“I don’t have to think about that. I recall distinctly that I was rather surprised at the time. His room was exactly as if he’d gone out for an evening and had not returned. His clothing, all of it, as nearly as I could determine, was in his room. Except for what he was wearing, naturally. His shaving gear, even his toothbrush, was in his room. His extra cuff links, a valuable cigarette case, tie clasp, a ring or two, even his Harover class ring. That was all the proof I needed. Mr. Smithson did not disappear of his own free will. Something must have happened to him.”
“Don’t think over my next question, Mr. Whittlesey. You’ve had all these years to form an opinion. Just give me that opinion, upon impulse. What do you think happened to Mr. Smithson when he walked out of this club twelve years ago?”
Mr. Whittlesey did not respond properly to Johnny’s question. He hesitated, shook his head. “Something happened to him, that’s all I’m certain about. He was involved in an accident, or... or he was a victim of amnesia.”
“Amnesia?”
“I merely mentioned it as a possibility.”
“Because he was experiencing an emotional disturbance — his feud with young Carmichael?”
“No, sir, I did not mean to imply that.”
“You wouldn’t go so far as to say then that Mr. Smithson might have been murdered?”
Mr. Whittlesey cried out in horror. “Oh, no... Not — murder!”
“But young Jess Carmichael was murdered yesterday. You admit that?”
“According to the newspapers—”
“Not just the newspapers. The police. Jess Carmichael was definitely and positively murdered.”
Mr. Whittlesey showed unhappiness. “Mr. Carmichael was a, ah, an entirely different sort from Mr. Smithson.”
“Let me try this for size, Mr. Whittlesey. You will concede that there was bad blood between Jess Carmichael and his cousin?”
“They were young. Mr. Carmichael was a bit, well, hot-tempered.”
“All right, Smithson went off. He laid low, waiting his time — his opportunity. At long last he found it — and killed Jess Carmichael!”
“He waited twelve years, sir?”
“After twelve years no one would suspect him. He could wait another year, two, then make his reappearance and say he’d been in the Belgian Congo, hunting gorillas, or prospecting for uranium. Or he could say he’d been a victim of amnesia all these years and that he suddenly recovered and found himself working as — a clerk in a Carmichael grocery store.”
“I’m afraid that that is stretching credulity a little too far.”
“Well, try this one. Smithson had a fight with Jess on the day of his disappearance. Later that day he told Don Wheelwright about it. He worked himself up to a fine frenzy and went to have it out, once and for all, with young Jess. They had it out and Smithson lost.” Johnny paused significantly. “Carmichael killed him!”
“Oh, no!” Mr. Whittlesey cried out, aghast.
Johnny shrugged. “I’ve given you your choice of several theories. You don’t like any of them. You try one.”
“I’ve given you my opinion.”
“But I don’t like it. And there’s still Jess’s death to take care of.”
“I should think,” Mr. Whittlesey said stiffly, “that should be obvious. Young Mr. Carmichael got involved with a... a woman. A woman of, shall we say, poor repute?”
“Oh, you can say it, all right. But she wasn’t in the apartment when he was shot.”
“There’s only her word for that.”
“One of the neighbors heard the shot after she’d left the apartment. Some minutes later.”
Mr. Whittlesey hesitated. “Perhaps someone entered her apartment after she left.”
“Someone did, all right. The question is — who?”
“Exactly,” Then the club manager winced. “We’re back to the — the other matter.”
“I always come back to that,” Johnny said. “Every time I think about it, I come back to that. Of course, there’s always the possibility that Miss Cummings, the young lady involved, had another gentleman friend.”
“That’s it,” exclaimed Mr. Whittlesey eagerly.
“A man named Harry Flanagan, for instance?”
“Flanagan? I don’t believe I know the name.”
“A hoodlum, a no-good — perhaps a gigolo.”
“Ah, yes!”
“Perhaps he was afraid his meal ticket was going to be punched out on him. Perhaps he was — jealous — if such creatures can be jealous.”
“Do the... the police know about this Flanagan?”
“No.”
“There is such a person?”
“There is.”
“Then,” said the club manager firmly, “I believe the police should be informed of him. That is by far the most likely prospect of all.”
“There’s only one thing wrong with that,” Johnny said doggedly. “I’m not engaged to find the murderer of Jess Carmichael the Third. My job’s to find Lester Smithson — or what happened to him, if he is dead.”
“I’m afraid I’ve told you as much as I know.”
“Except for one or two small things. You intimated that young Smithson was a bit indiscreet, at times? With his whiskey and such. Would you say that he, ah, got soused here?”
“No, sir, I did not mean to insinuate anything. Only — well, once or twice, some of the, ah, the members mentioned that he was a little noisy, shall we say?”
“And you told him to behave?”
“Words to that effect.”
“By himself? Was he noisy alone?”
“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Whittlesey. “You’re not suggesting that Mr. Smithson had companions in his room — feminine?”
Johnny looked at him inquiringly.
“The club does not permit such things! No woman has ever passed the portals of this establishment — at least beyond the confines of the lobby, or possibly the reading room. We are very careful of such matters.”
16
His hands bound behind his back, Sam relaxed on the sofa in the rustic lodge. Sid sat in a chair opposite, watching him for a while, then, becoming bored, got up and wandered about the room. He went into the kitchen and Sam heard a refrigerator door open and close. Then the tinkle and gurgle of a bottle of beer being poured into a glass.
Sam gritted his teeth and twisted mightily on the ropes that held his wrists tightly together. They relaxed a little, giving him some play. But it was a fairly new clothesline and very strong. The perspiration came out on Sam’s face.
Sid re-entered the room, carrying a glass of beer. “Mud in your eye, fat boy!”
Sam relaxed and made no reply. Sid chuckled wickedly. “What’s the matter, fat boy? Cat got your tongue?”
“Leonard ain’t big enough to take Johnny all by himself,” Sam said.
“Maybe somebody’ll help him.”
“Who?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“What’s the diff? I’m here, I can’t help him.”
“Fella who paid us for this job doesn’t want his name known. No matter what.”
“I could tell him one thing right now,” Sam said. “He’s gonna be awful disappointed even if he does get those coins. They ain’t worth as much as he thinks.”
“That’s his business.”
“We tried to sell them last night to a rare coin dealer. He offered us two for one.”
“Yeah, but what kind of coins?”
“Two cents apiece for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes and fifty cents for the quarters. That’s around thirteen dollars for the lot. If he’s paying you out of the profit from that, you’re working awful cheap.”