“I most certainly could.”
“Talk’s cheap.”
“All right,” said Johnny. “Look over your cards, pick one out at random, or pick one you’ve failed to locate. Give it to me and by this time tomorrow I’ll have the money.”
“For how much?”
“For ten bucks. How’s that?”
“Brother,” said Kilkenny, “you’ve just got yourself a little bet.” He skimmed quickly through his little bunch of cards, extracted one. “Here’s a nice little number. ‘Alice Cummings, Chesterton Hotel.’ She bought a fur coat from the Arctic Fur Company for sixty-nine ninety-five. She paid two dollars a week for twelve weeks, then skipped, owing forty-nine ninety-five. That was four years ago, come next November, so there’s a little matter of thirty-four dollars interest, call it seventy-four dollars. You have the money here tomorrow at this time and you win yourself a nice ten-dollar bill. Fail and you pay me ten bucks — and I’m bringing the brass knucks with me, to collect. How’s that?”
“You got yourself a little deal, Mister,” said Johnny.
“You’re the witness,” Kilkenny said to Sam Cragg. “And no hard feelings, huh?”
“Practice some holds,” Sam said, “maybe we can go another fall tomorrow, huh?”
Kilkenny scowled and went out. But the door did not close. Mr. Peabody, the manager of the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, pushed it open.
“See here, Mr. Fletcher!” he bleated. “I’ve just had a complaint from the occupants of the room below this one. What are you doing up here, jumping exercises? You knocked the plaster off the ceiling down below...”
Johnny made a vague gesture of dismissal. “Not now, Peabody, not now.”
“What do you mean, not now?” demanded the hotel manager. Then he saw the wet socks on the bathroom floor. An expression of horror came over his face. “Washing again! How many times have I told you that we do not permit the guests to wash their clothing in the bathrooms?”
“Oh, go ’way,” cried Johnny. “Can’t you see I’m trying to think? You’re bothering me.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Peabody sternly. “Think about paying your bill. Your three weeks are up tomorrow. You know the rules — three weeks’ credit and out you go. So, think, think how you’re going to get the thirty-six dollars you will owe me tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’m working on,” said Johnny.
“Ah, so you don’t have the money! I thought so. Perhaps I shouldn’t even wait until tomorrow—”
“You’ll get your money, don’t worry. You’ve always gotten it, haven’t you?”
“No! I’ve had to lock you out of this room before.”
“Yeah,” said Sam Cragg, “but you let us in again.”
“When you paid up. But one of these days I’ll lock you out and you’ll stay locked out. And that’ll be a happy day for me.”
“Peabody,” said Johnny, “I like you, too. But I’ve got work to do, so will you go and lock out some other people and let me alone...?”
“Until tomorrow,” Peabody said darkly and went out.
Sam closed the door on the hotel manager. He came back into the room and looked hopefully at Johnny. “You got an idea yet, Johnny?”
“I think so.”
“Is it about food? A thick steak and French fries, maybe? And a big hunk of apple pie and three cups of coffee?”
“Food? Haven’t we eaten today?”
“Uh-uh. No, Johnny. We didn’t eat today and we didn’t eat last night.”
“We’ve got to watch that. It isn’t good for a man to miss his meals like that.”
“That’s what I been telling you, Johnny. I keep telling you all the time, I don’t feel good when I don’t eat three squares a day. But we ain’t got any money. Not even a dime between us.”
“A man doesn’t need money to eat. Not when he’s really hungry. Come on, let’s eat.”
“How? Where? You know Peabody won’t let us charge in the hotel dining room.”
Johnny held up the card he had received from the skip tracer. “The Chesterton Hotel has a nice dining room. Why don’t we eat there?”
“Anything you say, Johnny. I’m hungry enough to wash dishes — after I eat.”
Johnny got his coat out of the closet, and the two left the hotel. They walked to Sixth Avenue, excuse please, Avenue of the Americas, and turned left. On Forty-Eighth Street they turned left again and halfway up the block entered the Chesterton Hotel, which was slightly larger than the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, but also slightly dingier.
2
The Chesterton catered to the same kind of clientele as the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, rack-track touts, chorus girls, would-be actors and actresses and the usual miscellany of Broadway characters and sharpshooters. Plus a few out-of-town people who came to New York now and then and sought cheap accommodations.
There were eight or ten people in the lobby, but Johnny found a couple of vacant chairs. He sat down in one and gestured to Sam to take the other chair.
“Why don’t we go in the dining room and eat?” Sam asked anxiously. “I’m so hungry I could put salt on these leather chairs and eat them.”
“In a minute, Sam, in a minute. Ah...”
A bellboy turned away from the desk, glanced at a slip of paper in his hand and called out, “Paging Mr. Malkin. Mr. Paul Malkin, please.”
Mr. Malkin did not respond and the bellboy entered the adjoining dining room and called out a couple of times, then he returned and delivered the slip to the desk, where it was put into Mr. Malkin’s key slot.
“Now let’s eat,” said Johnny.
Sam sprang to his feet and they entered the dining room.
They had a nice lunch of soup, salad, New York cut steak, coffee and pie. Then the waiter brought the check. Johnny took the pencil and scribbled on it: Paul Malkin.
“Your room number too, please,” said the waiter.
“Of course.” Johnny wrote down 821, then reached into a pocket. He fished around for a moment, smiled and shook his head. “Don’t seem to have any change. Here” — He picked up the pencil again and wrote on the check — “Tip, $1.00.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the waiter. “I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”
“It was delicious!”
“You said it,” exclaimed Sam, smacking his lips.
As they walked out of the dining room, Sam whispered nervously, “Let’s get out of here fast!”
“Why? Mr. Malkin’s out of the hotel at the moment. And he isn’t a regular here, or the bellboy wouldn’t have had to page him. He’d have known him by sight. Relax, we’ve had a nice lunch, so now we get to work.”
He took the skip tracer’s card from his pocket. “Miss Alice Cummings. Nice name. Well, let’s see.”
He stepped up to the desk and accosted the clerk. “I’m from the Hotel Credit Bureau,” he said. “I want to ask you about a guest who stayed here, mm, four years ago.”
“That’s a long time ago,” said the clerk. “What’s the name?”
“Miss Alice Cummings.”
A gleam came into the clerk’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I don’t remember her, but I’ll see...” He went to the rear of his compartment and took down a ledger. Blowing dust off it, he returned and opened it on the desk.
“Alice Cummings, eh? Let’s see, now.” He ran his finger down a page. “Ah, yes, Room seven fifteen. She lived here quite a while. Ah-hah, I thought so. The name did seem a little familiar—”
“You knew her personally?” Johnny asked.
“Vaguely. A blonde, I believe. Or possibly a brunette.”