Reluctantly he retraced his steps, reached the railroad depot and crossed by the road. There he found a marker that told him New York was only thirty-one miles. He started resolutely down the road.
He walked. He walked a mile. A single car whizzed past him without even slackening speed. He walked another mile and an ancient car came chugging along. Sam stepped out as far into the road as he dared and waved violently.
Brakes squealed and the car stopped. “For the love of Pete, mister,” Sam cried, “give me a lift. My dogs are killing me.”
The driver of the ancient jalopy was a white-haired man crowding seventy. He said, “Get in!”
Wearily, Sam got into the old car. “Where you going, mister?” the driver asked.
“God’s country, New York.”
The elderly man smiled slightly. “First time I ever heard New York called that. You don’t like the country?”
Sam shuddered. “Not me. Gimme New York, just let me see it once more and I’ll never leave it again. The things that have happened to me!”
“Nothing much ever happens out in the country,” the driver went on. “In the city there’s all sorts of trouble, all the time. I had the radio on just a minute ago and they were telling about some fella back in Peekskill who broke out of jail. A real desperado, shoot-’em-up type.” Sam wished that he could shrink to half his size. “Yep,” the old man went on, “a real killer, they say. The police are setting up roadblocks all around.”
“Roadblocks!” exclaimed Sam in consternation. “You mean — they’ll stop all the cars?”
The driver pointed ahead. “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was one up there.”
A New York State highway patrol car was slewed across the road, blocking most of it. The driver began braking his ancient car. A State Trooper waved him down.
Sam made a complete mental surrender. He knew he was going back to Peekskill — and this time he would remain there. He was gone, finished, done.
“What’s the trouble, Carl?” the old man was saying to the Trooper.
“Usual stuff, Judge,” the Trooper replied courteously. “Jail-break. Some two-gun man they picked up shot his way out of the Peekskill jail.”
“Oh, they’ll get him, all right,” said the man beside Sam.
“I’m sure they will,” replied the State Trooper. He scarcely looked at Sam as he waved the old driver to continue on past the police car.
For a full half mile Sam could not say a word, then he asked weakly, “You’re a judge, mister?”
“A justice of the peace, that’s all,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ve lived up here in the country all my life and the neighbors wanted me to have a little income in my old age, I guess, so they voted me in for an easy job. Nice chap, that Trooper. Most of ’em are good boys.”
“Sure,” said Sam, “they sure are.”
He was silent again and the little car ate up the winding back road miles. After a while the car turned into a parkway and picked up some speed. But finally, as they were nearing Yonkers, the justice of the peace said, “I guess I ought to tell you, neighbor, the police don’t approve of hitchhikers out here and they’ve been arresting a lot of people. But Yonkers is as far as I go. If you’re in a hurry to get home, I think you’d better take the subway at Yonkers. I’ll drive you to it. Uh, could you use a quarter?”
He tendered the coin to Sam. The latter took it. “Judge,” he said, with deep emotion, “you’re the first honest-to-gosh human being I’ve met in a year of Sundays. You... you almost make up for what I went through today.”
22
When Johnny re-entered the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, the policemen were still on duty in the lobby. And Lieutenant Madigan was still sitting glumly in a far corner. Johnny waved to him and went up to his room.
Entering, he went into the bathroom and retrieved the sock weighted with the dimes and pennies he had taken from Jess Carmichael the Third’s limping goose bank.
“It’s here,” he muttered. “It’s got to be here.”
He dumped the coins on the bed and began to examine them individually. He wished he had a magnifying glass, but his eyes were good and he studied the coins with elaborate care. Most of them were worn; a scratch or mark would have shown up readily on them. There was none. He counted the feathers in the Indian’s headpiece on the pennies. They all matched. He studied the milling around the edges. There was nothing out of place. He turned the coins over and studied them.
He separated the dimes from the pennies, studied each in turn. A half hour went by and he was no nearer the solution.
“It’s here,” he exclaimed aloud. “Jess Carmichael was no smarter than I am.”
He had the coins lined up according to their age. The oldest, he discovered, was an 1860 penny. The oldest dime was an 1862. The next dime was dated 1865.
Idly, he pushed the two rows of coins together, the oldest dime, the penny, then — a thought struck him and he moved swiftly, lining up the coins according to the dates, regardless, of their value. The coins’ dates now ran continuously 1860, through to 1939. “That’s it!” he cried. “That’s it!”
He raked the coins together, scooped them up and dumped them into his pocket. He started for the door, but wheeled back and picked up the phone.
“Give me the Barbizon-Waldorf!” he exclaimed. A moment later he said, “Mr. James Sutton, please.”
Sutton came on the wire. “I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “I’ve been delayed. If it’s all right I’ll come over now.”
“I was wondering what happened to you,” Sutton said.
“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” Johnny hung up, then picked up the telephone book and called another number. “I want to talk to Mr. Jess Carmichael. That’s right... No, no, don’t give me that. Tell his secretary that this is Johnny Fletcher talking. If she’ll pass that on to him he’ll talk to me.” He waited a full two minutes, then a woman’s voice said:
“This is Mr. Carmichael’s secretary speaking. Mr. Carmichael is not in at the moment.”
“This is Johnny Fletcher,” Johnny persisted. “I’m investigating the... the murder of his son. Mr. Carmichael himself engaged me this morning. Personally. I have something very, very important to tell him.”
“Mr. Carmichael still isn’t in.” the secretary said, unperturbed. “He was in, but he left about a half hour ago.”
“Can you tell me where he went?”
“Mr. Carmichael doesn’t take me into his confidence every time he goes out.”
“All right,” said Johnny. “Can you tell me just one little thing? The telephone number of Hertha Colston, the late Mr. Carmichael’s fiancée?”
“I’m sorry,” was the reply. “I am not permitted to give out telephone numbers.”
Johnny groaned, but knew when he was licked. He replaced the phone on its springs.
He strode to the door and went out. As he stepped into the elevator the operator gave him a quick look, then averted his eyes. Johnny rode down to the lobby and stepped out of the elevator into a scene of violence.
Sam Cragg stood at bay. He had a huge leather chair raised over his head and was defying two policemen, Lieutenant Madigan, and Mr. Peabody.
“Nobody’s throwing me in no more clinks!” Sam howled. “I ain’t going with you until I talk to—” Then he saw Johnny. “Johnny!” he cried in vast relief. “Johnny, don’t let them throw me in the hoosegow. Go ahead, tell them it’s a mistake.”
“Fletcher,” grated Lieutenant Madigan, “we don’t want to hurt him. Will you order him to put down that chair?”