“Lieutenant Rook,” snapped Todd.
“And he didn’t mention my name?”
“He apparently didn’t consider you worthy of mention.
He told me he questioned some bums in an adjoining room—”
“Bums!” cried Cragg.
“The room doesn’t adjoin,” Johnny corrected. “It’s across the air shaft.”
Jefferson Todd raised the palm of his right hand and walked around the beds to the window. He peered out. The shade of the room that had been Marjorie Fair’s was drawn and there wasn’t a thing Jefferson Todd could see from his vantage point, but he gave it quite a bit of attention and finally turned back, nodding knowingly.
“You’ve got it all solved now,” said Johnny. “Quick work.”
“Doug,” Susan said, suddenly, “this is about all I can stand.”
“You’re the, ah, deceased’s sister?” Todd asked.
Esbenshade answered for Susan. “It’s been a great blow to her, naturally...”
“Naturally,” said Todd. He frowned mightily. “Perhaps you and I, Mr. Esbenshade, could adjourn to your own, ah, quarters and discuss this...”
Esbenshade hesitated, his eye on Johnny. But Susan was already moving to the door. “All right, Mr. Todd,” he said.
He followed Susan out. At the door, Todd turned. “I’ll be seeing you later, Fletcher.”
“Not if I see you first.”
“And your wrestler friend,” Todd added, and went out.
Sam sprang to his feet, fuming. “There’s something about that guy that gets my goat.”
“I’m glad Todd’s in this,” said Johnny, “because where Todd is, there’s money. Big, fat fees.”
Sam’s face turned bitter. “You’re in it already, up to your neck. I can see it, Johnny.”
“Sometime tomorrow, Sam,” Johnny said, soberly, “I’ve got to get a pile of money...”
“You’ve got a pile today.”
“Yes, and that’s why I’ve got to get a bigger one tomorrow.”
“Why? You’ve got two hundred and some bucks.”
“Do you want to know how I got it?”
“No,” Sam said quickly. “I said this afternoon I didn’t want to know.”
“Then just take my word that we’ve got to raise quite a stack of do-re-mi. Dammit, Esbenshade’s got it and he’s dumb enough, but Todd’s got his mitts on him first and Todd doesn’t let go of money. It’ll have to be one of the others.”
“One of what others?”
“One of the Mariota people, I think. By the way — where’s the record?”
Sam threw back the covers of his bed. “I put it back here, for safekeeping. But I don’t see why this is so valuable.”
“It may not be worth a nickel. But I’ve got a hunch it is.”
Sam brought out the Saturday Evening Post containing the Con Carson master record. Johnny took the record out of the magazine, frowned for a moment, then went to the battered desk and opening a drawer, took out a roll of Scotch tape — a leftover from more affluent days. Stepping to the wall he took down one of the hotel pictures — a canal scene in Venice. He placed the phonograph record on the back of it, fastening the edges to the back of the picture with Scotch tape. Then he hung the picture back on the wall. “Can’t tell there’s anything under there.” He inhaled deeply. “Well, let’s go.”
“Where to?”
Johnny shrugged, and picked up the telephone directory. “A vice-president, maybe.” He searched in the directory, couldn’t find the name he wanted, then tried another. He was successful this time. “Or maybe a president.”
Chapter Eleven
Johnny and Sam stepped out of the taxicab in front of the big apartment house on Park Avenue as a liveried doorman held open the door for them. He followed them into the lobby.
“Mr. Seebright?” Johnny said.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mr. Jonathan Fletcher and secretary.”
The doorman went to a house phone and buzzed Seebright’s apartment. “Mr. Jonathan Fletcher and secretary to see Mr. Seebright,” he said, into the phone. He listened a moment, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned to Johnny.
“Mr. Seebright is in the midst of a business conference. He wants to know if it’s important.”
“I think it’s very important,” Johnny said.
The doorman said into the phone: “He says it’s extremely important, sir. Very well.” He hung up. “Apartment twelve C.”
In the automatic elevator Sam grunted. “Important, huh?”
“To me, yes. And for all I know it might be important to Seebright. How do I know?”
“Oh, I’m not complaining, Johnny. The old boy with the brass buttons downstairs couldn’t throw me far, anyway.”
The elevator reached the twelfth floor. Apartment C was nearby. Johnny pressed the door buzzer and the door was opened by a butler, who topped Sam Cragg by a couple of inches and was just as broad through the shoulders. Sam sized him up with interest.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the butler said smoothly.
“Mr. Seebright is expecting us, I believe,” Johnny said, loftily.
“It better be good, though,” said the butler, grimly.
Sam began to smile.
A door opened and a thin, nervous-looking man of about fifty popped out into the reception hall. “Yes, yes, what is it?”
“Mr. Seebright,” said Johnny, “is your conscience clear?”
Seebright gasped. “What was that?”
“Are you sleeping well these nights?”
Seebright shot a quick glance at his butler, who was hovering nearby. “Look,” he said, “I’m in the middle of a very important business conference; I only let you come up because you convinced the doorman down below that you had something important to tell me...”
“I have.”
“Well, out with it.”
“Here?” Johnny indicated the butler.
“Jerome is in my confidence,” Seebright said, testily.
Johnny shrugged. “It’s about Marjorie Fair.”
“Who the devil is Marjorie Fair?”
“You don’t know?”
“I never heard the name before in my life.”
“She worked for you,” said Johnny, “and she was murdered today.”
“Oh, that,” snorted Seebright “Armstrong told me about it.”
“And Doniger?”
“What the devil does Doniger know about it?”
“I don’t know — I’m asking you.”
Seebright looked again at Jerome, his butler. “Are you a police officer?”
Johnny shook his head and Seebright gestured to Jerome. The big butler came forward. “On your way, gentlemen.”
“The bum’s rush,” Johnny observed.
An eager light came into Sam’s eyes. “Yes or no, Johnny?”
“In a minute.” He looked at Seebright. “Mr. Seebright, how much is the Con Carson record worth to you?”
Seebright, about to walk off, whirled back. “What do you know about the Carson record?”
“Call off the sheep dog.”
Seebright signaled to Jerome, who was already reaching for Sam Cragg — a lucky reprieve for Jerome, only he didn’t know it.
Seebright glowered at Johnny, then came to a sudden decision. “Come inside with me.”
He turned and went through a door. Johnny followed him down a long hall, through another door into a beautifully paneled den, clouded with tobacco smoke. Seated about in leather armchairs were Charles Armstrong, vice-president of Mariota Records, Doniger, the sales manager, and two other men.
Seebright stopped just within the door and announced dramatically: “Gentlemen, this man claims he knows something about the Carson record.”
“I already know Mr. Armstrong and Doniger,” Johnny said. He waved pleasantly, “Hi, fellows.”