“The others are Joe Dorcas and Edward Farnham.”
Armstrong got to his feet. “Mr. Seebright, I think you ought to know that this man called at my office this morning, pretending to be a policeman...”
“I never said I was,” Johnny retorted.
Seebright made an impatient gesture. “Sit down, Armstrong.” He turned to Johnny. “This is a director’s meeting, Fletcher. I brought you in to talk to these men, because I don’t want them to think I’m doing anything behind their backs—”
“No, you wouldn’t want to do anything like that,” said Johnny.
“Now, talk,” Seebright snapped.
“About what?”
“The Carson record — that’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. I guess so.”
“All right, how much?”
Johnny brightened. “Right to the point. You tell me how much?”
“If the decision was mine alone,” Seebright said, “You’d get the toe of Jerome’s boot.”
“We can’t do business on that basis.”
“I don’t want to do business with you,” Seebright snarled. “But I’ve got a board of directors. They have minds of their own; bright minds. They ought to be bright, anyway, because they certainly don’t use them very often...”
Joe Dorcas, a sullen-faced man of about forty, bared his teeth. “You haven’t done so well with your own brain, Orville.”
“I didn’t let the record get stolen,” Seebright retorted.
“Neither did I.”
“No, maybe you didn’t let it get stolen.”
Dorcas sprang to his feet. “Are you insinuating that I had something to with its disappearance?”
“I’m not insinuating, Dorcas. I’m telling you, right out. You — or one of these other great brains — stole the record. This man here” — stabbing a wizened finger at Johnny — “is in cahoots with one of you.”
“Uh-uh,” said Johnny, “I’m not in cahoots with anyone.”
“Bah! You never got that record by yourself.”
Armstrong got slowly to his feet. “Mr. Seebright, I’ve had just about enough of this. I’m going home...”
“You’ll go when I dismiss you, Armstrong,” Seebright said. “And that goes for the rest of you. We’re going to settle this business right here and now. All right, we’ll pay the ransom for the record. The question is, how much?”
“I hear you talking, gentlemen,” said Johnny Fletcher.
“You shut up,” Seebright snapped. He pointed at Armstrong. “How much?”
“You know what it’s worth to us, Seebright...”
“I do — but we’re not paying that for it. Because we haven’t got the money. Five thousand, Armstrong?”
Armstrong raised his shoulders and let them fall again. Seebright whirled on Doniger. “Doniger?”
“Five thousand’s all right with me,” Doniger replied.
Seebright turned to Edward M. — for Milquetoast — Farnham. He said: “Farnham?” Then he brushed him aside with an impatient gesture, as of no consequence. “Dorcas? Is it five thousand?”
“In Confederate money — yes,” Dorcas growled.
“You’re against paying for the record?”
“Yes!”
“You’re outvoted.” Seebright turned to Fletcher. “Five thousand dollars is our best offer.”
“You railroaded that through,” Johnny said, easily.
“It’s all you’ll get.”
“For a Con Carson record?” He shook his head. “If I had a Carson record I’d ask a lot more than that for it.”
“If you had a Carson record?”
“Yes.”
Seebright looked narrowly at Johnny. “Have you, or have you not, got the Carson record?”
Johnny looked surprised. “Me have a Carson record? Where would I get it?”
“I’m in no mood for games, Fletcher.”
“Murder isn’t a game, Mr. Seebright.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Marjorie Fair was murdered.”
Orville Seebright gritted his teeth. “We were talking about the Con Carson record. Have you or have you not got it?”
“No.”
“You said you had it.”
“I said nothing of the kind,” Johnny retorted. “I asked you what you’d give for the Carson record and right away you brought me in here.”
Seebright went to the door, opened it and yelled: “Jerome!”
Johnny put his tongue in his cheek and looked at the paneled ceiling. Jerome did not appear. Seebright yelled again into the hallway: “Jerome, damn it!”
There was a loud thump somewhere near the outer hall. “Somebody fell down,” Johnny said.
Seebright called for the third time. “Jerome, come in here and throw this man out.”
“Oh, is that why you want Jerome?” Johnny asked, innocently.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and a cruel look came over Seebright’s wizened face. But it was replaced by an expression of astonishment as Sam Cragg appeared in the doorway.
“Jerome can’t come,” he said. “He’s had an accident...”
“I don’t believe it!” cried Seebright.
“Ten’ll get you twenty, Jerome’s counting daisies,” said Johnny.
Joe Dorcas came forward. “You manhandled Jerome?” he asked Sam.
Sam grinned. “You mean that sissy out there?” He winked at Johnny.
Johnny said: “Shall we go, Sam?”
Seebright and Dorcas followed them out to the door, where Jerome was sitting on the floor shaking his head, only one-quarter conscious. In passing, Sam stooped and shoved Jerome’s head back to the floor. It struck the hard wood with a nice thump.
But in the elevator going down, Johnny was glum. “We still haven’t got a client.”
Sam was happier than he had been for a long time. “He had a nice grip, that Jerome lad, and his footwork wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t take it at all.”
“Five thousand,” Johnny muttered.
“Huh? Five thousand, what?”
“The record. That’s what they offered me for it.”
“And you didn’t sell it?”
“It was Seebright’s attitude. He wasn’t interested in Marjorie Fair. It was the record he wanted, nothing else.”
Sam groaned. “Look, I feel sorry as all hell about the babe, but we didn’t know her. She’s dead but we didn’t do it and five thousand is five thousand...”
“He’ll pay ten tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
The door shivered under the violent banging of a fist and Johnny Fletcher rolled over in bed and opened one eye. He looked at the door and groaned. In the other bed, Sam Cragg snored lustily, his slumber undisturbed.
“Go way,” Johnny called to the door.
Knuckles beat another tattoo on the door and the voice of authority announced: “This is Lieutenant Rook, Fletcher. Open up.”
Johnny threw back the bedcovers and shuffled to the door. He unlatched it and blinked into the angry face of the man from the Homicide Department.
“Can’t you come back in the morning?” he complained.
“What the hell do you think this is?” Rook demanded.
“The middle of the night...”
“It’s after eight.”
“That’s what I said — the middle of the night.”
“You got up early enough yesterday, according to your story...” Rook came into the room, revealing that there was someone behind him. Sergeant Kowal.
Kowal followed his superior, his lips curled back to show tobacco-stained teeth. “This is him, Lieutenant,” he said.
“I thought it would be.” Rook scowled at the sleeping form of Sam Cragg. “Every time I see that big lug he’s in bed.”
Sam’s snoring stopped and his eyes opened. “I heard that.” He sat up and scratched his body to the accompaniment of a yawn.