to the lobby. Eddie Miller came forward.
“What happened, Mr. Fletcher?” he asked.
“Sam Cragg go out?”
“Yes, that’s what I was asking about. He came tearing down here about ten minutes ago, said he’d just got a call that you’d busted your leg—”
“No!” cried Johnny, “who called him?”
“He didn’t say. Just that he’d got word that you’d been in an accident and had your leg broken.”
“Did he go to a hospital?”
“Not that I know of. But I saw him getting into a cab outside.”
“He didn’t have any money to pay for a cab.”
“Maybe he forgot that.”
“Damn!” said Johnny. He strode to the desk. Mr. Peabody, the manager, turned from a ledger he was studying. Johnny drew out his his new roll of bills and peeled one off.
“Break this for me.”
Peabody inhaled softly, took the bill and held it to the light. He scrutinized both sides, wrinkled the bill and scrutinized it again. “Where did you get this, Fletcher?”
“Do you ask all the guests where they get their money?” Johnny snapped. He exhibited the other bills. “I needed some change so I stopped in at my bank.”
“Five hundred dollars,” Peabody said softly. Then a shudder ran through him. “Yes sir, Mr. Fletcher, how will you have it?”
“Doesn’t make any difference — tens, twenties. Better give me some singles, for tipping purposes.”
Peabody counted out the bills, took one more look at the hundred-dollar bill and put it into the cash drawer.
Johnny signaled to Eddie Miller and went to the door.
A Sky-Top cab stood at the curb a few yards from the hotel. Johnny strode up to him. “How long’ve you been waiting here?”
“Long enough,” the cabdriver replied. “You want to get in?”
Eddie Miller came up. “Hell, Ben,” he said. “I want you to help out Mr. Fletcher.”
“Sure thing, Eddie.”
“How long have you been waiting here?” Johnny repeated.
“A half hour, more or less. This is a quiet day.”
“About fifteen minutes ago,” Johnny went on, “a man came dashing out of the hotel — about five-ten, two-twenty—”
“Sure,” said the cabby, scowling. “I got beat out of a fare. Some guy’s double-parked here — I don’t think much of it, but then this guy comes out of the hotel and the double-parking guy scoots out in front of me and grabs the fare right under my nose.”
“What kind of a cab was it?”
The cabdriver shrugged. “I don’t know the hackie; he ain’t from around Times Square, that I do know. He’s driving a beat-up jalopy... yeah, a Lucky Clover cab. There ain’t many of those around.”
“A setup,” said Johnny. “I don’t suppose you got his number?”
“Naw, he beat it out of here like a bat out of hell before I could even tell him what I thought of him, stealing a fare out from under me. Hey — come to think of it, there was a guy already in the cab. I mean, in back.”
“Wait here,” said Johnny. “I’ll take a ride with you in a minute.” He turned and strode into the hotel lobby. He walked directly to the phone booth and looked up a number in the directory.
Eddie Miller hovered over him. “Looks bad, huh?”
“Sam can take care of himself,” said Johnny. He turned. “I’ve got to go out to see a man,” he said. “If Sam happens to come back, tell him to sit tight and wait for me. Even if someone calls and tells him I broke my left arm and both legs.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Fletcher.”
Johnny strode out of the hotel and stepped into Ben’s waiting cab. “Forty-ninth and Madison,” he said.
The cab went to Seventh Avenue and North, turned east on Forty-sixth Street, scooted across to Madison Avenue and turned north. A few minutes later, Johnny got out and gave the driver a dollar. “Can you wait here?”
“If it ain’t too long.”
“It shouldn’t be over ten minutes.”
“Then it’s okay. You’ll find me at the hack stand, or double-parked.”
Johnny walked a short distance and entered an office building. He consulted the building directory and rode up to the ninth floor. A moment later he stood before a ground glass door on which was lettered Acme Adjustment Agency.
He entered. There was a small reception room and apparently two private offices. A secretary with incredibly long, pointed nails was idling with a typewriter.
“The boss,” Johnny said.
“What’s your name? I’ll see if he’s in.”
“Cragg, Sam Cragg.”
The girl gave Johnny a searching look and got up. She went to the right-hand ground-glass door and entered, closing the door behind her. She reappeared in a moment.
“What’d you want to see Mr. Hammer about?”
“About a man named Kilkenny,” Johnny replied. “He works here.”
“Kilkenny? Mmm, I don’t know if we have a man here by that name or not...”
“Hey!” cried Johnny. “Cut it out. This outfit isn’t that big!”
“What’d you want to see Mr. Kilkenny about?”
“I don’t want to see Kilkenny. I want to see Mr. Hammer about Mr. Kilkenny.”