“A drink,” the receptionist said. “But that’s just what I was going to have with Mr. Doniger. Oh — Mr. Doniger, this is Mr... Mr.—” she snapped her fingers as if Johnny’s name was eluding her.
“Fletcher,” Johnny said. “You oughtta do something about that memory of yours...”
Doniger extended a fat, limp, well-manicured hand. “H’arya,” he said, with an utter lack of enthusiasm.
“Mr. Fletcher,” the girl went on pointedly, “is the man I was telling you about, Mr. Doniger... the man who was up to see Mr. Armstrong this morning...”
Under that direct coaching, Doniger suddenly showed a little animation.
“Ah, yes, Fletcher, yes, yes.”
“Yes,” said Johnny. He winked at the girl. “Speaking of memory, damned if mine isn’t playing tricks on me. Don’t tell me, now. It’ll come to me in just a second...”
“Violet Rodgers, spelled with a D, for no particular reason.”
“Violet,” exclaimed Johnny. “I knew I’d get it. Violet Rodgers. And that drink...”
“We’d love to,” said Violet, sweetly. “Right over there in the Commodore.”
They got a little round table at the Commodore and Violet ordered a Scotch and soda and drank the Scotch straight, in one gulp. Mr. Doniger sipped at a martini and Johnny got himself a daiquiri, just to be different.
“That was cute, this morning, Mr. Fletcher,” Violet said, after tossing off her Scotch, “your pretending to be a detective.”
“Call me Johnny,” said Johnny.
“It was still cute, Johnny.” Violet caught the waiter’s eye, made a circular signal with her index finger, indicating another round of the same.
“I thought so,” Johnny said, modestly.
“Just because a girl once works in a place is no reason the police should be around all day,” groused Mr. Doniger. “Kept the office in an uproar all day.”
“A vice-president?” Johnny asked.
“Sales manager,” Doniger replied.
“You look like a vice-president,” Johnny said.
“You ought to see the president,” Violet offered. “He looks like a janitor in his Sunday suit.”
“What’s his name?”
“Seebright, Orville Seebright.”
Damn you, Seebright, the voice had whispered on the Con Carson record.
Johnny said: “Who’s Mariota?”
Doniger blinked. “Mariota?”
“Mariota Record Company...”
Violet snickered. “I told you he was good, Mr. Doniger, didn’t I? ‘Who’s Mariota?’ Ha-ha-ha!”
“There’s no one named Mariota,” Doniger growled. “It’s just a name...”
“It must be somebody’s name — or the name of something,” Johnny persisted.
“It isn’t the name of anybody, or anything.”
“Then why’s the company named Mariota Record Company?”
Doniger scowled. “I never asked.”
Violet shook her head as Johnny looked at her questioningly. “I’ve only been with the company three years.”
“Well, I’d like to know who Mariota is.”
The second round of drinks came. Violet threw her ounce of Scotch at her tonsils, without benefit of the soda. Then she glowered at Johnny.
“Now, look here, Johnny Fletcher, we’ve played along with you, but we can’t stay here all night, listening to you make with the words.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you. Out with it — who the devil are you and what did you want with Mr. Armstrong this morning?”
“Armstrong’s worried?”
Doniger suddenly banged a masterful fist on the little round table, causing Johnny’s second daiquiri to spill out some precious drops. “Cut it out, Fletcher, you’re making me mad.”
“All right,” said Johnny. “I’ll come clean. Marjorie Fan-worked for your company — how long?”
“Just a couple of months.”
“She only took the job because she thought she could get into radio,” Violet said tartly. “And all the time she was in the office she was playing up to someone.”
“Mr. Armstrong, for instance?”
“He was—” Violet caught herself. “You’re at it again — you pretend you’re going to say something and you switch it into a question.”
“For the last time, Fletcher,” Doniger warned through his teeth.
Johnny regarded the sleek one coolly. “When are you releasing the Con Carson record?”
The effect of that simple question was no more than if Johnny had suddenly handed Doniger a hale and hearty masculine rattlesnake.
“Wh-what!” he gasped. “What was that?”
“The Con Carson record — when are you releasing it?”
Doniger’s fat chin trembled a few times more before he was finally able to control it. “How do you know we — we have a Con Carson record?”
“Fella in a record shop.”
“What record shop?” Violet asked.
Johnny shrugged a shoulder expressively. “Oh, somewhere around.” He smiled brightly. “I’m an old Con Carson fan, you know, and I was asking if a new Con Carson platter wasn’t about due...”
“Carson’s dead,” Doniger said flatly. “Every Carson fan in creation knows that.”
“Sure, but he made some recordings before he shoved off, didn’t he?”
“It so happens,” Doniger said slowly, “that Carson signed a deal with Mariota just two days before he took off on that last trip of his. That’s known around the trade — to a certain extent. It isn’t known that Carson actually cut a platter for us—”
“A piece called Moon on the Desert?”
Doniger shuddered again. “H-how do you know the title?”
“I’ll trade you,” said Johnny. “You tell me about Marjorie Fair.”
Doniger shuddered again. “I don’t know anything about Marjorie Fair; she was a girl who worked in our office, a typist. I didn’t know her any better than I know any of the other girls in the office.”
Johnny looked suggestively at Violet. Doniger flushed. “I’m a married man; I’ve got a wife and two children.” Thought of them suddenly caused him to look at his wrist watch. “And I’ve got to run to catch the five-fifty-two.” He got up abruptly. “Thanks for the drink.” He nodded to Violet and headed for the door that led from the Commodore directly into the Grand Central.
“A fella like you,” Violet said, “sometimes gets a bust in the snoot.”
“It’s happened,” said Johnny cheerfully. “How about another drink?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I’ve already had two and that’s my limit.” But as Johnny began to shrug, “Well, if you insist!”
She signaled the waiter herself.
“Now,” she said, “we’ll cut out all the nonsense. What’s your interest in Marjorie Fair? Was she your...?”
“Uh-uh, I never even talked to her while she was alive.”
“Then why are you sticking your nose into all this?”
“I know her sister.”
“Oh!” That seemed to rock Violet back. The waiter came with the new drinks and she downed her Scotch, sans soda, in the customary single gulp.
Then she said: “I didn’t know she had a sister.”
“In Iowa.”
“You’re from Iowa?”
“Heaven forbid! Her sister’s here, now. She arrived today in time to find the body... Why did Marjorie quit her job with Mariota?”
Violet groaned. “You’ve sure got a one-track mind, Johnny.”
“So have the cops.”
“The cops have come and gone. Marjorie Fair worked in our place six-eight weeks. She made pitches at some of the men and when that didn’t get her anywhere, she quit her job. I didn’t like her and I don’t want to talk about her.”
Johnny caught the hovering waiter’s eye.
“We’ll change the subject,” he said. “What do you think of Orville Seebright?”