“No!”
There was so much vehemence in the word that Johnny looked at her sharply.
“I’m going to get him myself. I’m going to make him pay...!”
Johnny got to his feet. “Go back to Iowa, Miss...”
“I talked to Doug, long distance,” Susan went on. “He’s flying here. Together—”
“Doug?” Johnny asked.
“Doug Esbenshade. Peggy’s fiancé...”
Johnny seated himself again. “You mean your sister was engaged to marry a man back in Iowa?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought—”
“She wanted a year, to see what she could do with her voice. Doug was willing to let her try. The year was up — a month ago.”
“And she didn’t go back?”
“She even stopped writing. That was why — why I came here. We got worried. The family, Doug—”
“Your father and mother are both living?”
“Oh, yes. I... I couldn’t tell them. That’s why I phoned Doug. He’s telling them.”
Johnny looked down at his hands, then up at the smart beige suit that Susan was wearing. “Your family is not... well, poor...”
“Why, no. Dad’s got a small business.”
“This Doug?”
“He’s one of the richest men in Des Moines. His father owned a big department store. He died two years ago. Doug was the only son.”
Johnny shook his head. “I don’t understand it.” As Susan looked at him, puzzled, “Your family isn’t poor, your sister’s fiancé has a mil — well, a lot of money... yet she was being locked out for nonpayment of rent...”
Susan stared at Johnny for a moment, then exclaimed poignantly. “So that was it. That’s why she wouldn’t come back, why she stopped writing. Her money was gone and she — she didn’t want anyone back home to know. It was just like Peggy. She was so proud she would die, before she’d admit...”
Neither Johnny nor Susan knew that Marjorie Fair had planned just that.
Johnny said: “Did your sister write you — I mean, before she stopped writing altogether — of her life, in New York?”
“Oh, yes, she wrote two and three times a week. She told me everything, what she did, the people she met—”
“You knew then that she worked for the Mariota Record Company?”
“Yes, she took the job for the contacts. Her ambition was—” Susan stopped and looked sharply at Johnny. “Your roommate told me you’d never talked to Peggy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how do you know so much about Peggy?”
“I went over to the Mariota Record Company this morning.”
“Why?”
Johnny hesitated. “This morning the police lieutenant came into my room and questioned me. He seemed to think I was the logical person to have kil — I mean, he intimated that I was under suspicion, so when I happened to be in the neighborhood of the Mariota offices I went in...”
“What did you find out?”
“That she had worked there and had left six months ago.”
“I could have told you that.”
“But I didn’t know you this morning.”
Susan Fair looked down at Johnny, her forehead creased in thought. Finally, she said: “Mr. Fletcher, what is your business — what do you do for a living?”
Johnny shrugged. “I’m a book salesman.”
“And the big man who lives with you?”
“He’s my assistant.”
“He’s sick.”
“Why, no — he just felt like staying in bed today.”
Susan drew a deep breath. “I’m going to talk frankly, Mr. Fletcher. When Lieutenant Rook and the hotel manager returned to Peggy’s room this morning after talking to you they said... some things about you...”
“I can imagine.”
“What is a hustler?”
Johnny grinned faintly. “Which one called me that — Peabody?”
“Yes.”
Johnny coughed gently. “The term hustler is a rather loose one. Generally, it means a man who lives — well, without working. Working, at a regular job.”
“Well, how do you make your living, then?”
“The New Yorker hustler, and there are hundreds of them around Times Square alone, ekes out a miserable existence by smalltime sharpshooting. He steers suckers to floating crap games, he collects a few bets on the numbers game, he touts on horse races, he knows where to get you a bottle of Scotch — for a price. He makes a buck where he can.” Johnny shook his head. “I never thought of myself as a hustler. I’m a book salesman, probably the best in the country...”
“Yet, Mr. Peabody said you owed three weeks room rent, even now...”
“So did your sister.” Johnny got to his feet, smiled at Susan Fair and left the room.
Down in Room 821, Sam Cragg, dressed for the street, was waiting for Johnny Fletcher. He was feeling quite chipper. “A guy don’t appreciate clothes until he hasn’t got any. I never felt so naked in my life as I did today. Especially, when that good-lookin’ babe was here.”
“Weren’t you in bed?”
“Yeah, but I kept thinkin’ about the pants I wasn’t wearing. Uh, what’d you think of her?”
“She doesn’t like me, on account of Peabody told her I was a hustler.”
“That Peabody,” growled Sam. “C’n you imagine, he was goin’ to lock out this girl’s sister? Some day that guy’s going to give me an opportunity and he’s going to take a good long vacation from locking people out of their rooms.”
Johnny went to Sam’s bed and threw back the covers. He grunted as he retrieved the metal phonograph record. “Like to hear this, Sam?”
“Yeah sure, but how’re we going to play it when we ain’t got a phonograph?”
“They’ve got them in stores, haven’t they?”
Johnny picked up an old Saturday Evening Post, slipped the record between the pages and headed for the door. Sam followed.
Down in the lobby, Peabody scowled at them from behind the desk. Johnny went up.
“I say, there’s a little balance I owe you, isn’t there...?”
“You know very well there is,” Peabody said, sourly.
“How much is it?”
“Twenty-four dollars and sixty-five cents.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“It’s enough,” Peabody said, sarcastically. “And don’t tell me you’ve got the money to pay it.”
Johnny drew a wallet out of his breast pocket and opened it about an eighth of an inch. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to get some cash, when I was at the bank... A check be all right...?”
“And what would I do with one of your checks?”
Johnny made a clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Have I ever given you rubber?”
He drew a bank book out of his pocket, put it flat on the desk and moved it daintily toward Mr. Peabody, with his little finger. Mr. Peabody sniffed and picked up the book. Then he almost swallowed his false teeth.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars!”
“Just a small account I started at a near-by bank, for convenience,” said Johnny, carelessly.
“This is ridiculous,” cried Peabody, “this morning you didn’t have—”
“I told you last week, I had a remittance coming from home.”
“Remittance! Home! You haven’t got a home—”
“I resent that.” With a flourish Johnny drew out his checkbook, the one from the bank where he had the straight commercial account. Sam Cragg suddenly poked his elbow. “Nix, Johnny!” he whispered hoarsely.
Johnny ignored his friend and reached for the pen on the desk. “I better make this out for a hundred, so I’ll have enough cash for this evening.”
Mr. Peabody regarded him sullenly. “The bank’s closed for business, but it’s only four-thirty and it so happens that I know one of the tellers at this bank... Do you still want to give me a check?”