“Newark,” exclaimed the man beside Sam. “What’s he doing over there?”
Sam turned and looked over the other man quite frankly. “You know Johnny?”
“I’ve met him.”
Susan Fair said: “Excuse me, Mr. Cragg, this is Mr. Armstrong.”
Sam’s face lit up. “Oh, Armstrong, huh? You’re one of the suspects...”
Armstrong recoiled. “Suspects!” He shot a quick glance at Susan Fair. The girl looked down at her cocktail glass which contained the remnants of a dry martini.
Sam said, naively: “Johnny was tellin’ me about you. Says he went a couple of rounds with you yesterday.”
“Is that what he called it?” Armstrong asked, grimly. “And did he refer to me as a suspect?”
“Yep.”
“Who else does he call a suspect?”
“Seebright, Joe Dorcas, a guy named Doniger and you.”
“What’s the matter with Ed Farnham?”
“He said Farnham didn’t amount to anything.”
Susan Fair suddenly looked up. “Mr. Cragg — please... do you mind?”
“Mind, what?”
“Mr. Armstrong and I...”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Sam said cheerfully. “I don’t mind. Like I said — me’n Johnny are working for Esbenshade. Which is the same as working for you. Johnny figures one of these guys knocked... did for your sister...”
“Mr. Cragg,” Armstrong said sharply.
“Huh?”
“Miss Fair prefers that you leave.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything.”
Armstrong’s mouth twisted contemptuously. “Are you as stupid as you pretend to be?”
Sam’s huge hand shot out and grabbed Armstrong’s throat. “Why, you wizened little monkey, I got a good notion...”
Armstrong sputtered and choked and tried with both his hands to tear away Sam’s grip, but it wasn’t until Sam loosened the hold that Armstrong was able to free himself.
Sam got to his feet and waved away the bartender, who was already coming around the bar to intercede. “Sorry, Miss Fair,” he said and with simple dignity walked out of the cocktail lounge.
In the lobby he waited for the elevator and the clerk caught sight of him. “Mr. Cragg!” he called.
Sam walked over to the desk. The clerk reached into the key slot and took out some slips of paper. Since they carried their keys with them and seldom received any but bad news, Sam and Johnny had gotten out of the habit of stopping at the desk.
Sam was surprised therefore to receive the message slips. There were four. Three of them read: “Mr. Seebright telephoned. Anxious to have you call him.” The fourth read: “Miss Rodgers called.”
Sam took the slips and went up the eighth floor. In his room he got the telephone directory, turned to the m’s and got the number of the Mariota Record Company.
A few moments later, the hotel operator connected him. “Look,” said Sam, “I’m calling for Johnny Fletcher...”
“It’s about time,” exclaimed Violet Rodgers. “Put him on, I want to talk to him.”
“He ain’t here. I was just calling to tell Seebright that I found his message in our box and I thought maybe Johnny—”
“Mr. Seebright’s called Fletcher?” Violet Rodgers asked.
“Of course, that’s why I’m calling... This is the Mariota Record Company, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know Mr. Seebright had been trying to get Fletcher. I... I wanted to talk to him myself...”
“Who’re you?”
“Violet Rodgers.”
“Oh,” said Sam, “I got a message here from you, too. What’d you want to talk to Johnny about?”
“Something personal.”
“Well, he ain’t here. I thought maybe Mr. Seebright might know where he was.”
“Mr. Seebright hasn’t been in the office all day.”
“Then where’d he call from?”
“His home, no doubt.”
“What’s the number there?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out the home numbers of the staff.”
Sam grunted. “Who’re you working for now, Seebright or the creditors?”
Violet Rodgers hesitated. “You’ve got a point there, lad,” she said then, “the number is Plaza five one one two seven... And look, if your friend Fletcher shows up, tell him to buzz me right away. Until five-thirty I’ll be here at the office and after that, the same place he and I were yesterday evening. Got that...?”
“Got it.”
Sam hung up and called Plaza 5-1127. Mr. Seebright was not at home, a gruff voice told Sam.
“How do you feel today?” Sam asked the man who gave him the Seebright data.
“Who’s this?” the voice on the phone snapped.
“Oh, just the guy who slapped you around last night,” said Sam and, chuckling, hung up.
Chapter Sixteen
Johnny Fletcher’s body was a solid, aching mass of bone and flesh. Dried blood was plastered over his left cheek and chin. A tiny trickle of warm, new blood was running from the right corner of his mouth.
He looked through a haze at the giant, Georgie, who stood over him.
“Never saw a guy sleep so long from a coupla little smacks,” George grunted.
“How long was I out?” Johnny asked.
Georgie stooped and twisting his fist in Johnny’s coat collar, dragged him across the room. He dropped him limply on the sofa. Johnny saw Joe, then. He was seated before a low table, a few feet away, playing solitaire. He caught Johnny’s eye.
“Well, Fletcher?” he asked. “Do you need any more coaxing?”
“Yeah,” said Georgie. “You was lucky before. You kicked me and that made me mad, so I knocked you out. But I’m not mad, now, and when I slap you around again, I ain’t going to hit hard enough to anes — anesthetic you.”
“Anesthetize,” Joe corrected.
“It’s really gonna hurt this time.”
Johnny looked from Joe, to Georgie, then back to Joe. “I’m no hero,” he said. “Not for free. Give me back my money and you can have the damn record.”
“What money?” asked Georgie.
“The four hundred dollars you and Joe split.”
Georgie showed snaggled teeth in what was supposed to be a grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Money’s too hard to get in the first place,” said Joe, cheerfully. “We’ve got a rule about giving it back.”
“So just pick up the telephone nice and call your pal, huh?” said Georgie.
“What’ll I tell him?”
“The record,” Joe said. “He’s to bring it to the corner of Lenox and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. He’s to stand there, until Georgie comes up and asks him for it.”
“Does he know Sam?”
“I lamped him this a.m. when you’n him left the hotel.”
Johnny raised himself from the couch to go to the telephone and could not quite repress a groan. He picked up the phone, dialed the number of the Forty-fifth Street Hotel and said: “Room eight twenty-one.”
Sam’s voice came over the phone. “Hello, who’s this?”
Johnny pressed the receiver tightly to his ear and lowered the mouthpiece. He looked at Joe. “There’s no answer.”
“Johnny!” cried the voice of Sam Cragg, “where are you...?”
Johnny hung up. Joe threw down his cards and got up. “Whaddya mean, no answer? I distinctly heard talking.”
“The operator...”
“Is the operator a man?”
Joe gestured to Georgie. The big man started for Johnny. Hastily, Johnny took off the receiver. “I’ll try again.” He dialed the number and got Sam.
“What’s happening, Johnny?” Sam cried in panic.
“Listen, Sam,” said Johnny. “I want you to get the record from behind the picture.”
“It’s gone,” Sam exclaimed. “Somebody swiped it.”