“Are you kidding?”
“Don’t like him?”
“Seebright doesn’t even know I’m alive. I’m a voice on the telephone to him.”
“Who owns Mariota Records?”
“It’s a corporation.”
“Yes, but someone owns the controlling interest. Is it Seebright?”
“He’s the president”
“And Armstrong is vice-president. Or, are there more vice-presidents?”
“Armstrong is one more than we need, since we also have a treasurer and a secretary.”
“Of course. Every corporation has to have a treasurer and a secretary. Who are they?”
“The treasurer’s our bookkeeper, Mr. Farnham, Edward M. — M for Milquetoast — Farnham.”
“And the secretary?”
“Arthur Dorcas — he’s out at the plant”
“The plant?”
“You don’t think we press the records up in the office, do you? We’ve got a big plant over in Newark.”
“I don’t even know what a record’s made of. Wax, or something like that?”
Violet gave him a pitying — and somewhat drunken — glance. “Wax — maybe beeswax...”
“Maybe,” grinned Johnny. “Now, look, about Marjorie Fair...”
It was a tactical error; Johnny had assumed that the fifth and sixth drinks, which had come and gone, would have fogged Violet’s brain — as they had fogged his own so that he had to concentrate terrifically. The way Violet drenched her tonsils with the Scotches should have warned him, but he had never had experience with a real lush.
He got it now. The moment he mentioned the forbidden subject, Violet reacted. She caught one of the half dozen glasses of soda water, untouched until now, and hurled it, glass and all, into Johnny’s face. And she gave him some words, practically all four-letter words.
Their regular waiter and an assistant were hustling Johnny and Violet out of the room while the soda water was still trickling down Johnny’s face. Violet was quite willing to continue her abuse of Johnny in the expanse of the railroad station, but Johnny eased himself adroitly into a hurrying throng of train-bound home-goers and eluded her.
He emerged from the station on Vanderbilt and got into a taxicab. A few minutes later he alighted in front of the Forty-fifth Street Hotel.
Chapter Ten
The door of Room 821 was slightly ajar and voices were coming from within. Johnny pushed open the door. Sam was seated on the edge of the nearest bed. Susan Fair occupied the only chair in the room and a chunky man of about twenty-eight or thirty was standing beside Susan’s chair, scowling at Sam Cragg.
“Hello, folks,” Johnny greeted the assemblage.
“Johnny!” cried Sam. “This is Marjorie Fair’s boy friend.”
“From Iowa,” Johnny said.
Doug Esbenshade did not offer his hand. “I chartered a plane,” he said. “I’m going to stay here in New York until I send the man who killed Marjorie to the electric chair.”
“Good luck,” said Johnny.
“Every dime I’ve got will go into this — if it has to go,” Esbenshade continued. “I’ve already engaged a private detective—”
“You could have saved some money,” Johnny said. “I’d have taken the job for half price.”
“You?” Esbenshade shot a quick glance down at Susan. “I thought you said he was a—”
“A book salesman,” Johnny cut in. “But I also have a peculiar talent for criminal investigation...”
“Johnny,” Sam exclaimed warningly, “You promised you wouldn’t—”
“When did I make such a promise?”
“The last time, after we left Las Vegas. You said from then on we’d stick to our business — selling books...”
“Fletcher,” interrupted Esbenshade, “Susan’s told me your story and I’m not at all satisfied with it.”
“For that matter,” said Johnny, “Susan told me about you and I’m not at all satisfied with you.”
Esbenshade reddened. “Now, look here, you...”
Johnny yawned deliberately. He looked pointedly at Susan Fair. “Is he a fair sample of the boys in Des Moines? The rich ones?”
Esbenshade took a quick step toward Johnny. “I’ve a mind to show you—”
“What?”
Esbenshade clenched a fist. What he would have done with it remained undecided, for at that moment the phone rang and Johnny scooped it up.
“Yes,” he said. Then he looked at Esbenshade in surprise. “I guess you told the desk you’d be in my room. This is for you.”
Esbenshade took the phone. “Douglas Esbenshade. Oh, yes, send him up to Room eight twenty-one.” He hung up, a gleam of triumph in his slightly piggish eyes.
“That’s the detective; now maybe we’ll get somewhere.”
Johnny groaned. “I don’t know whether I’m in the mood for another detective today.”
“You’ll talk to this one. He’s the best in the business.”
“Jeez, Johnny,” said Sam, “do we have to? They got a good picture on at the Roxy and I thought since we, uh, since we didn’t have anything else to do tonight, we might...”
“I think that’s a good idea, Sam. Do you mind, folks...”
“I certainly do mind,” Esbenshade blustered.
Susan Fair got to her feet. “Doug, perhaps we’d better...”
Knuckles rapped on the door; good and loud.
“Your boy,” Johnny said to Esbenshade.
“Come in,” Esbenshade called.
The door opened and Jefferson Todd came into Room 821; Jefferson Todd, the World’s Greatest Detective... according to his own advertisement in the Classified Telephone Directory. He was about six feet four inches tall and so lean he had to stand twice in one spot to cast a shadow.
He stopped just within the door, his jaw slack in astonishment.
“Johnny Fletcher,” he said, “By all that’s holy...!”
“Jefferson Todd!” groaned Johnny.
“Jeez,” said Sam, “the long drink of water.”
If Todd was surprised to find Johnny and Sam Cragg here, Esbenshade was even more chagrined to learn that Todd and Johnny were acquainted.
“You fellows friends?” he exclaimed.
Jefferson Todd finally looked at Esbenshade. “Mr. Esbenshade, I presume.”
“Yes,” said Esbenshade. “You were recommended to me by Congressman Wallencooper, but if you and Fletcher here are friends, I don’t know...”
“Oh, it’s all right, Esbenshade,” Johnny said. “We’re not friends’. In fact, Todd hates my guts and I like him, too.”
Todd bared wolfish teeth. “Always the card, Fletcher.” He came further into the room. “I did a little job for Congressman Wallencooper a couple of years ago. He’d got mixed up with some—”
“Tut-tut, Jefferson,” Johnny chided. “You’re forgetting your ethics; a private eye doesn’t talk about his client’s affairs.”
“Mr. Esbenshade,” said Todd, “it shall give me great pleasure to work for you, especially if—” with a dark glance at Johnny — “if Fletcher here is involved in the matter. It has long been my ambition to send him to jail.”
“You should live that long, Todd,” growled Sam. “Say the word, Johnny, and I’ll tie him up into a pretzel knot.”
“As for you, Cragg,” Todd said, “you don’t worry me one bit. You’ve got muscle and—” he snapped his fingers — “that’s what I think of muscle.” He turned to Esbenshade and tapped his forehead dramatically. “It’s this that counts, Mr. Esbenshade. I haven’t failed on a case in three years...”
“My fiancée was murdered here in this hotel, Todd,” Esbenshade began.
“I know all about it,” Todd interrupted. “My friends at Headquarters have given me the whole story...”
“You mean you read about it in the evening paper,” Johnny sneered. “You don’t even know the name of the Homicide man in charge of—”