She was twenty-four years old and she had a complexion for which a movie star would have given a husband. She had gloriously golden hair (natural) and the kind of cleancut, fresh features that women hate, if they don’t have them.

And she was broke.

She had exactly three cents in her purse as she stared at Mr. Peabody’s third and positively final ultimatum. Thirty-three dollars and seventy-eight cents, by twelve o’clock, noon, or we must have your room, Mr. Peabody wrote.

Even at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel, this wasn’t a lot of money for a girl to raise — a girl with Marjorie Fair’s, shall we say, pulchritude? Except... well, that was the reason Marjorie was down to three cents.

She dropped Mr. Peabody’s note on her unmade bed and went to the window. The sight was not a cheerful one, an eight-foot air shaft which let a very little light and a great deal of dank air into the rooms surrounding it.

She stared for a moment at the window directly opposite her. One of the two occupants of that room had smirked at her several times in the past week — times when she had encountered him in the elevator or in the lobby. It shouldn’t be hard to get thirty-three dollars from him. His partner, an enormous heavy-set man, was obviously a wrestler or fighter and as such the two men should have money.

Even while she was thinking, the big man across the air shaft came to the window. He was wearing shorts... and nothing else. Marjorie withdrew hastily.

She went into the bathroom, looked for a long time at the medicine chest. Finally she opened it. Tooth paste, toothbrush, mouthwash, cologne, nail polish, a bottle of mercurochrome.

No iodine, no sleeping tablets. And only three cents. She was too poor even to commit suicide.

She came out of the bathroom. Of course, there was the window. She looked at it for a long time. It didn’t appeal to her, but it seemed the only way and she might have decided on it eventually, but before she could come to a decision, Fate intervened.

A knock on Marjorie Fair’s door.

The manager for the rent, she thought. He’s written me for it, hounded me to my death — isn’t that enough? She went to the door and opened it.

It wasn’t the manager. It was a man Marjorie knew, a man who might...

He smiled at her. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

He entered and, closing the door, stood with his back to it. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping around this early in the morning.”

“It’s all right.”

“I had to see you,” he went on, his eyes darting about the room. “It’s about the... the audition you made.”

“It was no good,” Marjorie said. “I haven’t the voice...”

“Yes, you have. You need a little training that’s all...”

“I’ve had training,” Marjorie said. “I’ve had ten thousand dollars’ worth of training.”

His eyes ceased their searching of the room and fixed themselves upon her. “With your looks, you don’t have to sing.”

“I know,” Marjorie said. “You’re the twenty-eighth man in New York who’s said that to me.”

“And?”

“There’s a man back in Iowa who said it. He’s got a million dollars... and I still came to New York.”

“Well,” said the man, by the door, “I haven’t got a million dollars. But I’m going to have it in a year or two. That’s why I’m here...”

His mouth twisted in a crooked grin and he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pair of skintight gloves. He began putting them on. Marjorie watched him, not understanding.

“It’s the master,” he said, “you’ve got it and I want it.”

Marjorie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean the — the Con Carson recording?”

“That’s right.”

“But it isn’t yours.”

“It’s going to be.” He reached behind his back and turned the bolt in the door. Marjorie knew what he was doing and retreated.

“Open that door!”

He started toward her. Marjorie opened her mouth. To scream was instinctive, but... in her mind flashed the message on the note the hotel manager had written her. Could a girl about to be evicted for nonpayment of hotel rent scream for help? Could a person in such a position cause a commotion in a hotel?

The scream died in her throat. She sidestepped the man’s reaching hands. He started to follow, but caught sight of the flat metal disk on the top of the chest of drawers, half covered by a newspaper.

Marjorie saw his glance and in a rush beat him to the disk. She got it in her hand and then a gloved fist smashed her face, throwing her against the window sill. He leaped after her and — and Marjorie’s hand came back, went part way out the open window.

The disk sailed smoothly across the air shaft and disappeared through a window on the other side.

A low cry of rage came from the man’s throat. His gloved hands caught Marjorie’s throat in a viselike grip, squeezed horribly.

The girl, who five minutes ago had been on the verge of committing suicide, fought for her life. But the fingers tightened inexorably about her windpipe and after a moment or two, the man dragged what was left of Marjorie Fair into the bathroom. He left her there and coming out, closed the bathroom door.

Knuckles rapped on the hall door. The man froze in his tracks like a tiger caught with his kill.

“Marjorie,” a feminine voice called. “It’s me — Susan!”

Fortunately, he had shot the bolt. The doorknob rattled, the knuckles rapped again on the door and then there was silence.

The man went to the door, put his ear against it and listened. He heard nothing and then for the first time in several moments he dared to breathe. Quietly he turned the bolt, opened the door and went out.

Johnny Fletcher stepped out of the elevator and crossing the narrow hall, opened the door of Room 821. As he entered the room Sam Cragg popped out of the bathroom.

“Johnny!” he cried, “my clothes are gone!”

Johnny cocked his head to one side and sized up the apparel of his roommate and partner. “Shoes, socks, shorts,” he enumerated, “shirt and necktie—”

“It’s my pants and coat,” Sam wailed.

“Oh yes, I didn’t notice.”

“What do you mean — you didn’t notice? When a guy ain’t got his pants on, you can’t help but notice.”

“All right, Sam, so you haven’t got your pants on. What of it? There’s no law against not wearing your pants in your own room.”

“But I’m telling you, Johnny — they’re gone. Somebody swiped ’em.”

Johnny looked thoughtfully at Sam, then stepped to the closet. He opened the door and peered in.

“Not here,” he said. “Have you tried the bathroom?”

“I’ve looked everywhere — even under the carpet. They’re gone.” Sam seated himself heavily on the edge of one of the twin beds. “And Peabody’s going to throw us out at noon! How can I walk the streets without any pants on?”

“You can’t.”

“But what’ll I do, what’ll I do?”

Johnny stepped to the window and looked across the eight-foot air shaft. “You can relax, Sam. I’ll think of something... Hello — what’s Peabody doing in the good-looking blonde’s room?”

“I don’t know. There’s some monkey business going on over there.”

Johnny exclaimed. “Monkey business! Those are flatfeet with Peabody.” Johnny turned to look at Sam, then caught sight of the metal disk on the nearest twin bed.

“Where’d this come from?”

Sam shrugged. “Search me. I was lookin’ for my pants and I stepped in the bathroom and when I came out there it was on the bed. Guess somebody tossed it through the window.”

Johnny looked at his friend in astonishment, then he stepped back to the window and peered across the air shaft again. “I don’t see the girl.”

Sam groaned. “Johnny, never mind what’s going on over there; think of us — me. I need pants and I need ’em bad. By twelve o’clock.”

Johnny’s eyes still searched the room across the air shaft. “There’s no hurry. We’re not moving at twelve o’clock.”

“Why not? We got Peabody’s third and positively final ultimatum, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but I just paid ten dollars on account. We’re good until...” Then Johnny caught himself. But it was too late. Sam came around the beds and caught Johnny’s arm.

“Where’d you get the ten bucks?”

Johnny pulled his arm free of Sam’s savage grip. “Why do you suppose I got up so early this morning? I went out and raised the money. Twelve dollars. I gave the hotel ten and—”

“You pawned my suit!” Sam howled. “You hocked the clothes off my back.”

Johnny swallowed hard. “Take it easy, Sam. It’s only for a couple of hours. I’m going down to Mort Murray’s this afternoon and put the bite on him.”

“Why didn’t you see Mort this morning?”

“I tried. He wasn’t at his place—”

“At eight in the morning? Of course not.”

“That’s what I said... You know Peabody; he hates my guts. On the stroke of twelve he’d lock us out. That’s why I thought I’d be on the safe side...”

“But we couldda gone out and sold some books before twelve.”

“If we had any books, which we haven’t.”

Sam staggered back to the bed and sat down heavily. A sob shook his massive torso. “Johnny, we’ve been through thick and thin together. But stealin’ my clothes is the last straw...”

“I didn’t steal them.”

“It’s the same as stealin’. Why didn’t you sell your clothes?”

“How could I? I couldn’t walk the streets without any clothes on, could I?”

“Can I?”

“You don’t have to. You can stay in here until I get your outfit back.”

“But what if you don’t get it back?”

“Have I ever let you down, Sam?”

“Yes!” cried Sam. “You’ve let me down a hundred times.”

“So it’s come to this.” Johnny sighed wearily. “All right, I’ll get you back your suit this afternoon and then we’re through — finished.”

Sam gasped. “What? What’d you say, Johnny?”

“I said we were through. You can go your way and I’ll go mine.”

Sam sprang to his feet. “Johnny, don’t talk like that. For Pete’s sake...” He grabbed Johnny’s wrist and looked sharply into Johnny’s face. “For a minute I thought you were serious.” He tried a weak grin. “I never know when you’re kiddin’.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Sam let go of Johnny’s wrist and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I take it back, Johnny. I apologize. Give me a swift kick, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It wouldn’t,” Johnny shook his head sadly. “You hurt my feelings.”

“Jeez, Johnny!”

The door resounded to the rapping of knuckles. Johnny leaped away from the window. “Get in bed, Sam,” he whispered tautly, “and here, put this under the covers with you...” He handed Sam the metal disk and started toward door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Fletcher,” called back the voice of Mr. Peabody, the manager of the Forty-fifth Street Hotel, “I’d like a word with you.”

Johnny turned, saw that Sam was scrambling into bed, then went to the door. He pulled it open. There was somebody with Mr. Peabody, a big, truculent-looking man of about forty.

Johnny handed Mr. Peabody a little slip of paper. “Sorry, old boy.”

Peabody looked at the slip. “I just checked with the desk. All right, you’re good for another week. But that’s not why I’m here...” He stepped around Johnny and saw Sam in the bed.

“Hi!” Sam said.

Mr. Peabody nodded curtly, disapprovingly, then turned back to Johnny. “Mr. Fletcher, this is Lieutenant Rook of the Police Department...”

“Crook?”

The lieutenant smiled without humor. “Rook.”

“Rook as in rook?”

Rook’s smile faded. “A wise guy!”

He came fairly into the room and surveyed Sam, sitting up in bed. “A rough night?”

“I ain’t feelin’ so good,” Sam retorted, “so I thought I’d sleep late this morning.”

“You sleep with your shirt and necktie on?”

“Any law against it?”

“For all of me,” shrugged Rook, “you can sleep with your shoes on.”

Sam brought his feet out from under the covers. “Well, I got them on, too.”

He’d forgotten about Mr. Peabody being present. The hotel manager stormed forward. “Mr. Cragg — our sheets!”

“He wanted to feel at home,” Johnny said, “he sleeps with his shoes on at home...”

“There’ll be an extra charge for those sheets...”

Sam sprang to his feet. “Oh yeah?”

Lieutenant Rook suddenly chopped the air with his right hand. “Just a minute, I’m here investigating a homicide—”

Johnny recoiled. “Not that good-looking blonde!” His eyes went to the window. “Over there?”

“You knew her?”

Johnny shook his head. “Only from seeing her through the window. And I saw her in the lobby once...”

“She never even spoke to you!” cried Peabody.

Rook gave the hotel manager a dirty look. “Please — I’ll do the talking.”

“Go ahead,” invited Johnny. He exhaled heavily. “That’s a real jolt.”

“Why?” snapped Rook.

“Are you kidding? A girl who looked like that... The only reason I didn’t make her acquaintance was, well...” He cleared his throat and looked at Peabody. “I’ve been a bit short of...”

“Money!” snapped Peabody.

Johnny smiled. “You took the word out of my mouth.”

Lieutenant Rook stabbed a stubby forefinger at Johnny. “All right, we’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get down to cases.”

“Shoot!” Then Johnny coughed. “I guess I shouldn’t have used that word.”

“Why not?”

Johnny nodded to the window.

“She wasn’t shot,” Rook snapped. The lieutenant took a huge object from his pocket, which on closer examination turned out to be a watch. “It’s nine-thirty-five,” he said. “Where were you between seven-thirty and nine o’clock this morning?”

“At seven-thirty,” Johnny said, “I was standing outside Uncle Ben’s Loan Shop on Eighth Avenue...”

“What for?”

“I was waiting for the place to open.” Johnny smiled at Mr. Peabody and took a pawn ticket from his pocket and held it up. “See...?”

“It didn’t take you from seven-thirty to nine-thirty to pawn whatever you pawned,” Rook snapped.

“Right. But the shop didn’t open until eight-thirty. I was the first customer in the store and I was in there for about fifteen minutes...”

“Why should it take fifteen minutes to pawn something?”

“Because there was a difference of opinion. Uncle Ben had one idea of the value of the, ah, merchandise and I had another. It took fifteen minutes to reconcile our viewpoints — reach a meeting point, so to speak.”

Lieutenant Rook glowered. “All right, that’s eight-forty-five. It didn’t take you over five or ten minutes to come back to the hotel...”

“I stopped off at the Automat on Broadway and had some corned beef hash... They have the best corned beef hash in town at the Automat...”

“All right, what time did you reach the hotel?” Rook snarled.

“About nine-twenty. You can check that because I stopped at the desk downstairs to pay my bill...”

“Ten dollars on account,” Peabody corrected.

“All right, ten dollars on account. Anyway, I didn’t come up in the elevator until nine-twenty-five. I was in here six or seven minutes before you pounded on the door.”

Rook looked steadily at Johnny for a moment, then walked to the stand between the beds and picked up the phone.

“Desk,” he said, then: “This is Lieutenant Rook of the Police Department. I’m up here in Room 821 with Mr. Peabody the manager... Fletcher, who occupies this room claims he stopped at the desk this morning and paid something on his bill... What time was that...?” He scowled at the phone. “You’re sure?” He nodded unhappily. “All right.”

He put the receiver back on the hook, looked down at it for a moment, then suddenly whirled on Sam Cragg. “You... you were here in your room, all morning...!”

“So were about two hundred other people in the hotel,” cut in Johnny, coming to Sam’s aid.

“Fletcher,” Rook said ominously, “I didn’t like you when I first came into this room. I’m liking you less every minute.” He turned back to Sam Cragg. “You can talk, can’t you?”

“Yes,” snapped Sam. “And I can read and write too. And I went clear through long division in school and was starting on decimals.”

Johnny, glancing through the window, gave a sudden start. “Hey!” he cried. “I thought you said it was the girl...” He rushed to the window.

Rook followed him.

Seated in a chair in the room across the air shaft was a girl — not Marjorie Fair, but a girl who looked very much like her, who was, if anything, even more attractive.

“It’s her sister,” Rook said. “She found the body.” He turned away from the window, looked at Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg, then shook his head. Then he started for the door. Peabody darted after him. At the door, the lieutenant turned.

“Don’t go taking any sudden trips,” he said and went out. Peabody followed him. Sam Cragg opened his mouth to say something, but Johnny gave him a warning shake of the head. He went to the door, listened for a moment, then opened the door suddenly. There was no one out in the hall and he closed the door again. He exhaled heavily.

“Now, what do you know about it, Sam?”

“Just what I told you... nothin’...”

Johnny went to Sam’s bed and pulling back the covers, brought out the metal disk. Sam crowded over. “I thought phonograph records were made out of wax or some kinda plastic,” he said.

“They are, but this is a master record.”

“It says Mariota on it.”

Johnny gave Sam a quick, chiding look. “That’s the name of the record company. A master record is the — the record from which all the others are made. I guess.”

Sam was reading the circular centerpiece on the record. “Con Carson: say, he’s all right!”

“He was all right,” Johnny corrected. “He was killed two days ago in that airplane crash in Nevada.”

“Zat so?” Sam whistled a note or two, off-key. “I guess this must have been his last song. I never heard it. Mmmm, Moon on the Desert... wonder what it’s like?” Then suddenly he looked at Johnny, wide-eyed. “Say, d’you suppose the girl across the way...?”

“Threw this over here? You’re sharp, Sam, awfully sharp today... I guessed that about nine and three-quarters minutes ago...”

Sam winced. “Then why didn’t you give it to the flatfoot?” Alarm came into his tone. “Johnny, you aren’t figuring on playing detective again — not when I haven’t even got a pair of pants...?”

“You’ll have your pants this afternoon, Sam; stop worrying. And your coat, too.”

“The maid’s due to clean up...”

“You’re not feeling well today, you thought you’d stay in bed,” Johnny suggested the alibi. “I’ll go down again to Mort’s.” He started for the door, but Sam called him back.

“What about my breakfast?”

Johnny pointed to the phone. “Room service. Here’s a buck.” Johnny tossed a crumpled bill on the bed. That left him with seventy-five cents.

Down in the lobby, Johnny encountered the bell captain, Eddie Miller, as slick a little man as ever shook down a hotel guest. Eddie was built like an overgrown jockey and he knew all the answers and practically all of the questions.

“I hear you’re gonna be with us another week, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, cynically.

“That’s right, Eddie, I got in just under the wire.” He took the bell captain’s arm and led him to one side. “Look, what’s the dope on the business up on the eighth floor?”

“Jeez, are you mixed in that?” Eddie exclaimed.

“I’m one of the chief suspects,” Johnny said, proudly. “The only trouble is, I have a sweet alibi.”

“Then what’re you worried about?”

“I’m not worried. Just curious. The girl was about my size and I would have been doing something about it except that I’ve been a little short of what it takes.”

Eddie Miller chuckled. “Ain’t that normal for you?”

“What do you mean?” Johnny exclaimed indignantly. “I’m almost never broke. Why, two months ago I was worth fifty thousand bucks.”

Eddie grinned cynically. “I’m only the bell captain, you don’t have to sell me a bill of goods. Anyway, broke or rich, I’m on your team, Mr. Fletcher. I always have been.”

“All right, then tell me about the little lady who got—” Johnny finished the sentence by drawing a finger across his throat.

Eddie Miller shook his head. “Uh-uh, choked.”

“Then it wasn’t suicide.”

“Oh, no. It’s murder and whoever done it almost got caught in the act.” Eddie looked surreptitiously around the lobby. “Her sister tried the door and it was locked. Then she came downstairs and got Peabody to go up with a key. By the time they got there — the door was unlocked...”

Johnny exclaimed. “You mean, the killer was inside when the sister was up the first time?”

“That’s right. He snuck out while the girl was getting Peabody.”

“Wait a minute,” Johnny said, “there’s something screwy about this. You say the sister went up and tried the door and when she found it was locked she went down and got Peabody to let her in; she must have been suspicious to do a thing like that, otherwise, why wouldn’t she think her sister had gone out for breakfast or something?”

“ ’Cause she just got in from out of town and didn’t have any place to wait.” Eddie Miller rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Funny thing, the Fair dame was in the same spot as you — she was gonna get the French key at noon.”

“She was broke?”

Eddie nodded. “She owed three weeks’ rent.” He shook his head. “A girl with her looks!”

Johnny groaned. “If I’d only known!”

“Yeah, you’d a put her bill on yours,” Eddie said, sarcastically.

“I can always raise money if I have to,” Johnny said.

“Well, you raised some this morning.”

“And I’m going to get some more before night — a lot more.” He looked at the clock in the lobby. “I’d better be starting.”

Eddie Miller looked wistful. “I’d give something to go around with you and watch you raise that money.”

Johnny grinned. “Work out your own routines.” He winked at Eddie and left the hotel. Outside he walked a half block to Seventh Avenue and turned left to Times Square.

He descended to the subway level and was just in time to catch an express. A few minutes later he got out at Fourteenth Street and climbing to the street walked back to Sixteenth Street.

A few doors off Seventh Avenue he entered a gloomy loft building and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He approached a ground glass door bearing the lettering: Murray Publishing Company, Mort Murray, President.

The door was locked. Johnny rattled the knob angrily. Mort was his sole hope of getting Sam back into his clothes.

“Damn it, Mort, you can’t do this to me!” he cried, rattling the door again.

A heavy-set man came puffing up the stairs and bore down on Johnny.

“Let me try it,” he said. Johnny stepped aside and the big man knocked on the door. “Telegram, Mr. Murray,” he called. “Important.”

There was no sound from inside.

The heavy-set man exclaimed peevishly. “That’s the third time I’ve climbed these steps.”

“You don’t look like a Western Union boy,” Johnny said.

The other took a folded document from his pocket. “How many of these would I deliver if I told them I was a bailiff?”

“Oh, so you’re what’s keeping Mort away from his office? And because of you, I’ve got to suffer...”

“Huh?”

“I’m trying to put the bite on him.”

The big man snorted. “Fat chance.” He held up the summons. “This’ll keep him broke for awhile.”

“How much is it for?”

“Six hundred smackers, that’s all.”

Johnny was impressed. “You mean Mort was able to stick somebody for six hundred bucks?”

“That’s what it says on here. The one I slipped him a couple of weeks ago was for four hundred if I remember right.”

“Mister,” said Johnny. “You want some good advice? Throw that paper away, because what Mort has inside isn’t worth four hundred bucks, much less a grand.”

“It says on the door he’s a publisher; publishers have money...”

“There are publishers,” said Johnny, “and publishers.”

The bailiff shrugged. “I only deliver ’em.” He shook his head and started for the stairs. Johnny followed and chatted pleasantly with the bailiff until they reached Seventh Avenue, where the bailiff turned right to Fourteenth Street.

Johnny looked around and saw a hardware store between Sixteenth and Seventeenth Streets. He entered.

“I lost the key to my office,” Johnny said to a clerk. “Wonder if you’ve got some skeleton keys.”

“We don’t handle them,” the clerk replied, “but we can make you a key for your lock.”

“How much?”

“A dollar for the key, but we’ll have to go to your place and that’ll cost three dollars.”

Johnny had seventy cents in his pocket. “For that much I’ll leave the place locked,” he retorted. He started to leave the store when he saw a display of long, thin screwdrivers, the novelty kind with plastic handles.

“How much are these?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

Johnny bought one and returned to Mort Murray’s office on Sixteenth Street. He examined the lock and grinned. It was a Yale type lock, but was not fitted too closely to the door.

He inserted the screwdriver in the crack, pressed the edge of it tightly against the lock of the bolt and twisted to the right. The bolt moved left a thirty-secondth of an inch. Retaining pressure he eased the screwdriver back to its starting position and repeated the process. Twice more and the door was open.

With the screwdriver still in his hand, Johnny pushed open the door... and looked at the astonished face of an enormously fat woman.

“I thought that door was locked!” the woman exclaimed.

“It was,” Johnny gulped, “but Mort gave me the key...”

“Mort who?”

Johnny pointed at the door. “Mort Murray, the, uh, boss.”

“Oh, you mean the fella used to have this place...”

“Used to have?”

“He was evicted. I took over this morning...”

“I was here a half hour ago.”

“I just got in.”

Johnny shot a quick glance about the one-room office. Stacks of books lined two walls. Each one bore the title, Every Man a Samson.

“If Mort’s been evicted, how come his books are still here?”

“The superintendent of the building hasn’t had time yet to take them out.”

Johnny moved carelessly over to one of the stacks and took down a dozen books. Then he reached into a paper carton and took out a six-foot length of chain.

The woman watched him through narrowed eyes. “Making yourself at home, aren’t you, Mister?” There was no uneasiness in her tone.

Johnny shrugged. “Mort and me was sort of partners.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh, I was on the road selling these books and Mort, uh, Mort took the mail orders.”

“Is that so?”

The woman moved around from behind the roll-top desk and went to the door, blocking Johnny’s egress. “Put them back,” she said.

“What, these books?”

“Yes.”

“Look, lady,” Johnny said, “the superintendent’ll sell ’em for waste paper. He won’t get a cent apiece for ’em...”

“Put them back!”

Johnny tried the old charm. “Miss, I need these books.”

“You can have them — for two dollars ninety-five cents apiece. That’s the price that’s marked in them.”

“I paid Mort fifty cents apiece...”

“...Or,” continued the fat woman, “you can pay Murray’s back rent. Three months at forty dollars a month.”

“A bank owns this building,” Johnny said, “a bank or a mortgage company. They don’t give a good gosh damn for people like you and me.”

“Save it, chum — it’s the Sailor’s Institute who owns this building. They’re the toughest landlords in the world. They hold their superintendents responsible...”

“All right, so it’s the superintendent. But how’s he going to know about a dozen measly books...?”

“I’m the superintendent.”

Johnny regarded her bitterly. “The Sailor’s Institute, and a woman superintendent...” He shook his head sadly and put down the books. “I know when I’m licked.”

“What’s the chain for?”

Johnny turned back to the lady superintendent. “It’s part of the pitch. I’ve got a partner... I put this chain around his chest and he takes a deep breath and breaks the chain...”

“By taking a deep breath?”

“He’s the strongest man in the world.”

The woman came forward and took the chain from Johnny’s hand. She examined it closely. “And after he breaks the chain?”

“Then I sell the books. It’s a physical culture hook — tells people how to be strong... like Young Samson, my partner...”

The woman let one end of the chain dangle to the floor. “Let me get this straight, your partner puts this chain around his chest, takes a deep breath and breaks the chain — like this...!”

The lady superintendent put one foot on the end of the chain, gripped it about three feet from the floor and heaved... The chain snapped in two.

“Like that.”

Johnny looked steadily at the Amazon. “Like that!”

“It’s a phony,” the superintendent said, “I never read the book and I broke the chain without half trying. It’s got a weak link or something...”

“Good-bye,” said Johnny and opened the door. He went through, descended the stairs to Sixteenth Street. He had lost twenty-five cents on the deal and Sam Cragg was still at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel in his underwear.

He took a subway back to Times Square and arrived there with a net of forty cents in his pocket. It was almost lunch-time and he had had only a light breakfast. But lunch would take practically all of the forty cents and a man needs some capital.

On a sudden impulse he went to the battery of telephone books in the basement of the Times Building and looked up the address of the Mariota Record Company.

He climbed to the street and walked briskly through the traffic of Forty-second Street to Lexington Avenue.

The offices of the Mariota Record Company were on the twenty-second floor of a tall building. Johnny rode up in the elevator and entered a reception room all furnished in soft leather and mahogany paneling.

A receptionist who should have been in a Sam Goldwyn line-up looked through a little glass window.

“Like to see the boss,” Johnny said, cheerfully.

“Who?”

“The boss, the head man — the king bee.”

“What’s his name?”

Johnny grinned. “That was supposed to be my question.”

The girl looked at him with some disdain. “You expect to see the boss, just like that, and you don’t even know his name. Did you ever hear of an appointment?”

“Yes, it’s what you have to have to get a haircut these days.”

“It’s also what you need to see anyone around here.”

“Okay,” said Johnny. “Give me one of them — now.”

“A character, aren’t you?”

“Baby,” Johnny said, “did anyone ever tell you ought to be in the movies?”

“Oh, my God,” exclaimed the receptionist. “What a corny line! The answer is no — no, you don’t get an appointment, no, I’m not interested in having lunch with you — no, right down the line.”

“I’ll start over,” said Johnny. “Marjorie Fair sent me. Does that get me in?”

The girl looked at him steadily, closed the window and made a connection on her switchboard. She spoke into the mouthpiece, broke the connection and opened the window.

“Mr. Armstrong will see you.” She pressed a buzzer that unlocked the door leading into the inner offices. Johnny went through and found himself behind the receptionist. “Last door on the left.”

There was a large general office, containing eight or ten desks and beyond, a row of offices. Johnny found Mr. Armstrong’s office had gold lettering on a paneled door. It read: Mr. Charles Armstrong, Vice-President. Which meant nothing; anybody could be a vice-president.

The door was closed and Johnny pushed it open without knocking. A sandy-haired man who looked like a fugitive from a T.B. sanitarium got up from behind a huge mahogany desk. He looked inquiringly at Johnny.

Johnny smiled and seated himself in an armchair near the desk.

Armstrong frowned. “You said Miss Marjorie Fair sent you.”

“You know her?”

“Of course I know her. She used to work here.”

“Doing what?”

Armstrong exclaimed. “See here, what’s this all about?”

“She’s dead.”

For a moment Armstrong’s jaw went slack; then he seated himself slowly in his huge swivel chair.

“Murdered,” Johnny added.

Armstrong flinched. “W-when...?”

“This morning. She was... strangled.”

“Good Lord,” cried Armstrong. Then he shot a sudden look at Johnny. “Did the police get the... the...?”

“The man who did the choking?” Johnny grunted. “Why do you think I’m here...?”

“Marj — Miss Fair left our employment six months ago,” Armstrong said, then did a sudden ‘take.’ “I say, you don’t think I, uh, know anything about...?”

“Do you?”

Before Armstrong could reply the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up automatically. “Yes...” He shot a quick look at Johnny, then said into the phone. “Send him in.” He hung up and looked sharply at Johnny.

“Are you a policeman?” he demanded.

“Would I be here asking questions if I weren’t?”

There was a knock on the door. Armstrong called, “Come in,” and a man who was either a detective or a bookie entered the office.

Armstrong got to his feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name...?”

“Kowal,” said the newcomer. “Sergeant Kowal.”

“With Rook?” Johnny asked.

“Why, yes.”

Johnny clapped the detective’s shoulder, the patronizing pat of the superior officer. “Good man, Rook...”

“I don’t think I know—” Sergeant Kowal began.

“Carry on,” Johnny said. Then, to Armstrong: “I’ll let the sergeant get the details, Mr. Armstrong. I’d appreciate your co-operating with him.”

He patted Kowal’s shoulder again and left the office. After he had closed the door, he began walking very fast to the exit.

But as he started to open the door leading to the reception room, he stopped by the receptionist. “Something I forgot to ask Armstrong,” he said, “is he the employment manager here...?”

“Oh, no, he’s one of our vice-presidents.”

“That’s what I thought. Then, why — when I said that Miss Fair sent me here, did you refer me to Mr. Armstrong... instead of one of the other vice-presidents...?”

“Why, because—” The receptionist caught herself. “There was no reason.”

“No?” Johnny asked insinuatingly.

“No — positively!”

Johnny stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. Outside the offices he hurried down to the nineteenth floor by the staircase, then caught an elevator which deposited him swiftly in the building lobby.

He walked west on Forty-second Street, jingling the forty cents in his pocket, thinking: I’ve got to make a stake.

He walked past a phonograph record shop, then turned and went back. He entered the store. “What’s the latest Con Carson record?” he asked a clerk.

“Chapel in the Subway, and a pip!”

“Oh, I’ve got Chapel in the Subway and a Pip,” Johnny said, carelessly and wondered why the clerk gave him a dirty look. “There’s a later one than that... Moon on the Desert, or something like that.”

“No such record.”

“Mariota Records,” Johnny said positively. “Look and see, will you?”

The clerk did not budge. “Wrong, buddy. Con Carson was with Continental. We got ’em all — forty-some pieces. I know...”

“So you know. Well, I know Carson recorded a number called Moon on the Desert, for Mariota...”

“Five’ll get you ten you don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“Twenty’ll get you ten I’m right!”

The clerk signaled to one of his colleagues. “Sid, this guy says Con Carson waxed a ditty called Moon on the Desert for Mariota Records...”

The number two boy smirked, “What’s the bet?”

“He’s laying me twenty to ten,” Johnny said.

“You lose,” said the second clerk.

Johnny pointed to a phone. “Call Mariota Records...”

The first clerk hesitated. “Is that a bet?”

“You’re laying me twenty to ten—”

“I said ten to five...”

Johnny pointed at the second clerk. “You want the same?”

“It’s a sucker’s bet,” exclaimed the second clerk. “But if you insist on giving me the money... call Mariota, Joe...”

Joe turned to a typed sheet pasted on the wall behind the telephone, ran his finger down to the m’s and made his call. “To settle an argument,” he said into the phone, “did Con Carson ever make a recording for Mariota Records? What...?” His face fell. “Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and looked at his fellow worker. “He made a record for them just before he died...”

The second clerk recoiled. “W-what was the name?”

“Moon on the Desert,” said Johnny. The first clerk nodded a glum confirmation. “All right, sports,” Johnny went on, “dig down...”

The two record clerks exchanged glances. Then the one called Sid exclaimed, “It ain’t been released yet, has it?”

Joe shook his head. “No, but...” Then he got his colleague’s drift and, brightening, whirled on Johnny. “Wise guy, huh, you come in here with advance information—”

“Advance information, hell,” Johnny snapped. “Con Carson was killed two days ago. You boys are in the business — if you don’t know about Carson making a record for Mariota, who should know? Me? I don’t even know how a record’s made...”

“Scram, buddy,” Joe snarled. “Get...!”

Johnny placed both of his palms on the glass counter. “Ten bucks apiece, boys.”

“You hear what he said,” Sid cut in. “Beat it, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Twenty bucks is good for me,” Johnny said. “Twenty bucks or this counter gets busted...”

An older man came mooching along behind the counter. “Here, what’s going on...?”

“A con game, Mr. Bezzerides,” Joe whined. “This slicker comes into the store and tries to get me and Sid—”

“I came in to buy a record,” Johnny said coldly, “and this... this clerk” — pointing at Joe — “started making cracks about how bright I wasn’t. He insisted on betting me that Con Carson never made a record for Mariota Records—”

“He didn’t,” said Mr. Bezzerides. The two clerks winced.

“That’s what they said. They insisted on betting me ten to five that I was wrong and then...” He stopped and looked at the two clerks. They were on the verge of letting Mr. Bezzerides walk into the trap. But Johnny needed an ally. He said:

“He made one just before he was killed. They telephoned the Mariota people—”

Bezzerides scowled. “So you got took, eh?”

“It’s a game,” Sid cried. “He tricked us — like he almost did you.”

“I?” Bezzerides was indignant. “You never saw me fall for any stunt like that. Teach you boys a lesson — you made a bet, pay the man...”

“I’ll settle for ten bucks cash,” said Johnny.

It was a mistake. Joe took three dollars out of his pocket.

“That’s all the dough I got in the world... I haven’t even got lunch money left over...”

“I only got two bucks,” Sid chimed in. He turned sidewards and took some money surreptitiously out of the far pocket.

“Ten bucks,” Johnny snapped.

“Let them off for the five,” Mr. Bezzerides said, relenting.

Johnny hesitated, then accepted the money. He winked at the trio of music shop men and walked out.

“A guy could make a living doing that,” Johnny thought jubilantly as he continued his promenade down Forty-second Street.

He tried it again near Sixth Avenue. It didn’t work. The clerk was indifferent to Con Carson. One on Seventh Avenue and Forty-third Street was a Con Carson fan and gave Johnny a bit of an argument, but wouldn’t go for the bet. So Johnny gave it up. It’s hard to repeat a good thing.

But he had $5.40 now — only $6.80 short of retrieving Sam’s suit, including the interest.

The maid had knocked three times and had been told each time that Sam was still abed. The fourth time around she didn’t bother to knock. She just let herself in with her passkey. Sam pulled the bedcovers up to his chin.

“I’m still in bed!”

“I got eyes, ain’t I?” the maid retorted. “But I cleaned every room on this floor and now I’m gonna clean this one, or else...”

“Just leave some towels,” Sam said.

“I ain’t comin’ back later,” the maid warned.

“It’s all right,” Sam said. “You c’n pass up the cleanin’ this time. I’m not feeling so well and my roommate told me to stay in bed.”

The maid sniffed, but left the towels and went off. Sam got out of bed and went to the window. Someone was taking flashlight pictures in the room across the air shaft.

The door resounded to a heavy fist. Sam bounded back into bed. “What is it?”

A man opened the door. “This is the day we disinfect,” he said.

“Go ’way,” Sam cried. “Can’t you see I’m still in bed?”

“I know, but we on’y do this once a month and if we pass up one time the bugs get too thick. I gotta do it today, or else...”

“Get outta here!” Sam snarled.

The disinfectant man stood his ground until Sam threw back the bedcovers and got to his feet. The disinfectant man took one look at Sam’s size and beat it, slamming the door urgently.

Two minutes later the waiter came to retrieve the breakfast dishes and banged the dirty dishes around when he failed to find a tip on the tray.

Five minutes later the houseman knocked; he wanted to do the bi-weekly vacuuming. Sam sent him off mumbling to himself. He had been gone about four minutes, when somebody knocked again. Sam swore a mighty oath and heedless of consequences, strode trouserless to the door. He whipped it opened.

“What the hell’s going on here today?” he roared.

Eddie Miller looked up at him. “Hello, Mr. Cragg,” he said, easily.

“You, Eddie,” Sam snapped. “Is this the Grand Central Depot, or something? Everybody and his uncle and aunt have been banging on this door today.”

“Well, the people have to do their work...”

“Even when a guest don’t want them in his room?”

“This is a dump, Mr. Cragg. It ain’t like one of the big hotels where they have their own staff. We get the disinfectant people in from outside. They only come once a month and give the joint a quick once-over. This hotel don’t encourage guests to stay in their rooms all day. Uses up electricity and such...”

“But I’m sick today. Can’t a sick man stay in his bed if he wants to?”

“You don’t look sick.”

Sam returned to the bed and sat down on it. He forced a hollow cough. “I may have to stay in bed all day.”

Eddie came into the room, glancing into the bathroom as he passed. He even tried a peek into the closet, but the door was closed to within an inch or so. Eddie leaned against the wall near the closet.

“Look, Mr. Cragg, my job ain’t a lot of fun. It’s scheming all day long to squeeze a dime or a quarter out of some tightwad guest. You got to work just as hard around here for a thin dime as you’d have to in a big hotel for a buck. The only fun is when you and Mr. Fletcher are here and you’re broke, which is the only time you’re here. It’s fun when Mr. Fletcher works over Peabody, damn his guts. I’m on your side, you know, but I like to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“A guest was murdered here today and you’re in on it.”

“We are not!”

“Then why’d Mr. Fletcher try to pump me when he left the hotel?”

Sam leaped to his feet. “He promised me he wasn’t going to get mixed in anything.”

Eddie Miller reached out his left hand, slipped the fingers into the crack of the closet door and eased the door open.

“Also, how come you aren’t dressed yet today? It’s twelve o’clock and—” Eddie peered into the empty closet.

“I told you I’m sick.”

“You’ve never been sick a day in your life.” Boldly Eddie Miller swung open the closet door. “Where’s your suit?”

“It’s down at the tailor’s... getting pressed...”

“That’s a helluva note,” said Eddie. “Keeping a guest waiting like this.” He started across the room. “I’ll call ’em and tell ’em what’s what.”

Sam Cragg snatched the phone away from Eddie’s reaching hand. “I just called them a minute ago.”

“I’ll call ’em again.”

“Cut it out, Eddie,” Sam snarled.

Eddie’s eyes suddenly lit up. “So that’s how he raised the dough this morning!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The ten bucks Mr. Fletcher paid on the rent. He hocked your suit, didn’t he?”

Sam reseated himself on the bed and groaned. “Peabody was gonna lock us out this noon.”

Eddie Miller drew a deep breath. “That’s one of the best ones I’ve ever heard — he pawned your suit and now you’ve got to stay in bed until he makes a stake. Boy, oh, boy!”

“Keep your trap shut about it,” Sam snapped.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Mr. Cragg. I only wish you’d tell me how he gets the money when he does make the stake.”

“He’s out now, trying to put the bite on the fellow from who we buy our books.”

“How come he didn’t do that before pawning your suit?”

“He tried — Mort wasn’t around.”

There was a knock on the door, a gentle, but determined knock. Eddie Miller looked questioningly at Sam. The latter shrugged and called:

“Come in!”

The door opened and Susan Fair stepped into the room. Sam took one glance at her and threw himself into the bed, dragging the covers up over his chest.

“For the love of...”

“My name is Susan Fair,” the girl said. “You’ve... heard... about my sister?”

Sam looked in alarm at Eddie Miller. The bell captain eased himself gently past Susan. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, smoothly, “I’ve got to leave...”

He went out, closing the door and leaving Sam and Susan Fair alone. Susan came forward. “My sister was murdered,” she said stiffly.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said.

Susan looked past Sam through the window, across to the room where her sister had met her doom. “You were her closest neighbor,” she said. “You must have seen a lot of her these past few weeks, when...” She stopped.

“I never talked to her,” Sam said.

“But living so close, with the windows... you couldn’t have helped but look across now and then.”

“Yeah, sure. I saw her through the window, lots of times. Only...”

“Yes?”

“Well, Johnny and me — we ain’t been doin’ much with girls lately...”

“Johnny is your roommate? I understand there are two of you living here?”

“Yeah. Johnny’s my sidekick. We been together for years.”

“I’m sorry you’re ill.”

“Oh, I ain’t... I mean, yeah... I ain’t feelin’ so good, so I thought I’d stay in bed today.”

Susan Fair seated herself on the threadbare mohair-covered chair. “My sister and I were very close, until she came to New York a year ago. She had a beautiful voice.”

“Yeah? I never heard her sing.”

“She wrote that she was doing very well,” Susan Fair continued, “but her letters became fewer and fewer and it seemed to me lately that she — she was holding things back. So I came here.” She stopped, while her lips were pressed tightly together. Then she said softly: “I was too late... too late, by minutes...”

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “Your sister was a good-lookin’ babe, uh, I mean girl.”

“She was beautiful! And she was... good...”

Johnny tapped the thin pad of check blanks on the counter. “Now, let me get this straight,” he said to the teller. “These checks cost me ten cents apiece, whether I write them for fifty cents or fifty dollars...”

The teller shook his head. “You’ve started a Ten-Plan account with this bank; that means you don’t need any minimum balance in the bank but naturally your checks will only be honored to the extent of your deposit... In other words, you’ve got five dollars in our bank. We’ll honor your checks up to a total of five dollars, whether it’s in one check or in ten...”

“Okay,” said Johnny.

The teller looked after him, a worried frown creasing his forehead. That was the trouble with this Ten-Plan business — you got undesirable people to open checking accounts.

On Seventh Avenue, Johnny walked a block and a half and entered a haberdashery. He tried on a few hats and finally decided on one for $4.95. When it came to paying for the hat, he searched his pockets and exclaimed, “Doggone, I forgot to bring some money with me. But how about a check...?” He pulled out his pad of Ten-plan checks.

The clerk shrugged. “For the amount of the purchase.”

Johnny nodded and wrote out a check for $4.95 and left the store wearing the hat. In the same block he went into a music shop and bought a harmonica for $4.50. The man who ran the store fingered Johnny’s check and finally picked up the phone. “Mind?”

Johnny shook his head.

The music shop man called the bank, found that Johnny’s account would stand a four-fifty check. Johnny left the store with the harmonica, annoyed. He couldn’t stand another phone call to the bank.

He walked over to Eighth Avenue and entered a shop that had three gold balls hanging over the door. Uncle Ben, a very youthful Uncle Ben, grunted when he saw Johnny.

“You want the suit back?”

“Well, not yet,” said Johnny. “As a matter of fact, I need a little more money.” He took the fedora off his head. “Brand new.”

“You wore it, it’s secondhand... fifty cents.”

“Cut it out,” Johnny cried. “I just paid nine-fifty for it a couple of days ago.”

“And the price tag inside says four-ninety-five. I’ll allow you seventy-five cents — no more.”

Johnny brought out the harmonica. It was still in the box. “What about this?”

“Say,” exclaimed Uncle Ben. “Are you shoplifting?”

Johnny glowered. “How much?”

“Same’s the hat — six bits.”

“Uncle Ben,” said Johnny sadly, “I’ve got a watch in a hock shop in Duluth, Minnesota, a genuine diamond ring in a little spot in Pocatello, Idaho, an overcoat in Kansas City, snowshoes in Tucson, Arizona—”

“It’s a tough world,” sympathized Uncle Ben.

“It’s guys like you that make it tough. What I’m saying is, I’m a man who’s had experience with pawnbrokers. I know to a nickel what they should give on any object. But goddamit, you’re the tightest, stingiest Uncle of all the uncles I’ve ever met in this great, big country of ours.”

“Would I be in this business if I wasn’t tight?” Uncle Ben exclaimed. “Somebody’s got to run hock shops and there’s gotta be some compensation, ain’t there? I’ll give you two bucks, not a red penny more.”

“Make it three,” Johnny pleaded.

Uncle Ben ran up No Sale on the cash register and took out two dollars and fifty cents.

Johnny carried the two dollars and fifty cents to his bank and deposited it along with the forty cents that he still had left. That gave him a balance of $7.90.

A jewelry store on Sixth Avenue received his patronage next. He emerged with a “shoful” wrist watch that had cost him $7.00, reduced from $9.95. The jeweler had not called the bank. In the same block he bought an overnight traveling bag — genuine leatherette, for $7.75. They, too, did not call the bank. That enabled Johnny to essay into another jewelry store and dicker for a plain band wedding ring. The jeweler reached for the phone and Johnny exploded.

“What kind of a crummy joint is this?” he cried. “Don’t even trust a man for a cheap wedding ring. Here—” He thrust the purchase back at the jeweler — “keep your ring.” In high dudgeon he stalked out of the store.

But he couldn’t chance it; the jeweler might call up the bank for spite. He took the suitcases and wrist watch to a pawnshop on Eighth Avenue — two blocks from Uncle Ben’s. He realized $4.30 on them, which he took to his bank, giving him a balance now of $12.20.

And he still had six checks.

In the next two hours he increased his deposits to $94.00 and had bought his second book of Ten-Plan checks — using up every teller in the bank, as he thought it good policy not to repeat on the tellers.

It was now one o’clock and Johnny stopped in at the Automat and had a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. With a stub of a pencil he figured out his financial status, or predicament, if you want to call it that.

He had $94.00 in the bank, and checks outstanding for $296.00. That meant he had to deposit $202.00 in the bank the following morning — if he wanted to remain out of jail. He had sixteen dollars in cash in his pocket... and $296.00 worth of merchandise in various pawnshops, which could be redeemed for $106.00 including interest. He could make it, with four dollars left over.

He sorted out his pawn tickets and, leaving the restaurant, engaged a taxicab. He rode in it to the various pawnshops, retrieved all of his pledged merchandise, then went to 59th Street and Columbus Circle and pledged the entire lot in another pawnshop for a total of $92.00. He paid off the taxicab from the four dollars he had had left before and going to his bank, withdrew all of his money but two dollars. The teller who gave him the money counted it three times and still seemed hesitant about giving it to him, but finally did.

Johnny left the bank with $184.00 in his pocket, and crossed over to Lexington Avenue, where he opened a new Ten-Plan checking account, depositing $175.00. With this substantial amount he found it no trouble at all, within a half hour, to buy three wrist watches for $150.00, $125.00 and $125.00 respectively and in none of the three jewelry stores did they call up his bank. It’s only when you’re down in the five dollar and ten dollar stores that they distrust you.

He pawned the three watches on Lexington Avenue for a total of $130.00, returned to his second bank and withdrew $150.00 from his account and got in just before three o’clock to a bank on Fifth Avenue, where he started a straight checking account and deposited $250.00, receiving a deposit book.

With thirty dollars cash still in his pocket, he took a taxi-cab across town and redeeming Sam’s suit from Uncle Ben’s, returned to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel.

Eddie Miller was standing just within the door of the hotel, staring gloomily out upon Forty-fifth Street. He brightened as Johnny came through the door.

“You made it!” he cried, indicating the suit in Johnny’s hand.

“Made what?”

Eddie grinned. “You were just taking that suit out for an airing?”

“Naturally.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Fletcher, Sam Cragg told me. You hocked the suit this morning to keep Peabody from locking you out. You didn’t have a dime, but in a couple of hours you raised enough dough to get the suit out of hock.” He shook his head admiringly.

Johnny coughed and took the bank book out of his pocket. “I also raised a little money, over and above...” He opened the book and let Eddie take a peek at the entry.

“Two hundred and fifty bucks!” Eddie cried. He stared at Johnny in fascination. “Mr. Fletcher, if I had what you’ve got I’d be a millionaire in a couple of years.” In his admiration, he gripped Johnny’s arm. “Tell me — how’d you get all that money...?” A sudden thought struck him. “Or is the bank book a phony?”

“I don’t have to stoop to anything like that,” Johnny said. He drew out a fat roll of bills — all ones, but Eddie couldn’t see that for Johnny gave him just a glimpse. “I got a little small change, too.”

“Oh, my God!”

Johnny winked and went into the hotel. Opening the door of Room 821, he found Sam Cragg seated on his bed, in the pose of The Thinker. He sprang to his feet when he saw the suit of clothes.

“You got it, Johnny!”

“Of course,” Johnny said, indignantly. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“You put the bite on Mort?”

“Mort,” Johnny said, sadly, “is out of business. He was evicted, for nonpayment of rent.”

“Then how’d you get this money?”

Johnny thought of the things he had been compelled to do, to get Sam’s suit out of pawn. “That, Sam,” he said, softly, “shall remain a secret between God and me...”

“Huh?”

Johnny tossed the suit on the bed. “Put it on and ask no questions. Your hairy legs offend me.”

Sam slipped on his trousers. “More people seen those legs today...!” He cocked his big head to one side. “Including a little lady, the likes of which you’ve never seen.” He indicated the window. “Her sister.”

“I saw her through the window, myself.”

“I didn’t see her through the window. She was here — sitting right in that chair you’re sitting on.”

“Susan Fair was in this room?”

Sam nodded. “That’s what I said. She’s even better-lookin’ than her sister...”

“What’d she want?”

“Talk, I guess, just talk. She didn’t say. She’s stayin’ here in the hotel.”

“What room?”

“Right above us, nine twenty-one. Uh, she said she’d like to talk to you, too.”

Johnny got up and started for the door. With his hand on the knob he turned. “You said a lot of people saw your bare legs today... who else besides Miss Fair?”

“Well, Peabody and the copper, this morning and then while you were gone about a million people came in here...”

“Who?”

“The maid and the disinfectant man and the vacuum man and the man from the disinfect — say, he was here twice...” Sam screwed up his face. “That’s funny, come to think of it, it wasn’t the same guy... the second fellow, I mean.”

“What’d he look like?”

“He wasn’t wearing overalls, like the first fellow.”

“Then how’d you know who he was?”

“He said he was from the disinfecting company... I was sore, they kept coming in here, one after the other, so when this guy opened the door, I threw the telephone book at him.”

“But what did he look like?”

“I didn’t notice. He was — just a guy...”

“Sam,” said Johnny, “all you did was throw a phone book at the man who killed Marjorie Fair...”

Sam blinked. “W-what...?”

Johnny stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He went to the staircase, climbed to the ninth floor and knocked on the door of Room 921.

“Yes?” called a voice inside.

“Johnny Fletcher,” Johnny called. “I understand you wanted to see me...”

The door was opened by Susan Fair. For once, Johnny thought, Sam is right; she is more attractive than her sister.

“Will you come in?”

Johnny stepped into the room, that was a duplicate of his own, except that it contained only one bed, instead of two. He turned, saw Susan start to leave the door ajar, then close it. In Iowa, you kept a hotel door open when you had a male visitor. She had started to do that, then remembered she was now in New York.

She came into the room. “Won’t you sit down?”

Johnny seated himself, but Susan Fair remained standing. Her face was drawn and her eyes were bright, but otherwise she showed no undue strain. Yet Johnny sensed that she was fighting to control herself.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” he said, lamely.

She made a gesture, accepting the condolence. “I’m going to see that the person who did it is punished. I’m having her — her body sent home, but I’m going to stay here until... until...” She stopped, on the verge of breaking down.

Johnny said: “The New York Police Department is the finest in the world. They’ll take care of—”

“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?”

“Why, of course.”

“All right,” said Peabody, “make it out — but wait a minute.”

Johnny yawned and leaned his elbow on the desk. Across the lobby, Eddie Miller was watching him, like a ferret peering down a rathole.

Mr. Peabody stepped into his office, behind the desk. He closed the door.

“He’s calling the bank,” Sam exclaimed to Johnny.

“Naturally.”

“He’ll find out, Johnny.”

“Natch.”

“But we ain’t got any money in that bank — not there or in any other bank.”

“Are you sure, Sam? I’m under the impression that we have accounts in three different banks.”

“Aw, cut it out, Johnny!”

Mr. Peabody came out of his office, his face rather red. “You just started that account this afternoon.”

“That’s what I said.”

Mr. Peabody picked up the check that Johnny had made out. He looked at it, snapped the paper, half expecting it to stretch, then shaking his head and mumbling under his breath, he stepped to the cash drawer. He gave Johnny seventy-five dollars and thirty-five cents.

“You realize, of course, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, “that I told my friend not to permit you to withdraw your account until this check is cleared.”

“From you, Mr. Peabody,” Johnny said, pleasantly, “I expected that.”

He picked up his money and turned away from the desk. He continued counting the money, all the way through the lobby — for Eddie Miller’s benefit.

As soon as they had gone through the revolving door, onto the sidewalk, Sam gripped Johnny’s arm. “Johnny — where’d you get the roll?”

“I raised it.”

“Yeah — but how...?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Sam looked into Johnny’s rather grim face and suddenly shook his head. “No, no, I guess I’d rather not know. I worry.” He cleared his throat. “Will there be cops around?”

“No,” said Johnny. But under his breath, he added, “If I don’t break a leg tomorrow.”

There was a big phonograph store on Seventh Avenue. Johnny and Sam entered and were met by a suave salesman. “Like to see one of your console models,” Johnny said pleasantly.

The salesman led them to a mahogany machine. “Here’s one of the best instruments on the market — it’s a high frequency model with long and short wave bands and the finest tone it has ever been your pleasure to hear.”

“Will it play a phonograph record?” Johnny asked.

The salesman smiled at Johnny’s apparent flippancy. “My dear sir, this is the ultimate — the machine of tomorrow. It sells for twelve hundred dollars.”

“That much? Mmm. Could I hear it?”

“Of course. The same machine is in this booth here. What would you like to hear?”

“Oh, something with violins, Beethoven, or perhaps Rachmaninoff — no, no, Tschaikowsky...”

The salesman smiled vacantly, led them to the booth, then went out. Sam snorted.

“Twelve hundred dollars, Johnny! Please...!”

“I like a good tone with long and short wave bands, Sam.”

The salesman returned with a handful of records. Johnny took them. “Mind if I play them? After all, I’ve got to learn how to operate it myself.”

“If you wish, sir. I’ll be out in the showroom.”

The salesman went out.

Johnny removed the Con Carson recording from between the pages of his magazine and placed it on the twelve hundred dollar machine. He flicked a switch or two and the phonograph arm came down on the record.

Sam seated himself on a leather-covered chair and relaxed to enjoy the latest — and last Con Carson recording. A voice Johnny had heard too many times began moaning about the glorious moon on the desert. The lyrics were silly, the melody moved Johnny not at all and the voice, well, a hundred million people had gone wild over Con Carson, so it was probably Johnny who was wrong.

Sam exclaimed in ecstasy.

“That guy sure sends me!”

“He makes me sick, too,” Johnny said, in disgust. “As an authority on the late, great moaner, Sam, would you say this piece of caterwauling was up to his usual standard?”

“One of the best songs he ever sung,” Sam said, fervently.

“In the groove, eh?”

“And how!”

The song came to an end and the needle began scratching. Johnny stepped to the machine and saw the needle was only halfway down the record. Then the record started playing again — a reprise of Moon on the Desert.

Johnny reached to shut off the machine, then with his finger on the switch, stopped. Carson was warbling Moon on the Desert, but another voice had cut into his song, a voice that spoke a single, harsh sentence in a whisper, a passionate whisper. It said: “Damn you, Seebright!”

In spite of the interruption, Con Carson’s voice continued, full and throaty, to the end. Johnny shut off the machine.

“They must have been practicing the second time,” Sam said.

Johnny put the platter back in the Saturday Evening Post and opened the door of the soundproof booth. Immediately, the suave salesman pounced on him.

“A great instrument,” Johnny said.

“Splendid,” agreed the salesman.

“The best I’ve ever heard,” said Johnny. “But what I really came in for, though, was a package of needles.”

“A package of...” the salesman began, then his jaw fell open.

“Needles. You know, the old-fashioned kind, a hundred for a dime.”

The salesman was attacked by a choleric fit of coughing. “Okay,” said Johnny, “if you don’t want my trade I’ll take it elsewhere.” He headed for the door, Sam dancing along beside him, anxious to get out before the salesman could recover.

Outside, Johnny looked down Seventh Avenue. A big clock on the next corner read four-fifty. On a sudden impulse he thrust the magazine containing the record at Sam. “Guard this with your life, Sam,” he said.

“Where you going?” Sam asked in surprise.

“I’m gonna buy a girl a drink.” He thrust a hand into his pocket, whipped out money and handed a couple of bills to Sam. “I’ll be back in an hour or two. Don’t let that record out of your hands — understand...?”

“Yeah, but...”

Johnny popped across the sidewalk to a taxicab parked at the curb, tore open the door and stepped inside. “Lexington and Forty-second,” he told the driver, “and whip up the horses...”

“This time of the day?” sneered the cabby. “You’d go quicker walking across town.”

Nevertheless he made a fast U turn and scooted into the eastbound one-way crosstown street. He roared through to Sixth Avenue — beg pardon, Avenue of the Americas — and got caught by the lights. Five minutes later he was still stalled at Fifth Avenue. When he finally got through and then became tangled at Madison Avenue, Johnny threw a crumpled dollar bill at the driver and got out of the cab.

It was ten minutes after five when he entered the big building on Forty-second Street. He headed for an elevator, stepped inside, then leaped out again as he saw the receptionist of the Mariota Record Company walk past the elevator, having apparently just come out of the adjoining elevator.

There was a man with her, a sleek, smooth man wearing a two hundred dollar suit. There was a fresh carnation in the lapel buttonhole.

“Darling!” Johnny cried. “I almost missed you.”

The receptionist whirled, started to give Johnny the freeze, then changed her mind. “Well,” she said, “it’s you again!”

“In person, sweetheart. And I’m going to buy you a drink before you crawl down into your cozy little Lexington Avenue local.”

“A drink,” the receptionist said. “But that’s just what I was going to have with Mr. Doniger. Oh — Mr. Doniger, this is Mr... Mr.—” she snapped her fingers as if Johnny’s name was eluding her.

“Fletcher,” Johnny said. “You oughtta do something about that memory of yours...”

Doniger extended a fat, limp, well-manicured hand. “H’arya,” he said, with an utter lack of enthusiasm.

“Mr. Fletcher,” the girl went on pointedly, “is the man I was telling you about, Mr. Doniger... the man who was up to see Mr. Armstrong this morning...”

Under that direct coaching, Doniger suddenly showed a little animation.

“Ah, yes, Fletcher, yes, yes.”

“Yes,” said Johnny. He winked at the girl. “Speaking of memory, damned if mine isn’t playing tricks on me. Don’t tell me, now. It’ll come to me in just a second...”

“Violet Rodgers, spelled with a D, for no particular reason.”

“Violet,” exclaimed Johnny. “I knew I’d get it. Violet Rodgers. And that drink...”

“We’d love to,” said Violet, sweetly. “Right over there in the Commodore.”

They got a little round table at the Commodore and Violet ordered a Scotch and soda and drank the Scotch straight, in one gulp. Mr. Doniger sipped at a martini and Johnny got himself a daiquiri, just to be different.

“That was cute, this morning, Mr. Fletcher,” Violet said, after tossing off her Scotch, “your pretending to be a detective.”

“Call me Johnny,” said Johnny.

“It was still cute, Johnny.” Violet caught the waiter’s eye, made a circular signal with her index finger, indicating another round of the same.

“I thought so,” Johnny said, modestly.

“Just because a girl once works in a place is no reason the police should be around all day,” groused Mr. Doniger. “Kept the office in an uproar all day.”

“A vice-president?” Johnny asked.

“Sales manager,” Doniger replied.

“You look like a vice-president,” Johnny said.

“You ought to see the president,” Violet offered. “He looks like a janitor in his Sunday suit.”

“What’s his name?”

“Seebright, Orville Seebright.”

Damn you, Seebright, the voice had whispered on the Con Carson record.

Johnny said: “Who’s Mariota?”

Doniger blinked. “Mariota?”

“Mariota Record Company...”

Violet snickered. “I told you he was good, Mr. Doniger, didn’t I? ‘Who’s Mariota?’ Ha-ha-ha!”

“There’s no one named Mariota,” Doniger growled. “It’s just a name...”

“It must be somebody’s name — or the name of something,” Johnny persisted.

“It isn’t the name of anybody, or anything.”

“Then why’s the company named Mariota Record Company?”

Doniger scowled. “I never asked.”

Violet shook her head as Johnny looked at her questioningly. “I’ve only been with the company three years.”

“Well, I’d like to know who Mariota is.”

The second round of drinks came. Violet threw her ounce of Scotch at her tonsils, without benefit of the soda. Then she glowered at Johnny.

“Now, look here, Johnny Fletcher, we’ve played along with you, but we can’t stay here all night, listening to you make with the words.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you. Out with it — who the devil are you and what did you want with Mr. Armstrong this morning?”

“Armstrong’s worried?”

Doniger suddenly banged a masterful fist on the little round table, causing Johnny’s second daiquiri to spill out some precious drops. “Cut it out, Fletcher, you’re making me mad.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “I’ll come clean. Marjorie Fan-worked for your company — how long?”

“Just a couple of months.”

“She only took the job because she thought she could get into radio,” Violet said tartly. “And all the time she was in the office she was playing up to someone.”

“Mr. Armstrong, for instance?”

“He was—” Violet caught herself. “You’re at it again — you pretend you’re going to say something and you switch it into a question.”

“For the last time, Fletcher,” Doniger warned through his teeth.

Johnny regarded the sleek one coolly. “When are you releasing the Con Carson record?”

The effect of that simple question was no more than if Johnny had suddenly handed Doniger a hale and hearty masculine rattlesnake.

“Wh-what!” he gasped. “What was that?”

“The Con Carson record — when are you releasing it?”

Doniger’s fat chin trembled a few times more before he was finally able to control it. “How do you know we — we have a Con Carson record?”

“Fella in a record shop.”

“What record shop?” Violet asked.

Johnny shrugged a shoulder expressively. “Oh, somewhere around.” He smiled brightly. “I’m an old Con Carson fan, you know, and I was asking if a new Con Carson platter wasn’t about due...”

“Carson’s dead,” Doniger said flatly. “Every Carson fan in creation knows that.”

“Sure, but he made some recordings before he shoved off, didn’t he?”

“It so happens,” Doniger said slowly, “that Carson signed a deal with Mariota just two days before he took off on that last trip of his. That’s known around the trade — to a certain extent. It isn’t known that Carson actually cut a platter for us—”

“A piece called Moon on the Desert?”

Doniger shuddered again. “H-how do you know the title?”

“I’ll trade you,” said Johnny. “You tell me about Marjorie Fair.”

Doniger shuddered again. “I don’t know anything about Marjorie Fair; she was a girl who worked in our office, a typist. I didn’t know her any better than I know any of the other girls in the office.”

Johnny looked suggestively at Violet. Doniger flushed. “I’m a married man; I’ve got a wife and two children.” Thought of them suddenly caused him to look at his wrist watch. “And I’ve got to run to catch the five-fifty-two.” He got up abruptly. “Thanks for the drink.” He nodded to Violet and headed for the door that led from the Commodore directly into the Grand Central.

“A fella like you,” Violet said, “sometimes gets a bust in the snoot.”

“It’s happened,” said Johnny cheerfully. “How about another drink?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I’ve already had two and that’s my limit.” But as Johnny began to shrug, “Well, if you insist!”

She signaled the waiter herself.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll cut out all the nonsense. What’s your interest in Marjorie Fair? Was she your...?”

“Uh-uh, I never even talked to her while she was alive.”

“Then why are you sticking your nose into all this?”

“I know her sister.”

“Oh!” That seemed to rock Violet back. The waiter came with the new drinks and she downed her Scotch, sans soda, in the customary single gulp.

Then she said: “I didn’t know she had a sister.”

“In Iowa.”

“You’re from Iowa?”

“Heaven forbid! Her sister’s here, now. She arrived today in time to find the body... Why did Marjorie quit her job with Mariota?”

Violet groaned. “You’ve sure got a one-track mind, Johnny.”

“So have the cops.”

“The cops have come and gone. Marjorie Fair worked in our place six-eight weeks. She made pitches at some of the men and when that didn’t get her anywhere, she quit her job. I didn’t like her and I don’t want to talk about her.”

Johnny caught the hovering waiter’s eye.

“We’ll change the subject,” he said. “What do you think of Orville Seebright?”

“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.

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—”

“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.”

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.”

“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.”

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.

“Get your clothes on, Fletcher,” Lieutenant Rook said, testily.

“What for?”

“Because I’ll be taking you for a little ride.”

“A pinch?”

“It could be. There are some questions I want to ask you.”

“Ask them here. I’m not in the mood to go down to your crummy station.”

“You’ll come if I ask you.”

“Not without a warrant I won’t. And if you had one you’d have flashed it on me.”

Rook jerked his thumb toward his assistant. “What was the idea of impersonating an officer yesterday?”

Fletcher looked at Sergeant Kowal. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you,” said Kowal. “I caught you red-handed, giving Armstrong the third degree.”

“Not me,” Johnny retorted. “I never told Armstrong I was a cop — and I never told you that”

“You acted like one.”

Johnny grinned icily. “I put my hand on your shoulder and I spoke patronizingly — like an important character. Is that acting like a cop? Answer yes or no.”

Rook swore. “Goddamit, Fletcher, there’s something about you gets me mad.”

“You know, Lieutenant, you don’t make me very happy either.”

Rook clenched his fists in a mighty effort to control himself. “Sit down, Fletcher,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I never hit a man when he’s sitting down and. I don’t want you to tempt me too far.”

Johnny seated himself on the bed and Rook went to the shabby Morris chair and sat down.

“All right, now,” Rook went on, “what were you doing up in Armstrong’s office yesterday?”

“Talking to him.”

Rook gripped the arms of the chair. “Why?” He held up a hand to check Johnny’s reply. “Wait a minute. You told me yesterday you didn’t even know the girl across the way. You’d never talked to her. You knew nothing about her death, you had a perfect alibi. Her death — and her life — didn’t concern you in the least. Then why — why, in God’s name, did you rush right over to the place she worked and start browbeating the man who...?”

“The man who...?” Johnny repeated.

Rook caught himself. “You heard me. Why did you go over to the Mariota Record Company?”

Johnny remained silent.

Rook said, ominously: “How did you know she had ever worked for the Mariota Company?”

“I didn’t. I found that out when I went up there.”

“All right, then — what made you go there? How did you connect Marjorie Fair with that one company?”

Johnny drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She was interested in singing — I could hear her through the window, couldn’t I?”

Rook’s eyes slitted. “And because she sang in her bathroom, you rushed right over to the Mariota Record Company?”

“She had a good voice,” Johnny said. “I guessed she could have been a professional and I figured a record company might know something about her.”

“There’s more than one record company in this town.”

“I picked the Mariota Company because I like their records. It was sheer accident — and a coincidence that that was the outfit where Marjorie Fair had worked.”

“But she wasn’t a professional; she was only trying to get in...”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Then Armstrong — how did you happen to pick on him, of all the executives of the company?”

“The switchboard operator did that. I mentioned Marjorie Fair’s name and she sent me in to see Armstrong.”

Rook shook his head. “You’re lying, Fletcher.”

“You can go back to Headquarters and get your warrant, Lieutenant. Then you can drag me down and ask me questions until you’re blue in the face and you’ll get the same answers. And a suit for false arrest, afterwards.”

“And that goes for me, too,” cried Sam. He got out of bed and went to the clothes closet.

Rook watched him. “Oh, you’ve got clothes today.”

“Something wrong about a man having clothes?” Sam snapped.

“You didn’t have any yesterday.” Rook’s lip curled contemptuously. “You were about to be locked out for nonpayment of rent and you” — turning to Johnny — “pawned his suit to pay something on the rent.”

“That’s a libel,” Johnny said warmly.

“Is it? I came back yesterday evening; the elevator man said you brought his suit back in the afternoon. He noticed it because he knew you’ve only got one suit apiece...”

“My tailor’s making us three apiece now. We left our warm weather clothes in Florida.”

Lieutenant Rook got to his feet. “You’re a couple of four-flushers and I’m not going to waste any more time on you. I’ve wasted too much already. I’m just going to tell you one more thing. Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, or so help me, I’ll throw you in jail and forget that you’re there.”

“Good-bye, now,” Johnny said sarcastically.

The two detectives stormed out of the room. Sergeant Kowal, the last to go out, slammed the door so that the windows rattled.

Johnny sprang for the clothes closet. “Damn that guy, it must be almost nine o’clock. I’ve got to hurry...”

“What for? We’re not going any place.”

“I am,” said Johnny. “And maybe you are, too.” He pulled on his trousers, turned back to the bed stand and scooped up the phone. “What time is it?” he asked the operator.

She told him and Johnny slammed down the receiver. “Nine-fifteen. We’re going to have to work like hell.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his money. He counted it hurriedly. “Seventy-one dollars. Damn, it’s not enough... Who’ll cash a check for you, Sam?”

“What for, Johnny? Seventy-one bucks is more than—”

“Don’t ask questions, Sam — there isn’t time. Who do you know will cash a check for you, up to fifty or seventy-five dollars?”

“Well, Coyle’s Pool Room on Broadway...”

“Get over there right away. Here, I’ll write out a check...” Johnny went over to the battered table that served as a desk and caught up a pen. As he wrote he said: “Is there any other place you know that’ll cash a check?”

“What’s the matter with the bank?”

Johnny winced. “No!”

“You mean you haven’t really got that dough in the bank, Johnny?” Sam asked in alarm.

“I have, but I don’t want to cash a check there.” Johnny tore the check out of his book. “I’ve made it out for seventy-five. Here’s another fifty. The minute you get the money for the check, rush over to this pawnshop...” He took a ticket from his pocket. “Get all the stuff this calls for and bring it here to the room. Got that?”

“Yes, but—”

“I said, don’t ask questions. Time is of the essence, believe me. Better take a taxi from the pool room to the pawnshop. Now, get going...”

Sam was already pulling on his coat. He left while Johnny hurried to complete his own dressing. He left the room only two or three minutes after Sam.

With twenty-one dollars in his pocket and a number of blank checks he rushed over to Sixth Avenue and began buying — a camera and flashlight equipment, a cheap wrist watch, a secondhand portable typewriter — a chipped diamond ring, a pair of opera glasses and a few other completely useless articles. His cash and checks lasted him until ten minutes to ten, then he hurried back to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel.

He was only a step behind Sam Cragg; the latter was piling stuff on the beds, a banjo, a mandolin, some cameras and jewelry, a few articles of wearing apparel, a watch or two.

Sam cried aloud when Johnny came in carrying the new merchandise. “For the love of Mike, Johnny, are we starting a novelty store, or something?”

“Grab it all up, Sam, there’s no time to waste.”

They loaded themselves down and left the room. Down in the lobby, they encountered Eddie Miller, the bell captain, who was so astonished by the sight of them and the merchandise that he could not even bother them with questions. Outside, they piled everything into a taxicab and a few minutes later began unloading in front of Uncle Ben’s Shop on Eighth Avenue.

Uncle Ben stared at them goggle-eyed as they entered the store. “So you are a burglar,” he cried. “I got suspicious of you yesterday...”

“Cut it out, Uncle,” Johnny said harshly. “I haven’t got time for words. Get your pencil — check the stuff in, with the top prices and give me the cash.”

“I wouldn’t touch it,” Uncle Ben howled. “The cops come around every day, looking for hot stuff and I’m not going to get caught—”

“Believe me, Uncle Ben,” Johnny said fervently. “Not one piece of this junk, I mean merchandise, is hot. It was bought, on the level, open and aboveboard and I’ve got receipts for every piece here...” He took a fistful of paper from his pocket.

Uncle Ben took the receipts from Johnny’s hand, began to examine them. “All of this stuff was bought only yesterday and some today...”

“I know it.”

“Then what’s the idea?”

“No idea. I buy high and sell cheap. That’s the way I make my living.”

“You’re crazy!”

“All right, so I’m crazy. Just give me the cash for this and let me out of here.”

Uncle Ben began mumbling to himself, but got out his pencil and scribbled down figures. “I’ll give you three hundred and fifty dollars for the lot and I’ll be sorry for it,” he announced after a minute or two.

“Give it to me!”

Uncle Ben was taken aback. “What, no haggling?”

“I haven’t got time.”

“I never heard of a man who didn’t have time for dickering. Especially you. You weren’t bad yesterday, not half bad...”

“I told you I haven’t got the time.”

“I’ll make it three-sixty,” Uncle Ben said, in a tone of disappointment.

“All right, all right.”

“Not a penny more than three-seventy-five...”

Johnny groaned. “Give me the money...”

Morosely, Uncle Ben counted out the money. Johnny snatched it from his hand and was separating it as he slammed through the door. The taxicab was still waiting at the curb and Johnny bounced in. Sam followed and before the cab was rolling, Johnny thrust a hundred dollars into his hand.

“I’ll let you off at the bank on Seventh and Times Square,” he said. “I want you to start a Ten-Plan Checking account and meet me in front of the bank on Fifth and Forty-seventh. Don’t waste any time. Keep rolling...”

“I think the man was right,” Sam said thickly. “You’re crazy.”

“If you know of any other way of keeping out of jail, tell me...”

“Jail!” cried Sam.

“That’s where they send people who kite checks — and get caught...”

“What do you mean, kite checks?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing since yesterday?”

Sam winced. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Then don’t make any more remarks. Just do what I tell you... Here’s your bank.”

The taxi stopped and Sam got out. Johnny directed the driver to take him to his bank on Fifth Avenue, the one where he had the straight checking account. There he cashed a check for one hundred dollars. With it and a hundred dollars of his remaining money, he crossed the street and started another regular checking account in another bank. Two blocks away he went into a third bank and with seventy dollars started a new Ten-Plan account. That left him with about three dollars and fifty cents in his pocket.

And it was time to go back to the first bank and meet Sam. He found him waiting, bank book and checkbook in hand.

“Now, we start buying again, Sam,” Johnny announced. “You come with me and watch how it’s done, then I’m going to turn you loose on your own.”

Sam said not one word as they went into a jewelry store and bought a wrist watch for seventy-five dollars.

“Get the idea?” Johnny asked, after they had left the store. “You give them a check, but try to do it with such an air that they don’t call the bank. If they do, you’re all right, because you’ve got the money in the bank; but once they call the bank, that account’s dead and you can’t write out any more checks on it — not until we cover... Now I’ll go in this store and you go into that one. I’ll meet you over by that mailbox, as soon as you get through.”

Johnny went into the adjoining store and bought a trinket, then rejoined Sam.

Sam exhibited a wrist watch. “Ninety bucks... but they called the bank.”

Johnny swore. “You must have acted nervous, or doubtful. I guess I’ve got to do it all myself. But here, you can pawn these two watches and this rhinestone bracelet. They cost two hundred and forty dollars and you shouldn’t take less than ninety dollars for them — eighty at the very least. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

Sam nodded morosely and they again separated.

At twenty minutes to twelve, Johnny descended upon Lexington Avenue and began depositing money in banks.

At the first, the teller gave Johnny a lecture. “It’s a good thing you came in; there were four checks came in this morning, overdrawing your account. You can’t do that on a Ten Plan account...”

“I know,” Johnny said meekly, “but I knew I was getting this money this morning and I thought it wouldn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

At the second bank, an assistant manager came over to talk to Johnny. “I don’t like this, Mr. Fletcher. You started an account here yesterday with twenty dollars and you immediately wrote out checks for eighty-eight...”

“But here’s the money to cover them.”

The assistant cashier took the money. “Did you know you were going to write out all those checks when you started your account here yesterday?”

“Why, no. Only when I got home my wife took me shopping.” He smiled amiably. “You know how wives are — just can’t pass up a bargain.”

The assistant cashier hesitated. “I know, but don’t do it again, or we’ll have to close out your account.”

Johnny promised to be a good boy and left, hurrying to a third bank. He got by without a lecture there and went across to Fifth Avenue, to deposit a straight check to his day-old account — enough to cover the outstanding checks on it. The deposit check was drawn on the new straight checking account across the street.

At one-thirty, Johnny reeled back to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel, to find Sam Cragg seated in the Morris chair, staring moodily at the beds, piled with junk.

“I bought some more stuff.”

“What the hell for?” Johnny cried.

“Well, I got eighty-seven fifty from the pawnshop...”

“And you spent it?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? You buy stuff, hock it and with the money you buy more stuff.”

Johnny groaned. “You took two hundred and forty dollars worth of merchandise, pawned it for eighty-seven fifty. Then you pawn the eighty-seven fifty stuff for twenty dollars, then you buy twenty dollars worth, hock it for two dollars and the two dollar junk for twenty cents. Then you buy a ham sandwich with the twenty cents.”

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“With your flair for high finance, Sam,” Johnny said, “you ought to be holding down a big government job in Washington.”

“I’ve only been doing what you’ve been doing.”

Johnny seated himself on the edge of the bed. “I only got into this thing because of your damn suit.”

“What’d my suit have to do with it?”

“You raised a fuss about it, didn’t you? You had to have it right away...”

“Is it unreasonable for a man to want something to wear, Johnny? Could I sit around in my underwear all day long?”

“You could have waited until I got the money legitimately.”

“Maybe I’m dumb, Johnny, but I don’t see why you couldn’t raise twelve bucks legitimately easier than two hundred and forty dollars like — like this...”

Johnny laughed hollowly. “Two hundred and forty dollars! Do you really want to know how we stand, as of this moment?”

“You mean it’s worse than two hundred and forty?”

Johnny took some scraps of paper from his pocket. He consulted them. “We have on deposit at this moment, in eight different banks, the sum of eight hundred and fifty-five dollars. There are checks outstanding against these deposits — checks that will go to the respective banks tomorrow morning — for two thousand four hundred and sixty dollars. I have cash on hand, three hundred and ninety dollars. Summing it up, we are short one thousand two hundred and twenty-five dollars...”

“But what about all the stuff we hocked?” Sam cried. “And this junk here?”

“What about it?”

“It’s worth a pile of money?”

Johnny exhaled heavily. “We have with Uncle Ben merchandise worth fifteen or sixteen hundred dollars. I haven’t kept track of it all. But I pledged it for three seventy-five. It’ll cost around four hundred dollars to get it out. If I add this stuff to it, and do some good haggling, I can hock it for around five hundred dollars. All right, add that to our assets. Eight fifty-five in the bank, three-ninety in cash and — another hundred that I can squeeze out of the stuff...”

“You said five hundred...”

“Yes, but it’ll take four hundred to get back what’s with Uncle Ben. We’ve got liquid assets of, mmm, roughly, thirteen fifty... and outstanding twenty-four sixty. In short, we’re over eleven hundred dollars in the hole...”

Sam stared at Johnny in astonishment. “What’re you going to do?”

“Raise eleven hundred dollars.”

“But how?”

“The same way — only tomorrow we’ll wind up, owing over two thousand and the day after it’ll be four thousand. It ends when we run out of banks and pawnshops, or when my legs wear out.”

Sam moaned.

Johnny said bitterly: “All because you had to have a suit to wear!”

“Would it help if I gave you back the suit?”

“It’d help twelve dollars’ worth. No, the solution is to liquidate as soon as possible. I can do it today for eleven hundred dollars.” Johnny reached for the telephone book, turned the pages to the m’s and picked up the phone. He gave the operator a number and a moment later said, “Gorgeous, let me talk to Mr. Seebright... Johnny Fletcher, yes, your old pal Johnny...” He winced as Violet Rodgers lit into him. “He’s expecting me to call, precious... Of course he knows me. I talked to him last night... What...? I don’t believe it...” He hung up abruptly and stared at the phone.

Sam sprang to his feet. “Something happen to Seebright?”

Johnny took the receiver off the hook. “Have a boy bring me up a newspaper,” he said into the phone, and put the receiver back. He turned to Sam. “Something happened to Seebright, yes, and all the other people over at Mariota...” He paused. “The company filed a petition for voluntary bankruptcy—”

“You mean the company’s broke?”

“That’s what the switchboard operator said. She may be lying. I’ll know in a minute...”

Eddie Miller brought the paper himself. He came into the room, handed Johnny the newspaper and remained, looking at the merchandise on the beds.

Violet Rodgers had told the truth. The Mariota Company had made the front page. Johnny skimmed through the account. ‘Des Moines Shellac Company, $79,850,’ the biggest creditor. Johnny reread and pondered the line. Des Moines.

He put down the paper and met Eddie Miller’s cynical eye. The bell captain indicated the bed. “Taking on a line of merchandise, Mr. Fletcher?”

Johnny picked up a ukelele. “Ever play one of these, Eddie?” He twanged the strings.

“I ain’t musical.”

“You don’t have to be to play a uke. Simplest musical instrument ever invented. Look...” He strummed a moment “Never took a lesson in my life. Can’t read a note. A man can be the life of any party, he plays one of these.” Deftly he removed the price tag. “Worth fifty bucks, Eddie, but for you, twenty-seven-fifty.”

“Me, twenty-seven-fifty!” exclaimed Eddie Miller.

“All right, I owe you a few tips, from when things were tough. Slip me a twenty and she’s yours.” He thrust the ukelele into Eddie’s hand.

His eye fishily on Johnny’s face, Eddie twanged the strings. He twanged them again. “Make it ten, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Fifteen and I’ll throw in a free lesson, when I get time.”

Eddie hesitated and made the mistake of twanging the strings once more. Then he sighed and took a roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled off a ten and a five.

Johnny took the money, patted Eddie’s shoulder and led him to the door. When he turned back into the room, Sam exclaimed, “I didn’t pay fifteen bucks for that.”

“Nine-ninety-five, the tag says. That’s better’n pawning the thing. If I had time...” He shook his head. “We’ve got to get a client today.”

“Who?”

“Well, who is there to pick from? Charles Armstrong, Esbenshade, Farnham, Dorcas, Doniger and Seebright... Esbenshade would have been my best bet, but Jefferson Todd grabbed him off. I don’t think Seebright likes me very much.”

“Who are the others?”

“Armstrong’s a vice-president and I gather there was something between him and Marjorie Fair. But I don’t think he likes me too much. And Doniger hates me.”

“That only leaves you two, this Farnham and Dorcas.”

“Farnham’s of no consequence.”

“So it’s Dorcas?”

Johnny picked up the phone. “Get me the Mariota Record Company, in Newark, New Jersey,” he said to the operator. “I don’t know the number.”

As he held the phone, someone knocked at the door. Johnny signaled to Sam Cragg, who went to the door and opened it. Doug Esbenshade stood in the doorway.

“Never mind that call,” Johnny told the operator. He hung up. “Well, Mr. Esbenshade, how are you today?”

Esbenshade closed the door and came into the room. “Rotten,” he said sourly. “I had a bad night.”

“So did I,” Johnny said cheerfully. “I was thinking of you in the hands of that fourflushing beanpole who has the nerve to call himself a detective.”

“He speaks well of you, too.”

“Naturally. Did he tell you about the time we were both working on the same case — the Winslow affair?[1] I made a monkey out of him.”

“You solved the case?”

“I got the guy who did it — and Todd got the dough.”

“And you think you can get the man who — who killed Marjorie?”

“It’s a cinch. Right now I know more than Jefferson Todd does about it.”

“Just what do you know?”

“Just how much are you paying Todd?”

“Never mind that. If you know anything I’ll pay you — what it’s worth.”

Sam Cragg crossed the room, went to the far bed and seated himself. For the first time in days he felt relaxed. A man was about to make a deal with Johnny Fletcher. Which to Sam meant that things were going to be all right. He knew Johnny.

Johnny said to Esbenshade, “Charles Armstrong, vice-president of the Mariota Record Company, had a crush on Marjorie.”

Esbenshade took out a wallet, opened it about a half inch and skinned out a nice new bill. A one hundred dollar bill. Johnny took it from his hand.

“Go ahead,” said Esbenshade.

“A man named Doniger thinks himself quite a lad with the girls. He made passes at Marjorie.”

“You’re not making much out of Marjorie,” Esbenshade said morosely.

“Do you want the truth?”

“I want the man who killed Marjorie.”

“Then you’ve got to have the truth.” Johnny picked up the newspaper from the bed. “You know about the Mariota Company going into bankruptcy?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a Des Moines Shellac Company listed as a creditor.”

“I’m the Des Moines Shellac Company.”

Johnny nodded quietly. “I thought you might be. You put the squeeze on them?”

“There’s a man named Dorcas in that company,” said Esbenshade. “He runs their plant. He was out to see me. Wanted to buy a lot of shellac. Naturally, we looked up the company. I didn’t like their financial statement too well.”

“But you sold them the shellac?”

“Dorcas showed me a copy of a contract they had just made with Con Carson, the crooner. He said they were going to make a recording that would sell a million records. I gave them the shellac.”

Johnny looked down at the newspaper. “The Mariota Company gave Marjorie an audition.” He looked up suddenly and met Esbenshade’s eye. “It’s pretty hard for a girl to get an audition with a phonograph record company... especially a girl that the company knows only as a secretary.”

“Yes,” said Esbenshade.

“I guess that’s why you really sold them the shellac.”

Esbenshade hesitated and then took out two more hundred dollar bills. But he closed the wallet and put it into his pocket. “All right,” he said, “you’ve got a job.”

“I ought to have a thousand dollars,” Johnny complained.

Esbenshade snorted. “I’ve given you three hundred. There’ll be another thousand when you hand me the murderer.”

“How much are you paying Todd?”

“Do you want this money, or don’t you?”

Johnny stowed it away in his pocket. “I’ll get in touch with you at the Barbizon-Waldorf.”

“How’d you know where I was staying?”

Johnny smiled. “We’ll walk out with you, Mr. Esbenshade.”

The three left the room together. Outside, Esbenshade got into a taxi, while Johnny and Sam turned left to head for Times Square.

Sam said: “So the guy really fixed it for Marjorie to get her audition — and she didn’t even know about it.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Yeah, but how did you know about it?”

“I didn’t. I guessed. A lucky guess.”

“All right, now guess the murderer.”

“Guesswork’s no good for that. I’ve got to have proof.”

“Yeah, well, where we going now?”

“Newark.”

The plant of the Mariota Record Company was a sprawling, four-story brick building that had seen better days. It was a silent building. When there’s no money in the main offices over in Manhattan the machinery in the plants in Newark, Jersey City, Brooklyn, stops turning.

There was a little office in a corner of the first floor of the Mariota Record Company. A stout woman with hennaed hair sat at a desk, working a crossword puzzle.

“What’s a four-letter word meaning chicken?” she asked as Johnny and Sam came up.

“Gump,” said Johnny.

“Gump? I never heard of such a word.”

“That’s because you’ve never raised gumps... Quiet around here, isn’t it?”

“If you’re selling something — yes, we’re not doing much these days. In fact, we’re not doing anything, as of this morning.”

“Because of a five-letter word meaning kaput?”

“Oh, you read the newspapers, do you?” Johnny grinned. “I’m looking for Joe Dorcas.”

“With a summons?”

Johnny held up both hands, palms out, so she could see they were empty. “No summons.”

“Well, he’s somewhere in the plant, but I don’t think he’ll be in a talkative mood this morning.”

“I’ll talk for both of us.”

“Since I’m probably not< getting paid for today anyway, I don’t see what point there would be in my stopping you from going into the plant...”

“Thank you, miss.”

Johnny led the way into the plant. The first floor was taken over by a number of huge mixing vats, boxes, barrels, cartons and supplies necessary to a phonograph record company. There wasn’t a soul on the floor.

They climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor. Here, there were rows and rows of strange machines and pungent, tangy odor of shellac. A man was wandering forlornly among the machines. He saw Johnny and Sam at a distance.

“Here you, fellows, what are you doing here?” he called. Then, still fifty feet away, he recognized Johnny. “What the hell do you want?”

“Why, I thought I’d drop in and say how sorry I was.”

Joe Dorcas came up and scowled at Johnny. “Do you go around every day to companies that go into bankruptcy and tell them you’re sorry?”

“No,” said Johnny. “But I was talking to my friend Doug Esbenshade this morning—”

Dorcas’ face twisted. “That dirty—!”

“Is that a way to talk about the man who sold you all that nice shellac?” Johnny asked chidingly.

“Sure, he sold us shellac — and he threw us into bankruptcy, too.”

“It takes three creditors to do that.”

“He lined up two besides himself. This company’s as sound as it ever was. Our accounts receivable and physical assets amount to more than our debts.”

“Well, maybe the receiver will bring you through.”

“Receiver!” snarled Dorcas. “A receivership is a political plum. A judge appoints a relative as a receiver and the receiver bleeds the business.” He swore luridly. “One good receivership and a receiver is fixed for life. When he gets through with this company, you can carry off what’s left in your vest pocket. And all because of your friend Esbenshade!”

“Esbenshade didn’t ask much, did he? An audition for his girl...”

“I gave it to her, didn’t I? I even made a record. It was that skinny punk, Armstrong, killed it, over in the main office. He said she sang like a hungry cat with fleas.”

“Her voice couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It wasn’t bad at all. With any effort, we could have sold ten thousand platters and even made a few bucks on the deal. But no, those wise guys couldn’t see it. We only handle artists, they said. Well, they can handle artists now.” He picked up a black lump of some substance and threw it to the floor.

Johnny stooped and picked up the black stuff. “What’s this?” The lump was a flattened piece of plastic, about an inch thick and two or two and a half inches in diameter. It weighed several ounces.

“That’s a record — in the rough. We call it a biscuit.”

“And that becomes a shiny phonograph record?”

“Why not? It’s heated and put in one of these pressing machines. See — the master record is pressed down on it, like this...” He brought down the hinge of a pressing machine.

“You mean each individual record is pressed out like that? That seems like a rather slow operation. Takes you a long time to press out a hundred thousand records.”

“Not as long as you’d think. One man can press a thousand records in a day and we’ve got two dozen of these machines.”

“Two dozen? But if you’ve only got one master record...”

“Who said anything about one master record? We make as many masters as we want.”

“Then why was Seebright so excited about a single master record last night...?”

“Oh, that! That was THE master record — the one from which the other masters would have been cut.” He grunted. “That’s what ruined us. Con Carson made that recording and rushed off, to fly to Hollywood. He got killed and he couldn’t make any more recordings. And then our original record was — disappeared...”

“Before you’d a chance to make any other masters off it?”

Dorcas nodded. “That record would have saved this company.”

“Do you suppose somebody who wanted this company to go broke took it?”

Dorcas looked sharply at Johnny. “Who would want to wreck this company?”

“Maybe a competitor? Wasn’t Continental Records sore when you got Carson away from them?”

“Sure, but companies don’t hire burglars... Or do they?”

“I wouldn’t know — I’ve never been a company.”

A loudspeaker blasted the stillness of the plant. “Mr. Dorcas,” the loudspeaker called, “Mr. Dorcas...!”

Dorcas grunted and walked away from Johnny and Sam. In the center of the big room was a small stand on which reposed a telephone. He picked it up.

“Dorcas talking.”

He listened for a moment, nodded. “Okay.”

He hung up and came back to Johnny and Sam. “They want me over in New York. I’ve got to get ready.” He started to walk off, but suddenly turned. “Say — just what did you come over here for?”

“No particular reason.”

“What was that business last night — pretending you had the Con Carson master?”

Johnny shook his head. “I never told Seebright I had a master. I just asked him what it was worth.”

“It was worth plenty — yesterday.”

“Today?”

“Nothing, to the Mariota Company.”

“But to another company?”

“They’d have to buy it from the receiver. They probably will.”

“If the record’s ever found.”

“It’ll be found!”

As they walked away from the plant of the Mariota Record Company, Sam Cragg said: “I don’t see that we got anything here.”

“We got the motive for the murder of Marjorie Fair.”

“Oh, we did? What is it?”

“The record we’ve got in our room. Sam — the master record.”

Sam screwed up his face in thought. “You mean Marjorie swiped it from the plant here?”

“I hardly think so. She got it by mistake — in place of the record she made.”

Sam thought that over for a moment, then exclaimed, “That means Dorcas murdered her!”

“Not necessarily. Almost any employee in the place could have known — or guessed about the mistake.”

“Yes, but would the record be worth anything to any employee?”

“He could have thought so. As a matter of fact, yes. See-bright was so desperate last night he offered me five thousand dollars for it and no questions asked. With a bit of tact, I could have run it up to ten thousand...”

“Why didn’t you? We could certainly use ten grand.”

“Could you sleep nights knowing a girl had been murdered for that record?”

Sam shook his head doggedly. “Your ethics are too much for me, Johnny. You think nothing of skinning eight banks—”

“I haven’t skinned any banks — yet. If I can get that other G out of Esbenshade I’m an honest man tomorrow. Besides, a bank isn’t any sitting duck. It’s a sporting proposition. If I juggle a few checks and get away with it, I’ve scored. If I slip up, I’m in the clink. But nobody’s going to get murdered over it.” He took Sam’s arm and squeezed it. “Don’t look around now, but I think we’ve got a tail.”

Sam exclaimed, “Where...?” and despite the cautioning pressure on his arm, looked around.

Some forty yards behind them, a heavy-set man stopped and looked idly into a shop window.

“I’m almost sure he was on the subway, coming from New York,” Johnny said.

“I’ll find out.” Sam tore loose from Johnny’s grip, started toward the man in front of the window. The man, without seeming to look at Sam, turned and sauntered away.

Sam quickened his step. The man walked faster. Sam started running. The man ran. He was a good runner and Sam, seeing that he was out-distanced, stopped and trotted back to Johnny.

“D’you see him run?” he cried.

“I see he’s stopped,” Johnny said.

Sam looked back. The man he had chased was standing a hundred yards away, looking at Sam and Johnny.

Johnny reached into his pocket and took out a twenty-dollar bill. “I’m going to lose him. Here’s some money. Stay here and keep him from following.”

“You mean I’ve got to go back to New York alone?”

“That’s why I’m giving you this money. Take a taxi back.”

Leaving Sam watching the shadow, Johnny started off briskly. The shadow crossed the street and came forward, intending to by-pass Sam and continue after Johnny. Sam headed for the middle of the street.

Stopping at the next corner, Johnny looked back. Sam and the shadow were both in the street, the shadow trying to pass Sam and the latter trying to block him.

Johnny darted around the corner, sprinted a block and crossing the street, darted into a store. He emerged on the side street, cut across and went into another store. Two blocks away he got into a taxicab. “One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street ferry,” he told the driver.

“That’s quite a long haul,” the cabby remarked.

“It’s nothing to me — I’ve got money to throw to the birds,” Johnny retorted.

A half hour later he boarded the ferry that would take him over to 125th Street in Manhattan. There was a wait of two or three minutes before the ferry was to pull out... and just before the barrier was lowered, a man came aboard — the man that Sam Cragg was supposed to have stopped in Newark.

Johnny went up to him.

“Oh, hello,” the man said cheerfully.

“Where’d you leave my pal?” Johnny asked.

“In Newark. I let him chase me into a drugstore. I guess he’s still waiting out in front.”

“Smart lad, aren’t you?”

“You mean figuring you’d head for the ferry here?” The man grinned. “I put myself in your place, in Newark, and I said to myself, now suppose I was trying to lose a man in Newark and get back to New York — what’d be the best way and I answered myself, Union City and One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street in Manhattan. So I jumped into a cab and here I am — and here you are.”

“How’re you at swimming?” Johnny asked.

“You and who else are going to throw me overboard?”

Johnny walked away and seating himself inside, got a shoeshine. As the ferry docked at 125th Street the shadow rejoined Johnny.

“Figuring on giving me the slip over here?” he asked, grinning.

“I’m going to my hotel,” Johnny replied. “Feel like taking a cab with me and splitting the fare?”

“To Forty-fifth Street? Why not?”

“Is it against the rules to ask who you’re working for?”

“Be kind of silly of me to tell, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, you’re shadowing me and from the looks of it, we’re going to be together for awhile. I can’t just keep on calling you YOU can I?”

“Call me Joe — because it ain’t my name.”

The barrier went up and the passengers began to get off the ferry. Johnny and Joe walked through the building, had someone leap into a taxi ahead of them and caught the second one.

“Forty-fifth Street Hotel,” Johnny said to the cabby.

“Uh-uh,” said Joe. “Make that Eighty-eighth Street and Second Avenue.”

Johnny looked down at Joe’s left hand. It was partly in his coat pocket, but enough was out of the pocket to show Johnny a neat little .32.

“Oh,” said Johnny. “It’s like that”

“Yep!”

“I could yell, you know.”

“In which case I’d have to plug both you and the driver.”

“Tough guy, eh?”

Joe leaned back, away from Johnny. He smiled confidently. Johnny slid morosely over to the far side of the seat and the taxi jerked and jolted through the streets of upper Manhattan.

Crossing Fifth Avenue, at 110th Street, Joe leaned forward and called to the driver, “I’ve changed my mind. Drive to One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street and Lenox Avenue.”

Ten minutes later the cab pulled over to the curb.

Johnny and his abductor got out. Joe kept his left hand in his pocket as he paid the cabby. Then he fell in beside Johnny.

“Now, we walk.”

They walked two blocks, turned off Lenox Avenue and went another block. Then Joe nodded to the dingiest building in all New York, a building that should have been condemned years ago, but hadn’t been.

Joe led Johnny up to the door and taking a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door.

He stepped back for Johnny to enter.

Johnny went in. A thousand smells assailed his nostrils. Inside Joe closed the door and took his left hand out of his pocket. He prodded Johnny with the .32.

“Up one flight, first door on your left.”

They climbed the stairs and Joe unlocked an apartment door, revealing a small apartment furnished with worn, shabby furniture.

“Little hideaway,” Joe said cheerfully.

“So?”

“So now we talk business. You’ve got a phonograph record...”

“Says who?”

Joe shook his head. “Let’s keep it on a friendly basis and no hard feelings, what do you say? All right — you’ve got a phonograph record.”

“Just for the sake of argument, let’s say I’ve got a phonograph record. What then?”

“Why, you give it to me. That’s all. Then you go your way and I go mine and nobody’s hurt.”

“Who wants this phonograph record?”

“I do.”

“Somebody’s paying you for this job?”

“Of course. I can’t work just for the fun of it, can I?”

“That’d be against the union rules, wouldn’t it?”

“Natch!”

“But what if I don’t give you this phonograph record?”

“Are you kidding?”

Johnny seated himself on a threadbare sofa. “I’ve got an awfully stubborn streak in me. A girl was murdered because of that phonograph record and somehow it goes against me to make her murderer a present of that record.”

There was a telephone across the room. Joe went to it and keeping one eye on Johnny, dialed a number. Then he put the receiver to his ear. After a moment he said: “Georgie? What about it? What...?” He nodded. “I’ve got the chump here. Better come over.” He hung up. “The record wasn’t in your hotel room,” he said to Johnny.

“Did your chum try the hotel safe downstairs?” Johnny asked, sarcastically.

“Oh, so that’s where it is!” Joe seated himself in a chair, facing Johnny across the room. “We’ll give your friend time to get back to the hotel, then we’ll give him a buzz, huh?”

“Buzz all you like, but it won’t get you the record.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Joe toyed with his little revolver. “Don’t go making up your mind. A fella makes up his mind too hard he hates to change it. And that makes things kinda tough. So keep an open mind, huh?”

Johnny glowered. “How much are you getting paid for this?”

“Enough.”

“A hundred dollars if I walk out of here.”

Joe showed interest. “You’ve got a hundred dollars?”

Johnny winced. “Not with me, but...”

“Turn your pockets inside out,” Joe said.

Johnny sat stubbornly still.

“This gun don’t make too much noise,” Joe went on.

“You kill me and you kill the chance of getting the record,” Johnny said grimly.

“Who said anything about killing?” Joe demanded. “I wouldn’t bump a guy for no amount of money.”

“You mean that?”

“Why, of course. They execute guys for murder. But I was thinking about your knee. One of these little slugs would kinda chew up the kneecap and make it hurt pretty bad, but a broken knee wouldn’t kill a man. So how’s about standing up and emptying the old pockets, huh?”

“You wouldn’t shoot,” Johnny said. “The people downstairs would hear the shot.”

“The people here mind their own business. A man wants to beat up his wife, it’s his business, or hers. And there’s rats in this building. We shoot them sometimes. So, how’s about getting up, huh?”

Johnny looked steadily at the man with the gun. Something he saw in his eyes caused him to get up. Joe cocked his gun as Johnny reached into his pocket.

Johnny took out his money, including the three nice new hundred dollar bills. He tossed them across the room. Joe looked down and saw the figures on the new bills.

“Pay dirt!” he cried.

“Me and my big mouth,” said Johnny bitterly.

“Oh, don’t worry, chum,” Joe said consolingly, “we’d a searched you anyway, when George got here.” He scooped up the bills. “Uh, we’ll keep this little deal a secret between us, huh?”

Down in the building a door slammed. Then heavy feet pounded creaking stairs. Joe went swiftly to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. Then he pulled open the door.

“Hi, Georgie!” he greeted the newcomer.

A man very much the size of Sam Cragg, but with the meanest look Johnny had ever seen in a human, came into the apartment. He sneered at Johnny. “So this is the sucker. He doesn’t look like much.”

“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort, Georgie. A Utile unreasonable maybe, but I think he means right.”

“I do like hell,” Johnny snorted. “And what’s more, you took four hundred bucks out of my pocket.”

Georgie brightened. “Four hundred coconuts?”

Joe shook his head. “Not quite, George, not quite four hundred...”

“Give!”

Joe took the money from his pocket, gave Johnny another hurt look and divided with Georgie. “Fifty-fifty, right down the line. That’s being partners, Georgie.”

“You said it. Same with the grand that—”

“Hold it, Georgie...!”

“Oh, I wasn’t gonna spill the guy’s name. Don’t worry. I can keep my trap shut. Well, how about it, Sher...?”

“Joe’s my name!” snapped Joe. “Watch it.”

“Okay, okay.”

Joe pointed to the telephone. “Fletcher, your friend ought to be back at the hotel by now.”

“Maybe.”

The geniality faded from Joe’s face. “You’ll call him. He’ll get the record from the hotel people and he’ll bring it up here. And he won’t say a word to anyone — anywhere. On account of what’ll happen to you, if he does. Got that?”

“I’ve got it,” said Johnny, “but I’m not calling Sam Cragg.”

Georgie’s eyes widened. “I thought you said he was okay?”

“Maybe I didn’t ask him polite enough. Fletcher, I’m asking you again — for the last time, polite. Call your chum on the phone.”

Johnny folded his arms stubbornly. “Go to hell!”

Joe sighed. “All right, Georgie...”

Grinning wickedly, Georgie walked up to Johnny. He reached down and gathered up a handful of Johnny’s coat front, his shirt and a bit of his skin. He lifted Johnny to his feet. And then still smiling, he smashed his fist into Johnny’s face — a blow so savage that it went through Johnny’s hurriedly thrown-up defense and sent him reeling across the room. The wall brought him to a stop, but it didn’t hold him. He slid down it to a sitting position.

In a haze, Johnny saw Georgie bearing down on him. Even as the big man stooped to catch him up, he raised his foot and kicked Georgie in the groin. Georgie went back, gasping with pain.

Johnny struggled to his feet and met Georgie, maddened with pain. Georgie hit him in the stomach, straightened him with an uppercut and smashed him to the floor with a terrific left hook. Johnny fell into a black, bottomless pit and then — although he didn’t feel it — Georgie kicked him.

He was still kicking Johnny when Joe tore him away.

It was shortly after one o’clock when Sam Cragg returned to the Forty-fifth Street Hotel. He expected Johnny to be waiting for him and was surprised when he found the room locked. He opened the door with his own key and went in.

The place looked as if a cyclone had struck it. The beds were torn up and scattered all over the floor. Even the rug was turned back. The picture of the canal scene in Venice was on the floor.

The master phonograph record was gone.

“Holy cow!” Sam cried, aloud.

He went to the phone. “Bell captain,” he said.

A couple of minutes later he was seated in the Morris chair staring at the wreckage of the room, when Eddie Miller knocked on the door and came into the room, in response to Sam’s invitation.

Eddie surveyed the room. “What’s the game?”

“Whaddya mean, game?”

“Fletcher’s figured out something he’s going to pull on Peabody.”

“Eddie,” said Sam, “get ready for a shock. We’re not pulling anything on Peabody. Johnny and me left this room about three hours ago. It was all nice and clean like the maid left it this morning. Johnny hasn’t come back yet and me, I just got in about three and one half minutes ago. It was like this when I come in.”

Eddie Miller put his tongue in his cheek. “Your jewels been stolen, maybe?”

“Nothing was swiped, Eddie. It’s just — well, Johnny’s going to blow the roof off when he comes back and sees this. I suppose I should call up Peabody, but aside from who’s behind in his room rent he doesn’t know a damn thing about this hotel. You do, Eddie, so I want to know what’s been going on around here today.”

“Nothing at all.”

“Nobody came asking for us?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any suspicious-lookin’ birds in the lobby?”

“Half of the guests of this hotel look suspicious, but that don’t mean nothing.”

“What about packages? Nobody with a package leaves this hotel that you don’t know about it.”

“Nobody left the hotel with a package that shouldn’t have. Besides — you said nothing was stolen.”

“Nothing that was worth anything.”

“Then something was taken?”

“I made a phonograph record of my voice yesterday. It’s gone and a record ain’t something you can carry out in your pocket.”

“You could break it up and carry the pieces in your pocket and nobody’d know it.”

“This was a master record, made out of aluminum, stiff aluminum. You couldn’t bend it without a sledge hammer.”

“A guy could carry it under his coat.”

“Did anyone?”

Eddie scratched his head. “Not that I know of. Honest, Sam, I’m on your side. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. People go up and down in the elevators all day long. I don’t know them all — and I don’t see them all. What goes on in the rooms above the lobby is something we never know about... until after it’s done, usually. Besides, since this murder yesterday — well, the place is crawling with cops. And private detectives. Jefferson Todd, the famous detective’s been in and out of the hotel...”

“Today?”

Eddie nodded. “He’s working on the case, but for who I don’t know. He’s been up to see the Fair girl, I know. And I saw him leave the lobby right after lunch with that big butter and egg man from Iowa, who’s been with Miss Fair.”

“Esbenshade. We’re working for him.”

“How do you mean?”

Sam scowled. He shouldn’t have spilled that. But it was too late. “Oh, we’re doing a little work for him.”

“What kind of work?”

“Detective work, Eddie, what do you think?”

Eddie looked at the damaged beds. “I see. Then I don’t think you can blame the hotel for this.”

“Because we’re working for Esbenshade, this is our fault, Eddie? How do you figure that?”

“Well, you’re asking for trouble, when you’re mixing with murderers, aren’t you?”

“I catch the guy who tore up this room,” growled Sam, “and there’ll be blood all over the wallpaper.”

Without knocking, Jefferson Todd opened the door and came in. “My, my,” he said, looking at tie damage.

Sam sprang to his feet. “You got hands, Todd? Or ain’t you used to knocking on doors?”

“I heard your voice, so I just pushed open the door.”

“Well, push it shut again, as you go out.”

Todd said: “Where’s Fletcher?”

“Hiding under the bed.”

“You’re a very funny man, Cragg,” Todd said sourly. “Ever think of going on the stage?”

“I got a offer last year from George Abbott. He was gonna put on a play called The Dumb Detective. It was all about a private dick who called himself the greatest detective in the world. I told him I couldn’t play the part because I wasn’t dumb enough.”

“I guess I’ll be getting back to work,” Eddie Miller said, suddenly and slid out of the room.

“Did you lose something here, Todd?” Sam snapped.

“I want to see Fletcher. Any objection to my waiting for him?”

“Yes.”

Todd sneered. “He’s trying to muscle in on me.”

“So?”

“That glib tongue of his sold Esbenshade a bill of goods. You tell Fletcher I’m not going to put up with it.”

“All right, I’ll tell him you’re going to slap his wrist. Anything else?”

“I’ll save it for Fletcher,” snarled Todd and stalked out of the room.

Sam gave up and began straightening up the beds. He put the sheets and blankets back, with a few wrinkles here and there and kicked the rug back into place. He was just finished when the phone rang. Sam lunged for it.

“Yes?”

A man’s voice said, “Is this Mr. Fletcher?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Never mind who’s calling,” said the voice on the telephone. “Let me talk to Fletcher.”

“He ain’t here now. But this is Sam Cragg, his assistant I’ll take a...” Sam stopped as he realized he was talking into a dead phone.

He hung up and stared at the telephone. The things Johnny got into! And where was Johnny now? Sam had wasted a lot of time over in Newark, waiting outside that drugstore. Johnny should have been home an hour.

On a sudden impulse, Sam picked up the phone again. “Miss Susan Fair’s room,” he said to the operator.

The operator rang the room, but after a moment said to Sam: “I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”

Sam slammed down the receiver and leaving the room, rode down to the lobby. He went into the cocktail lounge, just off the lobby, and ordered a glass of beer at the bar. He was tilting it to his mouth, when he looked into the back-bar mirror. Susan Fair and a wisp of a man Sam had never seen were seated in a booth.

Carrying his glass of beer, Sam headed for the booth.

“Hi, Miss Fair,” he greeted Susan.

Susan Fair did not seem overjoyed at seeing Sam. “Hello,” she said shortly.

Sam seated himself across from Susan, crowding the skinny man back into the booth. He said: “Johnny’n me are working for Mr. Esbenshade, now. Did he tell you?”

Susan frowned. “No, I hadn’t heard. Where — where is Mr. Fletcher?”

“I left him over in Newark.”

“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.

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.”

“From under the picture, near the bathroom,” persisted Johnny.

“But it’s gone, I’m telling you.”

Johnny went on: “Take the subway to Harlem. Stand on the corner of Lenox and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street until a man comes up and asks you for the record. Got that?”

“But I can’t bring the record, Johnny,” Sam wailed. “I told you it’s gone—”

“And you’re not to bring anyone with you and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Catch on?”

Joe reached down and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hang up!”

Johnny put the receiver back on the hook. It was up to Sam, now. Although what Sam could do, he didn’t know. The ransom instructions were simple enough, but the fulfilling of them was foolproof. Sam didn’t have the record and if he couldn’t deliver it to Georgie...

Joe said: “It’ll take him about a half hour to get to Lenox and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. Better get down there now, Georgie, so you can spot anyone that might be loafing there and you won’t confuse them with any newcomers.”

Georgie slapped his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “And there better not be any monkey business!”

Johnny returned to the couch and Joe went back to his table. But as Georgie left the room, Joe took out his little .32 and put it on the table within easy reach.

“We could play a little gin while waiting,” Johnny suggested.

“And you make a grab for the gun?” Joe smiled. “That’s how Billy the Kid got out of jail. I read about it in a book. He killed the jailer, with his own gun.”

“That’s the trouble with people these days. They read too much.”

“So you sit there on the couch, nice and quiet. And if you make a sudden move — well, you still get a hunk of lead in your kneecap.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Johnny said. “I’ll match Sam against Georgie. Two falls out of three and we’ll let Georgie have the first fall.”

“Oh, your friend’s tough, is he? Georgie fights for keeps.”

“So does Sam, and I’ll make it even more interesting. You can tie Sam’s right arm down to his body.”

“You’re crazy, Fletcher. What’d be the point in letting them fight?”

“A little side bet.”

“What would you use for money?”

“Sam carries our bankroll. He’s got a thousand dollars in his pocket right now.”

Joe looked sharply at Johnny. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“It interests you?”

“It’s what we’re getting for this job.”

“Then you’re a piker. I was offered five thousand for that phonograph record last night.”

Joe exclaimed angrily, “Who offered you five grand?”

“A fellow named Orville Seebright: There were some fellows with him, fellows named Dorcas, Doniger, Armstrong and Farnham...”

“Never heard of them,” said Joe. But there was a slight pause before he said it.

“A thousand dollars,” said Johnny. “And all you’ve got to do is to tell me the name of the man who hired you for this caper.”

“It’s too late.”

“We can get to the corner before Georgie meets Sam.”

Joe slammed his fist on the table so hard that his cards bounced up and scattered over the floor. “I’ve never double-crossed a client in my life.”

“Ethics?”

“Damn right. It’s your reputation in this racket that brings you the business. You double-cross a customer and it gets around. We said we’d do this for a G and keep our mouths shut.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “You can have the record and I’ll still give you the thousand dollars—”

“Without the record?”

“Yes. You’ve made four hundred already, you can get your thousand from the customer... and another thousand from me. A total of twenty-four hundred dollars.” He paused for emphasis. “A nice day’s work.”

Joe stared at Johnny, his mouth slightly open.

“Fourteen hundred,” said Johnny, “or twenty-four hundred.”

“No, goddamit!” cried Joe. And to brush away the temptation, he began gathering up the cards. His mind still preoccupied, he stooped to pick up those that had fallen to the floor.

That was when Johnny started moving.

From near the floor, Joe saw Johnny diving for him. He cried out hoarsely, started to jerk up to reach his gun that was lying on the table.

Johnny hit the table and sent it crashing over Joe and spilling the gun. Then Johnny was swarming over the table. Joe was muscular and tough, but he wasn’t Georgie. And he hadn’t taken the beating Johnny had taken. He was only trying to protect his financial interest and resist a medium-sized beating.

Johnny was fighting — for everything.

He used his fists, elbows, teeth, knees and even his feet. He clawed Joe, smashed him with his fists, kneed and kicked him. And when Joe tried to gouge out his eyes, he used his teeth on Joe’s hands.

He dragged him across the room, away from the vicinity of the gun, banged his head on the floor, pounded and battered him with his fists. And within thirty seconds of the launching of the attack, Joe lay on the floor, a quivering hulk of flesh.

Johnny got to his feet, searched for Joe’s .32 and, finding it, stuck it in his pocket. He started for the door, but detoured to stoop over Joe. He got all the money out of Joe’s pocket, then picked up his head and banged it back on the floor... to make sure that Joe would get a nice long sleep.

Then he left the apartment and staggered down the stairs.

Sam hung up the receiver, after talking to Johnny Fletcher on the phone. His jaw slack, he stared wildly about the room. Johnny was on a spot, he had gathered that much. And it was up to Sam to get him out of it. But how...?

He was to meet a man on a street corner. That was good enough. Sam thought he could hold onto whatever man showed up and convince him that it was wise to lead him to where Johnny was being held. And there Sam’s two fists could get to work.

But Johnny’s instructions had been explicit. He was to bring the phonograph record with him. Without it, the man he was to meet probably wouldn’t come up to Sam and identify himself.

The phonograph record.

A phonograph record. They all looked alike from a distance, didn’t they?

Sam slammed out of the room, rode down to the lobby in the elevator and saw Eddie Miller standing beside his little stand at the far end of the lobby. He hurried over to him.

“Where’s the nearest place that they sell phonograph records, Eddie?” he asked.

“Why, there’s a place over on Seventh Avenue, right around the corner...”

Sam winced. That was the place he and Johnny had visited the day before. He didn’t think he would be welcomed at the particular store.

“I don’t want to go to that place,” he said. “Isn’t there another shop handy?”

“I can’t think of any offhand. You see them everywhere when you aren’t looking for them, but when you want one...”

Sam groaned and whirled away from Eddie, leaving the bell captain staring after him. He burst out of the hotel and half ran, half walked over to Seventh Avenue.

He entered the phonograph shop and, of course, out of a half dozen clerks, the one he didn’t want came up. He recognized Sam. “A package of needles?” he asked sarcastically. “Or do you want to examine the twelve hundred dollar model again...?”

“I want a record,” said Sam, “that’s all — and I want it in a hurry.”

“A record?” the salesman smirked. “What good is a record without a phonograph to play it?”

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. “Gimme a record and give it to me quick.”

The salesman shrugged. “What record?”

“Any record, I don’t care what it is.”

“But that’s ridiculous. No one buys just any record...”

Sam strode past the salesman to a rack. He reached in and brought out a record. “This — how much?”

“Seventy-five cents, plus city tax.”

Sam thrust a dollar bill into his hand. “Keep the change.”

He ran out of the store and headed for the Times Square subway station, several blocks away.

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the subway station at Lenox and 135th. Holding the phonograph record conspicuously in front of him, he walked to the street corner.

Georgie, at the moment, was on the opposite corner, standing in front of a drugstore. He spotted Sam immediately, but remained where he was, dragging on a cigarette butt.

No one approached Sam, but Georgie didn’t like the way Sam kept looking around. Finally, Sam crossed the street and took up a stand only ten feet from Georgie.

Georgie waited a moment, then threw away his cigarette stub. He walked up to Sam and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Is that a phonograph record, chum?” he asked.

Sam whirled and sized up Georgie. He was a nicely built lad, Sam thought. Husky enough to make it interesting.

“It ain’t a pie plate,” he retorted. “Give it to me.”

“Why?” Sam demanded.

“Because your pal ain’t going to feel so well if you don’t.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Sam said. He pushed the phonograph record into Georgie’s face, breaking it into about a thousand pieces. Then he grabbed Georgie’s right arm and clamped on a double wristlock.

Georgie cried out, in anger and alarm. “This is gonna cost Fletcher his life...!”

He hit Sam in the face with his free fist, a blow that, would have been much harder, had Sam not put vicious pressure on the double wristlock. Georgie screamed and went back. Sam followed, side-stepped and threw Georgie to the sidewalk. If Georgie hadn’t gone down his arm would have been broken.

But the fall broke Sam’s hold and he rolled quickly aside as Sam lunged for him. His feet came up and one of them caught Sam in the chest. Sam went back, grunted and came forward as Georgie struggled to his feet, tugging at his right hip pocket.

Sam caught Georgie’s shoulder, whirled him around, just as Georgie’s hand came free of his pocket. It held a leather-covered blackjack, which he swung at Sam’s face.

Sam let go of Georgie and ducked, even as he drove a smashing blow through at Georgie. He took the blackjack on his left shoulder, but his fist caught Georgie’s face and knocked the ruffian back against the drugstore. Georgie barely missed the plate glass window.

In the middle of the intersection, a policeman’s whistle blasted. But Sam didn’t hear it. He was moving forward to decimate Georgie.

Georgie was reeling, but he still had the blackjack in his fist.

Feet pounded the pavement. Johnny Fletcher’s voice cried: “Sam...!” Sam didn’t hear him. He was watching the blackjack in Georgie’s hand and cocking his right fist for the haymaker. Johnny Fletcher grabbed Sam’s arm and then ducked, as Sam whirled and struck. The fist swished past Johnny’s ear, missing him by about one-sixteenth of an inch. Then Sam recognized Johnny.

“Johnny...!”

The policeman’s whistle blasted again, nearer. Johnny caught Sam’s arm. “Come on...!”

They ran then, leaving Georgie and his blackjack to the mercies of the Harlem policeman.

Fifty yards away, Johnny shot a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Georgie mixing it with the policeman, blackjack against club. The blackjack lost and Georgie went sprawling to the pavement.

Then Johnny and Sam whirled around a corner and shot across the street. There they slackened their pace to a walk and Johnny caught his breath.

“What happened, Johnny?” Sam panted.

“I walked into something.”

Sam studied Johnny’s face. “Jeez, you sure took a beating.”

“About eight of my ribs are floating.” He thrust a hand into his pocket. “And I’m out sixty dollars on the deal.”

“They took your dough?”

“They took it and split. But I got Joe’s share back, with a little extra. Too bad I didn’t have time to go through Georgie.”

“Georgie’s the lad with the blackjack? I woulda murdered him in another minute...”

“You did well enough... Hey, taxi.”

Brakes squealed as a cruising taxi pulled up beside them. Johnny and Sam piled in.

“Forty-fifth and Broadway,” Johnny said. “And whip up the horsepower!”

A half hour later they climbed out in front of the Forty-fifth Street Hotel. While Johnny waited for the elevator, Sam stepped to the desk. There was another telephone slip. Sam got it and handed it to Johnny as they stepped into the elevator.

The message was from Seebright. It said: “Important you phone me. Plaza 5-1127 until eight, after that, Club Mague.”

“What time is it?” Johnny asked the elevator operator.

“I don’t know, I haven’t got a watch.”

“I’ve got eight of them,” Johnny exclaimed, “but they’re all in pawnshops.”

The elevator operator grinned at the joke. He was new at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel and didn’t know Johnny Fletcher. On the eighth floor Johnny and Sam got off the elevator and hurried to their room. Inside, Johnny scooped up the phone.

“What time is it, sweetheart?” he asked the operator.

“Ten minutes after eight,” was the reply.

“Well, get me the Club Mague, will you, precious? And have them page a guy named Orville Seebright. Call me back when you get him on the phone.”

He hung up and headed for the bathroom. He recoiled when he saw his face in the mirror. Both eyes were in mourning; the left one swollen to a slit. There was a mouse on his left cheek and a few other assorted bruises, including a bad cut on his mouth.

He started the hot water in the bathtub and began stripping off his clothes. As he climbed into the tub he groaned. Sam came into the bathroom.

“Shall I call a doctor?”

“What for?”

“You don’t look so good. Maybe you better go right to bed, after you soak awhile. A good sleep’ll help.”

“If I had time to sleep. See if I’ve got a clean shirt in the drawer, will you?”

Sam exclaimed. “You’re not figuring on going out!”

“I’ve got to. I’ve only got three hundred and ten dollars to meet those eleven hundred dollars’ worth of checks tomorrow. We’ve got to get the murderer of Marjorie Fair and grab that thousand bucks from Esbenshade. We’ve used up all the banks within walking distance and it’s going to be tough kiting checks tomorrow. And even if I make them good tomorrow, we’ll be working the banks in Brooklyn the day after.”

Sam groaned. “Couldn’t we just skip town?”

“And have every bonding company in the country after us? You murder somebody and only the cops are after you. They’re easy compared to the bonding companies that cover the banks and stores. Giving rubber checks is almost as bad as stealing a car. Uh-uh, we’ve got to make those checks good tomorrow — and keep them good!”

Sam started to leave the bathroom. “Hey — that guy Georgie, the cop grabbed him... well, the fellow that hired him, isn’t he...?”

“Yes,” said Johnny, “but he isn’t going to volunteer any information to the cops.”

“They can sweat it out of him.”

“If they knew there was something to sweat for.” Johnny shook his head. “If the cops break this case, we don’t get one thousand bucks. Catch on?”

“Yeah, but couldn’t you tell Esbenshade that Georgie knows who killed his girl friend? That’s almost the same as naming the guy yourself.”

“It’s what I’m thinking of, Sam. Call up the Barbizon-Waldorf and tell him we’re coming over to see him with some information. I’ll try to sell him on the idea that we’ve earned the grand.”

Sam went into the bedroom, while Johnny stepped out of the tub and began drying himself. Before he was finished, Sam came to the bathroom door.

“He went out, they said.”

“Try Susan’s room upstairs.”

Sam grimaced. “Me and Susie ain’t on such good terms.”

“How come?”

“Well, I went into the saloon downstairs to get a beer and there was Susie with this guy Armstrong. Armstrong insulted me and I kinda choked him a little. Susie didn’t seem to like it.”

“Armstrong and Susan Fair,” mused Johnny. “Armstrong had a crush on Marjorie.”

“Oh, they didn’t look like that,” Sam said. “They was just talking together, serious-like.”

Johnny began dressing himself. “Call her room.”

Sam did, but received no answer. “You’d think people would stay home.”

“Maybe they’re having dinner together?” suggested Sam. “I’m so hungry myself I could start eating the furniture. But there isn’t time to eat.”

The phone rang and Johnny went out and caught it up. “Yes?”

It was the hotel operator. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but they say at the Club Mague that Mr. Seebright isn’t mere. Shall I try again later?”

“No,” said Johnny. “Thanks.” He hung up. “I guess he’s on the way over. Well, we’ll run over, too, and maybe get time to grab some dinner.”

Sam headed into the bathroom to clean up.

It was nine o’clock when they got out of a taxi in front of the Club Mague, a dive in the basement of a dingy brown-stone building on Fifty-second Street. A liveried doorman gave them the once-over and opened the door reluctantly.

Inside a velvet rope was up, even though Johnny, looking into the restaurant, saw vacant tables. The head waiter shook his head condescendingly.

“All filled up.”

“Where?” asked Johnny. “You got room in there for Coxey’s army.”

“Reserved, all tables reserved.”

Johnny dug into his pocket, and bringing out his money, sorted out a five dollar bill. The head waiter looked at it and at Johnny’s unprepossessing face. “Sorry,” he persisted. Johnny swore under his breath and skinned out a ten-spot “Bet you this can find a table.”

The waiter palmed the tenner and took down the velvet rope. “Right this way, sir.” He led Johnny and Sam to a tiny table at the far, far end of the room where the lights were dim. He held out a chair for Johnny and said, solicitously, “An accident, sir?”

“Fight,” said Johnny.

“Ah, Madison Square Garden?”

“Alley. Just an alley fight...”

The head waiter smiled vacantly and signaled to a waiter. When the latter came up, Johnny brushed away the thirty-six sheet menu. “Two steaks,” he said, “and a ham sandwich apiece for an appetizer, while we’re waiting. And two double Scotches for me and one for my friend...”

“Make that two for me, too,” said Sam.

The waiter went off and Johnny, leaning back, searched the interior of the Club Mague for familiar faces. He saw two in a booth a short distance away. Doniger and Farnham, late of the late Mariota Record Company. A woman with a bosom sat beside Doniger.

“Holler when the meat comes, Sam,” he said, getting to his feet. He bore down on the trio in the booth.

“Hello, fellows,” he said as he came up.

Doniger looked up at him coldly. “Yes?”

“Too bad about the old Mariota outfit, isn’t it?” Johnny sympathized. “Although I don’t suppose it’ll mean so much to you two. With your backgrounds you shouldn’t have any trouble getting jobs.”

“How long is it since you’ve had a job?” Doniger asked pointedly.

Johnny chuckled. “Right there with the old one-two! Guess I asked for that one.” He seated himself in the booth beside Farnham and facing Doniger and the woman with the bosom. He smiled confidentially at Farnham. “H’arya, Eddie?” Then, without waiting for a response he looked across at Doniger again. “I’ve got a friend named Doug Esbenshade might be able to give you something, Donny...”

“You know Esbenshade?” Doniger exclaimed.

Johnny held up two fingers, pressed tightly together. “Like that, Doug and me. One of the richest men in Iowa, Doug is. But sharp, too. That’s why he foreclosed on Mariota.”

The woman beside Doniger nudged him sharply. Doniger started. “Oh, excuse me — Ruthie, this is Mr. Fletcher. Fletcher, my wife...”

“Mrs. Doniger! Well, I’m certainly glad to meet you.” To Doniger: “You sly dog, I didn’t know you were married. Why don’t you tell people?”

“He’s very much married,” Mrs. Doniger said sharply. “And there are two children at home, too. I don’t suppose he told about them either?”

“Now, now, Ruthie,” said Doniger, squirming.

“Two kids!” exclaimed Johnny. “Well...!” He leaned back and looked fatuously at Doniger. Then he said: “By the way, Vi phoned me today.”

“Vi?” asked Mrs. Doniger.

“Violet Rodgers, the switchboard operator at Mariota. A stunner...!”

Doniger was as pale as the newly washed sheet of a Ku-Kluxer. He said nervously, “When do you expect to see Esbenshade again?”

“Oh, probably tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you. But I was going to tell you about Vi—”

“Cut it out,” Doniger snarled.

“Oh, no, Mr. Fletcher,” said Mrs. Doniger in a deadly calm voice. “Tell us about Vi. A stunner, I believe you said...”

Johnny whistled suggestively and rolled his eyes. Then he appealed to Farnham. “Isn’t she, Eddie?”

Farnham just looked dumb, which was par for him.

“I suppose Vi’s going to lose her job, too,” purred Mrs. Doniger.

“With her looks she’s got nothing to worry about,” said Johnny.

Sam Cragg hissed loudly, “Johnny, grub!”

Johnny got up. “Oh, excuse me, folks, I’ll drop by again later.”

He walked quickly back to his own table, where the ham sandwiches, loaded with lettuce, butter and mayonnaise, were just being placed on the table. Johnny scowled as he sat down and picked up his sandwich.

“Is there a law says you’ve got to put mayonnaise on a sandwich?” he demanded of the waiter.

“Why, I don’t think so,” said the waiter. “The cook—”

“Tell him there are more people don’t like mayonnaise than do. When I get back to Congress I’m going to introduce a bill forbidding the manufacture of the damn stuff. Take this back — and see that the cook doesn’t just put new bread around the ham. I don’t want a speck of mayonnaise on it. Not even a smell. Understand...?”

“And that goes for me, too!” growled Sam.

The waiter gathered up the sandwiches. Johnny looked over at the Doniger booth. Mrs. Doniger was giving her husband the business and the latter was defending himself warmly and with the expression of a cat being whipped after upsetting the cream bowl.

“I just fixed up Doniger with his wife,” Johnny said, cheerfully to Sam.

“He’s sure catching it, too. What’d you say?”

“It wasn’t what I said; it was the way I said it. Mrs. D. is sure now that her husband’s been two-timing her with Violet Rodgers.”

Sam jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a slip. “Jeez, I forgot — she telephoned today. Said she’d meet you at the same place as last night.”

“This is a fine time to tell me — oh-oh...!” He looked past Sam.

Susan Fair was coming into the room. Behind her was Orville Seebright, wearing a neat blue suit with white piping around the vest lapels, and black piping on the coat. The head waiter was bringing them to the table next to Johnny’s and Sam’s, and as they approached Johnny got to his feet.

“Miss Fair and Mr. Seebright! Why don’t you join us?”

Susan didn’t seem to like the idea, but Seebright was all for it. Ensued a bit of business with the head waiter and the other table was pushed against Johnny’s.

The quartet seated themselves.

“You got my phone call?” Seebright asked.

“Four of them, but I had a little trouble at the gym.” He indicated his battered face. “Picked a rough sparring partner and had to teach him a lesson.”

“Or he you,” remarked Susan.

Johnny smiled. “You ought to see the other guy.”

The waiter came back with the ham sandwiches. Johnny said, “Just a moment,” and picked up the top layer of bread. He examined the ham critically. “Just as I thought — he brushed the mayonnaise off the ham and put new bread on it. Take it back again and tell him I want new bread and new ham — untainted by mayonnaise.”

The waiter gave Johnny a dirty look, but said, “Yes, sir,” and took the sandwiches away again. “I’m going to get me some cards printed,” Johnny went on. “They’re going to read: ‘People DONT like mayonnaise,’ and everywhere I go I’m going to pass them out.” He shook his head. “When you were in the record business, Mr. Seebright, you should have hired only former mayonnaise salesmen. They’re the best salesmen in the world, the way they’ve pushed that goo all around the country.”

Seebright smiled. “You said when I was in the record business. What makes you think I’m not still in the record business?”

“Why, I read something in the papers today...”

“True, true. But what does the receiver know about the record business? They’ve got to keep someone in the place who knows things. Besides — the firm will be in receivership only a day or two.”

“You raised the dough?” Johnny looked pointedly at Susan Fair.

“I expect to,” Seebright said calmly. “I’ve been talking to a bank that’s practically agreed to refinance the company.” He cleared his throat. “As soon as I show them the Con Carson master.”

“Oh, you’ve found it?”

“Why, no — not yet. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Mmm,” said Johnny.

“I wanted to continue our little talk of last night.”

“Is that so?”

“I thought I might sweeten that offer I made you. Say twice the amount?” He looked inquiringly at Johnny and as the latter shook his head, added: “And I’ll personally add, out of my own pocket, another five thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand altogether? That’s a lot of money. Mr. Seebright.”

“I think so.”

“It’s enough to make a man want to go out and find the record for you.”

“I had that in mind.”

“Only I don’t know where to start looking.”

Seebright regarded Johnny steadily. “Think it over.”

“I have, Mr. Seebright, I have. As a matter of fact, I’m going to let you in on a secret. I didn’t get this face massage in a gymnasium today. I got it because of the Con Carson record; somebody thought I had it. Somebody paid a couple of fellows a thousand dollars to persuade me to give it to them.”

Seebright exhaled heavily. “I never know when you’re telling the truth or talking nonsense, Fletcher.”

“This time I’m not talking nonsense. I might add that I’ve got some assorted bruises where they don’t show; such as a couple of awfully sore ribs. In fact, I’m sore all over.”

“Me, too,” chimed in Sam.

“I’m no hero, Mr. Seebright. I would have given them the record when they were asking for it, but I couldn’t because I didn’t have it at the time.”

“At the time?”

“An idiom of speech.”

“It seems to me,” Susan Fair said, “one or the other of you two is always going around looking for trouble.”

“You’re referring to Sam’s little fracas with Mr. Armstrong? He told me about it.”

“Armstrong?” Seebright asked, looking at Susan. “Charles Armstrong?”

“He called this afternoon to offer condolences,” Susan said quietly.

“Armstrong was interested in Marjorie,” Johnny amplified.

Seebright showed interest. “I didn’t know that. In fact, I find it a little hard to believe. I seem to recall that it was he who voted against giving your sister a contract. I liked the recording myself but in the interests of unity in the company...” He shrugged.

“Armstrong makes the decisions at Mariota?” Johnny asked. “Dorcas was all for Marjorie, you were for her, the sales manager liked her voice, but Charles Armstrong decided against her, so you turned her down.”

“Unity, Fletcher, unity. Miss Fair” — to Susan — “forgive me, Miss Fair, your sister made a fine recording, but her name was, after all, unknown. It’s more difficult to sell an unknown and since a vice-president of the company seemed to feel so strongly, well...”

“I understand, Mr. Seebright,” said Susan in a low tone.

Seebright-suddenly pushed back his chair. “I declare, there’s Doniger over there now. And Ed Farnham. Will you excuse me, Miss Fair? There’s something I’d like to ask Doniger.”

He got up and went over to the Doniger table. Johnny winked at Sam and hitched his chair around so that he was virtually on Susan Fair’s side of the table.

“When are you going back to Iowa, Susan?”

“In a few days — why?”

“Why, I was thinking, what can you do in Iowa that you can’t do in New York? I know some people here in the show business...”

“And you’ll get me a job in the Follies?”

“They don’t put on the Follies any more, not THE Follies. Ziegfeld’s dead. But they still have plenty of other shows and with your looks...”

“Sorry, not interested.”

“Modeling, maybe?”

“No modeling.”

“I was thinking of magazine covers.”

“I was thinking of your line,” Susan said. “I’ve heard better routines back in Des Moines.”

Johnny grinned. “Well, suppose you consider that I’ve broken the ice, then. What do you say we ditch old Seebright and go some place where there’s a little more life?”

“Why, Mr. Fletcher!” Susan mocked. “I came here with Mr. Seebright. It wouldn’t be right for me to walk out on him, would it?”

“It’s been done.”

“What sort of a place did you have in mind? I mean, the place you’d like to take me — a nice, cozy little Hungarian restaurant, where the lights are kind of dim and the man in the gypsy uniform plays When A Gypsy Makes His Violin Cry on the violin? Is that the kind of place you had in mind?”

“All right,” said Johnny. “Man to girl, then, let’s get away from all these people, where I can tell you all about myself and you can tell me what you’ve been doing all your life.”

“Object — what?”

“Object, how do we know, unless we get better acquainted?”

Susan pursed her lips and studied Johnny’s face. “Well, your looks haven’t been improved any by the plastic surgery. I’ll admit your personality is a bit on the picaresque side and I like the picaresque, but girl to man, Johnny Fletcher, do you really think you’re the sort a girl can take by the hand and lead into her home and say, ‘Ma, this is the man?’ ”

“I haven’t got hydrophobia.”

Susan smiled. “I was talking to one of the bellboys at the hotel this afternoon, the little chap who seems to be the head of the bellboys...”

“Eddie Miller.”

“Yes, Eddie. He’s an admirer of yours. He was telling me of some of the outrages you’ve perpetrated upon the hotel management at one time or another. Oh — all in a spirit of tremendous admiration, for Eddie thinks you’re wonderful—”

“I pay him a small salary to plug me to the right people.”

Susan looked at Sam Cragg. “I see you’ve gotten your trousers back.”

Sam reddened. “Oh, we’re in the dough.”

“Because of Mr. Esbenshade?”

“I suppose some girls prefer men like Esbenshade,” said Johnny. “But what fun is there in counting money and clipping coupons? You just get callouses on your fingers. Although I wouldn’t mind counting about a thousand dollars right now.”

“What would you do with a thousand dollars?”

“The question should be, what am I going to do if I don’t get a thousand dollars?”

Susan looked at him in surprise. “You’re in debt a thousand dollars?”

“Not exactly. As a matter of fact, I’m not in debt at all. I don’t owe anyone a dime. I did owe a little hotel bill yesterday, but I took care of that.”

“Then why do you need the thousand dollars?”

“Why, as that bright little bellboy told you, I, ah, pledged Sam’s suit to pay the hotel bill. And then in order to get Sam’s suit back for him, well, that’s cost me eleven hundred dollars, so far...”

“That suit certainly didn’t cost eleven hundred dollars.”

“Twenty-seven-fifty, lady,” said Sam Cragg. “I walked up a flight of stairs and saved ten bucks. They’ve got ’em all over the country.”

Orville Seebright came back to the table. He seated himself and looked reproachfully at Johnny. “I’ve just had to assure Mrs. Doniger that there isn’t and hasn’t ever been anything between her husband and a switchboard operator named Violet”

“Who said there was?”

“They seemed to think you intimated such a thing.”

The waitress brought the steaks for Johnny and Sam.

“Where’re the ham sandwiches?” Johnny demanded.

“The cook says he hasn’t got no more ham and furthermore, customers we got plenty of, customers that don’t all the time send things back to the kitchen.”

“That’ll hold me,” said Johnny, “but remember, comes the revolution and the customer’s going to be right again.”

“Maybe,” said the waiter. He slammed down the dishes and went off, in the direction of the kitchen.

Johnny shook his head sadly. “And I was going to give him a fifty cent tip!”

Jefferson Todd and Doug Esbenshade bore down on the See-bright-Fair-Fletcher-Cragg table. “Well, well,” said Johnny. “Look who we’ve got here.”

“Whom,” corrected Todd.

“Just to pick a fight, Jefferson, I stick to who—”

“Fletcher,” said Esbenshade, “I’d like a word with you.”

Johnny got up. “Me, too, with you.” He led the way to the men’s washroom, where he handed fifty cents to the attendant. “Mind stepping out for a minute?”

The attendant went out. “Fletcher,” Esbenshade began, “I’ve been thinking things over and I’ve decided—”

“I’m ready for that thousand dollars,” Johnny interrupted.

“What thousand dollars?”

“The thousand you said you’d give me when I got the murderer.”

“What are you talking about?” Esbenshade demanded angrily.

“We made a deal, didn’t we? A thousand dollars when I gave you the name of the person who killed Marjorie Fair.”

“And you know?” Esbenshade said, grimly. “And can prove it?”

“The police will prove it.”

“All right, what’s the name?”

Johnny evaded a direct reply. “About seven o’clock this evening a man was arrested at the corner of Lenox Avenue and One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. He attacked a policeman with a blackjack, but was beaten into submission. He gave me what you see on my face. He was hired to do it by the man who killed Marjorie Fair.”

“Who?”

“The police can make him tell.”

“But you don’t know yourself?”

“After all, Mr. Esbenshade, I was kidnapped and tortured for hours. I was glad enough to get away. But that’s a technicality. The police are very good at making people tell things.”

Esbenshade went to the door of the washroom. He opened it and looked out for a moment. Then catching someone’s eye he signaled. After a moment Jefferson Todd came into the washroom with Doug Esbenshade.

“Todd,” Esbenshade said, “you told me that you had an in with the police department.”

“Sure,” Johnny said, “he can fix a parking ticket anytime, by paying the fine.”

Todd scowled at Johnny. “I’ll have some things to say to you later. What is it you want to know from the police, Mr. Esbenshade?”

“A man was arrested this evening,” Esbenshade said, then looking at Johnny: “Where did you say?”

“One Hundred and Thirty-fifth and Lenox, in Harlem...”

“And?”

“Fletcher claims that this man was employed to beat him up. Employed by the man who killed Marjorie Fair.”

Jefferson Todd snorted. “You see, Mr. Esbenshade, this is the sort of thing I meant — the man gets into a brawl somewhere and makes a story of international intrigue of it.”

“Are you talking about me, Todd?” Johnny demanded.

“I wasn’t talking about Sherlock Holmes.”

Johnny reached under the washbowl and brought out a Manhattan telephone directory. He found the number he wanted and took a nickel from his pocket. Then he stepped to a wall phone, took down the receiver and dropping in his nickel, began dialing.

“Hello, Police Station?” he asked a moment later. “Well, look, one of your officers arrested a man this evening, shortly after seven o’clock. On the corner of Lenox and one Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street. The man attacked an officer with a blackjack and I believe the policeman had to subdue him with his club... What...? You’ve got the report right there? That’s right... Officer Holtznagle, a fine man... Eh...? No, no, I was merely one of the witnesses. ’Bye...!”

He hung up. “He didn’t handcuff Georgie and while he was putting in the call for the wagon, Georgie made a break for it. He got away...!”

Todd laughed raucously. “See what I mean, Mr. Esbenshade?”

“Are you calling me a liar, Todd?” Johnny asked savagely.

“What do you think?”

Johnny brought out another nickel. “Here, you call the Harlem Police Station, this time...”

Todd brushed away the suggestion. “Oh, there might have been some such incident in Harlem. It’s nothing unusual. You probably saw a squib in the paper. But the man involved is probably someone you never even saw in your whole life.”

Johnny looked at Esbenshade. The Iowan’s face was cold and impassive. “Keep the money I gave you, Fletcher. But forget the rest of it, will you?”

“If I’m not working for you,” Johnny said grimly, “I’ll work for myself. And I’ll get the man who—”

“And stop annoying people,” Esbenshade went on curtly.

Johnny slammed out of the washroom. He returned to his table. “Come on, Sam!”

“But I ain’t through eating yet, Johnny,” Sam protested.

“You’ve had more’n I’ve had.” He nodded to Seebright and Susan. “Excuse us, please...”

“Think over what I’ve told you, Fletcher,” said Seebright.

Johnny didn’t bother to answer. He started to leave and the waiter who had served them, headed him off. He had a bill for fourteen dollars and eighty cents in his hand. “Your check, sir...”

Johnny noted the amount. “That was a great dinner, garçon. And well served.” He took a ten and a five dollar bill from his pocket. “Keep the change.”

The waiter said some things, but Johnny was too angry to bother retorting. He stalked out of the Club Mague.

A taxi was at the curb. Johnny and Sam climbed in.

“Where to?” asked the cab driver.

“Forty-fifth Street Hotel,” replied Johnny and instantly changed his mind. “Make that the Grand Central Station.” To Sam he explained: “Violet Rodgers.”

“She said she’d be at the Commodore at five-thirty. It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“So I’m late.”

“Yeah, about five hours.”

“She may still be waiting.”

She was. She sat at a corner table, an empty glass in front of her, her body rigidly erect, her eyes glazed.

Johnny sat down at the table. “Sorry, Vi, I didn’t get your message until a little while ago.”

“J-Johnny Fle-Fletcher,” Violet said thickly, “I wouldn’t wait for any man, no matter who he is. When I say six o’clock, I mean six o’clock. I’m going home.”

“Sure,” said Johnny, “why not? I’m going your way; I’ll drop you off.”

Violet struggled to get to her feet. She wouldn’t have made it if Johnny hadn’t helped her. Then she looked owlishly at Sam Cragg.

“Who’re the two fellows with you, Johnny?”

“The one on the right is my pal, Sam Cragg.”

“H’arya, Vi,” said Sam.

“H’arya, yourself. Hey, Johnny, walk to the subway with me, willya? Wanna talk with you.”

Johnny took her arm and with Sam on the other side, assisting, they led Violet Rodgers out of the bar, to the sidewalk and into a taxicab. They got in and seated themselves, Sam on Violet’s right, Johnny on the left.

“What station do you get off at, Vi?” Johnny asked.

“Whatsamatter? Don’t you think I know I’m not in a subway? I’m not drunk, you know. I live on Eighty-fourth Street, near Second Avenue.”

“Eighty-fourth and Second Avenue,” Johnny called to the driver.

The cab jerked off and Violet grabbed Johnny Fletcher’s hand. “Listen, big boy, I wanna talk to you. I’m scared, see...”

“Of what?”

“Of what... of what happened to Marjorie Fair. You think I don’t know anything about that, huh? Well, I do — I know more’n anybody thinks, see. And the fella that did it knows that I know, see? Otherwise he wouldn’t a sent me this letter...”

She fumbled in her purse and finally found a soiled and folded envelope. Johnny took it from her hand, saw that it was postmarked Station C, New York City. It was addressed in smudged and penciled printing: Miss Violet Rogers, Mariota Record Company, Kamin Bldg., New York, N.Y.

Inside was a sheet of cheap ruled paper on which had been pasted, in words clipped from a newspaper, the message:

“When’d you get this?” Johnny asked, soberly.

“It came in the mail this morning. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“It says here to keep your trap shut.”

“Yeah, well I did. I kept it shut all day, didn’t I? I didn’t say a word to nobody at the office. And I didn’t tell the police that I got a threatening letter. The fella that wrote this isn’t kidding and I know enough to keep my mouth shut.”

Johnny hesitated. “Just what is it you’re not supposed to tell anyone?”

“That’s the thing that gets me. I don’t know.”

“You just got through telling me that you know more than anybody thinks.”

“I guess I do.”

“Well, what?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Look, Vi,” cut in Sam Cragg. “How can you know something when you don’t know something?”

“Stop tryin’ to confuse me, big boy. I know plenty.”

“What?” Johnny repeated patiently.

“I got this letter, didn’t I?” demanded Violet, indignantly. “It says to keep my trap shut, don’t it? That means I know something I’m not supposed to tell.”

“For the last time, Violet,” said Johnny, “what do you know?”

“For the last time, Johnny Fletcher, I don’t know what I know. But I must know something or I wouldn’t have got this letter. That’s simple, isn’t it?”

“If it is, I’m a Quiz Kid.”

“Let’s try it again,” said Violet Rodgers. “I know somethin’ the person who killed Marjorie Fair knows I know. Only I don’t know what it is. D’you understand that?”

Johnny exhaled wearily. “Have you got a key to the office?”

“What office?”

“The Mariota Record Company office.”

“Of course I have. Why...?”

Johnny leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver. “Change that to Lexington and Forty-second.”

Brakes squealed and the taxi made a careening U turn and began to zoom southward.

“Hey, where we going?” Violet demanded.

“To your office, to see if we can find out what you know.”

“We can’t go to the office in the middle of the night.”

“Why not? You’ve got a key, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“But what...?”

“You two — you don’t work for Mariota.”

“If you want to be technical, neither do you. But you’ve got a key and we can get in.”

“That’d be burglary.”

“So it’s burglary.”

Violet groaned. “I need a drink.”

“You’ve had a drink.”

“I had two, but they’re beginning to wear off.”

“That’s fine,” said Johnny.

The taxicab pulled up before the Kamin Building and the three climbed out. Johnny paid the bill and they headed for the door of the building. It was a huge glass door and locked but, peering through into the dimly lighted corridor, Johnny could see a man sitting behind a high stand near the elevators. Johnny rattled the door and when that produced no results took a half dollar from his pocket and tapped it on the door.

That got results. The man inside came up to the door and unlatched it from the inside.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We want to go in the building,” Johnny replied. “The Mariota Record office.”

“You work there?”

“Yes, and we’ve got the key.”

The night watchman hesitated, then pulled the door wide open and led them to his little high stand. “You’ll have to sign the book.”

Johnny signed for all three: Jefferson Todd, George Molotov and Helen Smith. Then they stepped into the elevator, which the night watchman operated himself.

On the twelfth floor they went to the offices of the Mariota Record Company, the door of which Violet unlocked with her key. Inside, Johnny switched on all the lights in the main part of the office, then went back and locked the door on the inside.

“Now, what do we burglarize?” Violet asked.

“What is there to burglarize?”

“The safe is locked and I don’t know the combination. If you ask me, there’s nothing here but the office furniture and records.”

“Records,” said Johnny, “where do they keep those?”

“In the stock room.”

“Where’s that?”

Violet led the way to a door and opening it switched on a light inside, revealing a long, narrow room, lined on both sides with shelves. Several contained nothing but office supplies, another contained bookkeepers’ ledgers and several had narrow slots in which reposed several hundred records, all arranged alphabetically.

“If we had a phonograph we could play some records,” Sam said.

“Are you kidding? Every private office here has a phonograph. But it seems kinda silly to come up here at night and play phonograph records.”

“Pay no attention to Sam,” said Johnny.

He cast another glance around the room and was about to leave when his eyes fell on the bookkeepers’ ledgers. “Say are the list of stockholders in any of these books?”

“I’m the switchboard operator. I don’t know anything about the books. But I guess I’ve got the names of all the big stockholders in my own book.”

“But you don’t know who owns what?”

“I know who’s the boss, don’t I?”

“Who?”

“The president, naturally.”

“And who’s next in line; the vice-president?”

“Uh-uh, old Clammy Farnham. He runs the office.”

“But he’s only the treasurer.”

“After Seebright, he’s the boss. At least as far’s the office is concerned.”

Johnny pulled out one of the big ledgers and opened the cover. Inside the pages were headed: Accounts Receivable.

He closed the book and tried another. It said: Disbursements.

He tried a smaller book, opened it casually and became interested. Stockholders, as of the fiscal year ending, June 30, he read. Then he grunted. “Who’s the biggest stockholder in Mariota Records, Violet?”

“The president, I imagine.”

“Seebright’s name is Number Six on the list.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It says here that he holds fourteen thousand four hundred and fifty shares of Preferred and one hundred and fifty of Common.”

“What’s the difference between Preferred and Common?” Sam asked.

“The Common is the voting stock. The Preferred is what the suckers get. If there are dividends, they get them — if the Common stockholders decide to let them have any. The guys that own the Common run the company. Edward Farnham, it says here, owns two hundred shares of Common and twenty-one thousand six hundred of Preferred...”

“More than Seebright?” exclaimed Violet.

“That’s what it says in the book, but even Farnham isn’t on top. That place goes to the East River Trust Company, who, on behalf of Con Carson, owns twenty-five thousand shares of Preferred and two hundred and twenty-five of Common. That’s what the firm gave him, I guess, to come over from Consolidated Records.”

“Yes, but Carson’s dead — and besides, he wouldn’t have been active in the company, anyway.” Violet peered past Johnny into the ledger.

She exclaimed, “Who’s Martin Preble?”

“Number Two on the list, with twenty-two thousand five hundred Preferred and two hundred Common? It says here he lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.”

“Iowa?” exclaimed Sam. “That’s the place where Doug Esbenshade comes from.”

“Right, my boy, Iowa. Only Cedar Rapids happens to be a couple of hundred miles from Des Moines. But I still think you’ve got something, Sam. Yes, I think you have.”

“You mean this Preble is Esbenshade?”

“By proxy, maybe. He could be a dummy for Esbenshade. Mmm, Number Three is none other than our friend, Joe Dorcas, twenty-three thousand shares of Preferred and two hundred Common. Nice going, Joe.”

“Who’s four?” Sam asked.

“Our friend Armstrong, thirty thousand shares Preferred, but only twenty-five Common. In fact, that’s all the Common stockholders there are. But there’s a whole page of Preferred stockholders, down to Charlotte Zyskind, who owns two shares. Oh-oh, here’s Walter Doniger, one thousand shares Preferred. But no Common and — what do you know, Violet Rodgers, five shares Preferred...!”

“My life’s savings,” said Violet bitterly. “Two hundred and fifty bucks, gone blooey.”

“You bought at fifty a share?”

“Well, it was supposed to be worth fifty a share. Now I won’t get a nickel...”

“You say it was supposed to be worth fifty a share? What did you actually pay for it?”

“I didn’t pay anything.”

“You said your life’s savings...”

“That was just an expression. I mean, he told me it was worth two hundred fifty dollars.”

“Who told you?”

“Mr. Farnham, who d’you suppose? He gave me the stock for a... a Christmas present.”

“Farnham,” said Johnny grimly. “I thought you and Doniger—”

“Whaddya mean, me and Doniger? Donny’s married.”

“I’ve met his wife.”

“There’s nothing between me and Donny. He buys me a drink now and then, that’s all. Oh sure, he makes passes at me. Who doesn’t?”

“Does Armstrong?”

“That guy? He’s got X-ray eyes. But he really had it for the Fair girl. When she quit here he was so nervous for a couple of weeks nobody could hardly talk to him.”

Johnny closed the ledger. “Suppose we take a look in the private offices...”

“What for?”

“For whatever we find in them.”

Violet, almost completely sober by this time, struggled with her loyalty to the defunct Mariota Record Company and pouted for a few minutes. But when Johnny led the way into Charles Armstrong’s office and discovered all the drawers of the steel desk, securely locked, she brightened. The door of Farnham’s office was locked and Violet’s key did not turn the lock. Nothing was locked in Orville Seebright’s office, but there was nothing interesting, or incriminating, in the desk. In fact, it contained very little. Mr. Seebright was an orderly man.

Doniger’s office revealed some nice pictures of his wife and children and a few personal bills from liquor stores, a dentist and a tailor, but very little else.

The office clock in the main office said that it was ten minutes after one. Johnny gave up in disgust. “I might as well go home and go to bed.”

“That’s where I’m going right now,” Violet declared.

She headed for the front door, Johnny and Sam followed, but as Violet reached for the door, Johnny stopped at the switchboard. “Let me see your private telephone directory.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s against the rules to let anyone have the home addresses and telephone numbers of the employees.”

“Whose rules?”

Violet hesitated, then took a small key from her purse and unlocked a drawer. She took out a black loose-leaf book.

“Here it is, with the addresses and telephone numbers of everybody.”

Johnny picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and opened the book. He found that Doniger lived in Scarsdale, Farnham on West 72nd, Joe Dorcas in Newark and Charles Armstrong on Sutton Place. He wrote all their addresses on a slip of paper and was about to put the book back when he turned the page from the d’s to the f’s and saw Marjorie Fair’s name. Her address had been on Forty-eighth, but a line was drawn through that and above it was written: Forty-fifth Street Hotel.

“How’d you know Marjorie Fair lived at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel?” Johnny asked.

“Is that what it says in the book?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s right; I keep the book up pretty well.”

“That’s fine, but who told you she lived at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel?”

“She made an audition for the company just last week. I suppose she gave me her address at the time. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be in there, would it?”

“You mean she was up here, at the time of the audition?”

“Where else would she make it?”

“I thought at the plant, in Newark.”

“Our recording room’s here.”

“Where?”

“Right over there. I didn’t take you in, because there’s nothing there.”

Johnny strode to the door that Violet indicated, threw open the door and switched on the lights inside. He went into a room twenty by thirty, in which stood three or four microphones, a bandstand and a phonograph recording machine.

Sam and Violet followed him into the room.

“There’s nothing in here,” Violet said.

“Nothing, but the evidence of who killed Marjorie Fair,” Johnny said, tersely.

“You’re crazy!” exclaimed Violet. “I was here when she cut the record. It was right before Con Carson made his—”

“I know,” said Johnny. “Who else was here at the time?”

“Nobody,” said Violet. “Nobody, except the people who were supposed to be.”

“And who were supposed to be?”

“When Marjorie cut the record, or Carson?”

“You said Marjorie went on right before Carson.”

“That’s right. And she waited out in the waiting room for the verdict, which she got right after Carson got through...”

“Was she supposed to wait?”

“No, but she insisted and when I went in about the telephone call I told Mr. Armstrong—”

“What telephone call?”

“The one for Carson. I wasn’t supposed to ring this room, so I came over. The red light went out, so I came in and told Mr. Carson he was wanted on the phone. Then he left. Mr. Seebright didn’t like it, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it...”

“When you came in to give Mr. Carson the message, Violet, who was in the room?”

“It was full of people.”

Johnny gritted his teeth. “A minute ago you said there was nobody here.”

“I said only the people that were supposed to be.”

Johnny said, very patiently: “Close your eyes a moment, Violet — try to get a picture of this room as you saw it when you came in to give that message to Con Carson. Now... tell me who was in this room when you came in?”

Violet kept her eyes tightly closed. “Well, there was Mr. Carson and the orchestra and Jimmy Bailey, the leader and... and Mr. Seebright, of course. And Mr. Armstrong and Donny Doniger. And Mr. Dorcas was over by the recording machine. I guess that’s about all.”

“About all isn’t close enough. Think — was Farnham in here?”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so. He doesn’t care much about music. He’s the treasurer of the company, you know.”

“What about Marjorie Fair?”

“Oh, she was out in the waiting room. It wasn’t until after Mr. Carson left that Dorcas called her in. Or was it Mr. Armstrong? No, come to think of it, Armstrong and Marjorie weren’t on speaking terms any more...”

“Hold Marjorie a moment, Violet. Let’s come back in here with Con Carson. Just where was everybody in the room when you came in?”

Violet frowned mightily. “Well, Con — Mr. Carson was by that microphone over there; the musicians were all in their places and Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Seebright and — gosh, I don’t know where they were. I was looking for Mr. Carson; in fact, he was about the only one I did see.”

“Once more,” Johnny persisted. “Where was Mr. Dorcas?”

“At the machine, of course. The red light went out just as I got to the door, so they must have been recording... yes, now I remember, Mr. Dorcas was fooling around with the machine...”

“And Seebright?”

Violet shook her head. “I don’t remember. I told you I was bringing in a message to Mr. Carson and he was the one I was looking for. He... he called me sweetheart and — uh, patted me...”

“Where?” asked Sam.

Violet gave him a dirty look. “Not where you think.”

Johnny thought for a moment. “After Carson left, Armstrong called in Marjorie Fair, you said.”

“No, he came out to tell her the bad news.”

“Had you gone back to the switchboard when he went out to see her?”

“Oh, no. I... I was still here.”

“Who was taking care of the switchboard?”

“Nobody, in fact there was a call when I came back out here with Mr. Carson.”

“You followed him out?”

“Yes — I left the recording machine room the same time he did. That’s when — when he patted me. While we were walking out to the switchboard. He was in a good mood. Because of going to Hollywood, I guess. He asked — if I’d like to go to Hollywood with him—”

“Did you?”

“With Con Carson? Are you kidding?” She sighed. “I said yes, and then he left.”

“If you said yes, how come you didn’t go with him?” Sam asked.

“Because he was only giving me a line.” She shuddered. “But if he’d been on the level, I’d be dead now. As a matter of fact, I am dead right now. Dead tired. I’m going home...”

Johnny switched out the lights in the recording room. At the outer door he took another last look over the offices, then shaking his head, followed Violet and Sam out into the hallway.

They rang for the elevator and, after being taken down to the lobby, were compelled to sign the register again. Fortunately, the names Johnny had written were on the same page and he merely copied them. The night watchman wrote 1:45 OUT after the signatures.

Outside, they walked to the Grand Central Terminal where Johnny saw Violet into a taxicab. Then he and Sam went down into the subway and took the shuttle train across to Times Square.

Despite the fact that it had been after two o’clock when he went to bed, Johnny was up and dressed at eight in the morning. He had not slept well. Murderers had stalked through his dreams, murderers and policemen and bank tellers.

As he came out of the bathroom he looked at Sam Cragg, snoring blissfully. Sure, Sam could sleep. He let Johnny do the worrying and the conniving. And Johnny had never failed him.

Although how he would manage today, Johnny hadn’t the slightest idea. He had stretched himself out too far the day before. It was a physical impossibility for one — or two — men to scurry about and make purchases and pawn the merchandise and make bank deposits and withdrawals; enough of them to keep solvent. Eleven hundred dollars, deposited in eight banks, would save him. But Johnny was short about seven hundred of those eleven hundred dollars.

Well, tomorrow fifty-four merchants would be after him; fifty-four merchants whose checks had bounced for lack of funds. Fifty-four merchants would notify four or five bonding companies, all of which would promptly begin hounding the authorities to apprehend a large-scale check passer.

Johnny picked up the phone. “Room service, please,” then, “Room service? Johnny Fletcher, Room eight twenty-one. I’d like some orange juice, and an order of ham and eggs, a dish of oatmeal and a stack of flannel cakes, with a side order of sausage. And some home-fried potatoes and a pot of coffee...”

Sam Cragg sat up in bed. “Make that two!”

“Make that two orders of everything,” Johnny said into the phone and hung up.

Sam yawned prodigiously. “What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“What’re you doing up so early?”

“Big day ahead of us, Sam. Or have you forgotten?”

Sam winced. “Ouch!” He swung his feet to the floor. “Why don’t we buy a car and light out for Canada? Wouldn’t it be the easiest thing to do?”

“Probably — if they didn’t extradite crooks from Canada.”

“Isn’t there some country from where they can’t extradite people?”

“There’s one in Central America, but I forget which it is. Guatemala or British Honduras. But I don’t like the food in those countries. They used too much pepper.”

“We could do our own cooking.”

“We tried that the winter we were snowbound for four weeks in that shack up in Minnesota. Remember? You made a dried apple pie.”

“The apples were no good.”

“Neither was the crust — and the cooking wouldn’t have been appreciated by a starving Hungarian. Uh-uh, we’ve got to face it here, Sam. Seven hundred bucks today or some tall running tomorrow.”

“How come only seven hundred? You said eleven last night.”

“We’ve got around four hundred in cash.”

Sam got up from the bed and went to the chair on which lay the morning paper he had bought on the way home the night before. “Four hundred, eh? Then, relax, Johnny.”

He opened the paper. “El Lobo’s running today at Santa Anita and as usual the handicappers have got him down the line. Mmm, six furlongs and he’s listed at eight to one. Let’s see, who’s running against him...? Fighting Frank, three to one, Sir Bim, ten to one, Miss Doreen, four to one, High Resolve five to one...”

“Dogs, every one of them,” said Johnny sarcastically.

“...El Lobo’ll win by three lengths. That four hundred will bring us thirty-two hundred Johnny.”

“I don’t doubt it. By the way — what was the name of that horse that was such a sure thing a year or so ago — the one on which we sank the bankroll...?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The horse that went to the post a one to two favorite and came in eighth in an eight-horse race?”

“Gay Dalton? He died, a few months ago.”

“From sorrow?”

Sam threw down the paper. “Okay, okay, I was only trying to help.”

“I appreciate it, Sammy, old boy. Now, if you could locate a nice floating crap game somewhere I might be tempted. Or maybe a little table-stakes poker game, with a sociable bunch of second-card dealers...”

Someone knocked on the door and a voice called: “Room service.”

Sam opened the door and a waiter rolled in a cart, on which reposed a huge tray containing their breakfasts. Right behind waiter came Lieutenant Rook and Sergeant Kowal.

“For the love of Mike, Lieutenant,” cried Johnny, “are you going to spoil my breakfast?”

“I couldn’t eat my own, thinking about you,” retorted Rook. He came into the room and stood to one side while the waiter prepared the dishes. Kowal’s nose sniffed like a rabbit’s as he inhaled the odors emanating from the tray.

The waiter went out and Rook closed the door behind him. “Go ahead and eat,” he said.

Johnny looked at him sharply. “Aren’t you feeling well today?”

“Never felt better in my life.”

“Well, something’s up; you’re too pleasant.”

“Oh, I’m just going to make a pinch this morning.” He nodded toward the windows. “The man who killed the little girl over there.”

Johnny seated himself on the bed and picked up his glass of orange juice.

“Who’s the man?”

“Fella named Esbenshade...”

Johnny choked on his orange juice. “Esbenshade was in Iowa when Marjorie Fair was killed.”

“Says who?”

“Well, wasn’t he?”

“He registered at the Barbizon-Waldorf Hotel last Friday.”

Johnny put a forkful of ham into his mouth. “He couldn’t have registered on Friday and gone back to Iowa?”

“He was at the hotel Tuesday morning, the day Marjorie Fair was killed.”

Johnny pointed to the telephone. “Pick that up and call Susan Fair’s room. Ask her just one question... how she got in touch with Douglas Esbenshade, when she told him about the death of her sister...?”

“Oh, I asked her that yesterday. She says she telephoned him long distance and he flew to New York, in a chartered plane. Only she didn’t talk to him long distance and he didn’t fly here in a chartered plane. He was already here.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “So Susan Fair lied. Now, tell me why Doug Esbenshade killed the girl he loved?”

“She threw him over, didn’t she? Guys kill girls for that every day in the week. And she was two-timing him, wasn’t she? Forty-seven dames get killed by guys, every month, for two-timing.”

Sam Cragg swallowed a huge mouthful of food. “So she owed three weeks’ room rent and threw over a guy with a million bucks, huh?”

“Money isn’t everything,” Rook said sullenly.

“That’s what they told me in school,” retorted Johnny, “but I read a piece in the paper yesterday, where a school teacher was arrested over in Jersey City for shoplifting.”

“Yeah, and I know a guy worth ten million who’s got stomach ulcers from worrying.”

“And if he didn’t have the ten million he’d worry twice as much and have twice as many ulcers. But to get back to Doug Esbenshade, if you’re going to arrest him this morning why come to me...?”

“Because I don’t like it,” Rook snapped. “But I’ve got to make an arrest today. The captain’s riding the hell out of me. I’ve got to make an arrest today and I’ve got to make it stick, or I’m going to be walking a beat out on Staten Island — and I just bought me a little place out in Mount Vernon.” He added bitterly: “Do you know how long it takes to go from Mount Vernon to Staten Island — twice a day?”

“About as long as it took you to come up here and ask me for help.”

“Who’s asking you for help?”

“Then why’re you here?”

Rook scowled. “Jefferson Todd came down to Headquarters last night, about eleven o’clock.” He made an expressive gesture. “Yes, I know, he’s a pompous fourflusher, but about once every three years he gets onto something. He told me you got an awful beating yesterday.” Rook grunted. “And he didn’t lie about that.”

“Did he tell you how I got it?”

“He was up at the Harlem Station and they ran him out — that’s why he came downtown. I got it out of him that he was interested in a Harlem cop named Holtznagle who made a pinch about seven o’clock at a Hundred and Thirty-fifth and Lenox...”

“A lad named Georgie.”

“Georgie Starbuck, Holtznagle says.”

“He knows him?”

“Georgie’s got a record. Strong-arm stuff.”

“He’s got a partner, a fellow named... about five-eight or nine, thirty-five, thirty-six...”

“Sherman Hoke,” said Rook.

“All right,” said Johnny. “Get Georgie and Sherman Hoke and ask them who it was hired them to beat me up. When they tell you, forget Doug Esbenshade and grab the lad the boys name. He’s your killer.”

“The only trouble is finding Georgie and Sherman,” grunted Rook. “I put out a call for them at eleven-thirty last night. I haven’t had a nibble. They’ve gone into a hole. But look, Fletcher, why should Georgie and Hoke want to beat you up?”

“They thought I had something they wanted.”

“What?”

“A phonograph record.”

“What sort of phonograph record?”

“A master recording of the latest Con Carson yowling...”

“Put out by the Mariota Record Company?”

Johnny nodded. “And the reason the company went into bankruptcy yesterday.”

“How can a company go into bankruptcy just because of one record?”

“This company could — because that record’s worth about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Con Carson was killed a few days ago, in a plane accident. This is the last number he recorded. It’ll sell a million copies... if anyone ever puts it into production...”

“That record,” said Rook. “What made Georgie and Sherman think you had it?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. But they sure’n hell tried to make me give it to them.”

“Did you?”

Johnny grinned. “How could I? When I didn’t have it?”

“What made them think you had?”

“You asked that question before.”

“I’m asking it again.”

Johnny frowned. “Maybe it was my own fault. The night before, I crashed a directors’ meeting of the Mariota Record Company. I asked them what a Con Carson record was worth—”

“And?”

“They offered me five thousand for it.”

“But you couldn’t sell it to them because you didn’t have it?”

“That’s right.”

“Who was at this directors’ meeting?”

“Orville Seebright, the president, Armstrong, vice-president, a fellow named Farnham, another named Dorcas and a guy named Walter Doniger.”

Lieutenant Rook studied a worn spot in the rug on the floor, then suddenly he looked up at Johnny Fletcher, as if hoping to catch a fleeting, give-away expression. “Which one of them killed Marjorie Fair?”

“You think Douglas Esbenshade killed her.”

“I do, but I want to know who you think is the guilty one.”

“What difference does it make what I think.”

“Because you’ve been dipping your beak into this more than you’ve a right. You’ve poked and pried and you’ve gotten someone so scared that he took the trouble to beat the hell out of you. That means you’ve picked up some things you weren’t supposed to — from the murderer’s viewpoint. I want to know what those things are.”

“I’ll give you a tip, Lieutenant. The switchboard operator over at the Mariota Record Company got a threatening letter telling her to keep her mouth shut...”

“Her trap,” corrected Sam.

“All right, her trap. The girl knows something the murderer’s afraid of... the only trouble is she doesn’t know what it is she knows. And that’s me, Lieutenant. I know something — yes. Only I don’t know what it is.”

Rook groaned. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll sift it out and maybe I can make sense of it.”

Johnny drew a deep breath. “The Mariota Record Company signed up Con Carson, the crooner. How or why, isn’t important; except that they practically gave him the business to get him away from Consolidated Records. Carson made one record — not even a good one — and then was called to Hollywood. He took a plane and was killed in Nevada, along with about twenty other passengers. So the recording the company made of Con Carson is the last Carson record there will ever be. It’s worth a hundred thousand dollars to Mariota... or would have been worth that, if it hadn’t disappeared...”

“Do you think the company could have staved off bankruptcy if the record hadn’t been stolen?”

“Of course they could have... Only the record wasn’t stolen—”

“But you said—”

“I said it disappeared. The people over at Mariota think it was stolen, that is, all except one of them. He figured out where the record went...”

Lieutenant Rook exclaimed. “What’re you trying to do — leave me hanging on the cliff? Where did the record go?”

“Marjorie Fair got it. She was scheduled to make a recording at the same time as Con Carson. They had the orchestra there and they wanted to polish her off, without having to bring them in again. So, while waiting for Carson they gave her a once-over lightly. Carson came in and they shooed Marjorie out. But she waited out in the reception room for the verdict. After Carson left, the executives of Mariota voted against Marjorie. She asked them for the master of her recording. Somebody sent it to her, or gave it... at least that’s what they thought. But a mistake was made and Marjorie received, instead of her own record, the one made by Con Carson. And because of that she was murdered...”

“I follow you part of the way, Fletcher,” said Rook. “The business about the Carson record meaning life and death to the company. But this mistake about sending the record to the girl — why should that be a motive for murder...?”

“That’s the part I’m working on now.”

“What do you mean you’re working on it?”

“I’m thinking about it — why the mistake should make someone want to kill Marjorie Fair.”

Rook exclaimed angrily. “It doesn’t make sense. Who mailed the record to her — a clerk in the office? Anybody can make a little mistake like that — you don’t kill for it.” Suddenly he stabbed a forefinger at Johnny. “Say — the company turned her down: she got sore at them and then somebody made a mistake and sent the Carson record to her...” His eyes widened in astonishment. “That’s it! That’s it! She saw what the record was, knew how important it was to the company... and she called them up. ‘Pay, boys,’ she told them, ‘pay or you never see this record.’ It was life and death to the company, so... she got killed and the killer grabbed the record.”

“That’s a good theory,” said Johnny. “It was the first one I thought of. There’s only one trouble with it, one thing wrong with it.”

“What?”

“Whoever killed her didn’t take the record back to Mariota. He didn’t save the company.”

Rook’s face fell. Then he cocked his head to one side.

“He’s holding the record for ransom — he knows they’ve got to pay... any amount...”

“Who, the receiver?” Johnny snorted. “Do you think a receiver will pay a ransom — and let a company get back on its feet? You underestimate receivers. They liquidate companies... and pay themselves nice, fat salaries and perquisites.”

“You’re telling me! There was a ward heeler down in my precinct, whose uncle was a judge. The judge appointed him receiver for a furniture company... and when the receiver got through liquidating the company he was fixed for life. I think the creditors got four cents on the dollar.”

His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Say, Esbenshade’s the biggest creditor of Mariota, isn’t he? It was kinda silly of him to throw the company into bankruptcy. As long as they were a going concern he had a chance to get his money, or most of it, but by closing them down, he’s going to lose quite a roll...”

“On the other hand,” said Johnny, “he could have made a deal to move into the company.”

“Why didn’t he? From the company’s viewpoint it was better than going into receivership and losing everything.”

“You’re getting warm now.”

“What do you mean — warm?”

“Marjorie Fair was Esbenshade’s girl — he put the squeeze on them to give her an audition... and then they turned her down. So he got sore and threw them into receivership.”

Rook thought of that for a moment but didn’t like it. “If he thought that much of the girl...”

“Yes,” said Johnny, “if he thought that much of her, he wouldn’t kill her, would he?”

Rook slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “What’d you have to tell me that for? Now, I can’t arrest him.”

“If you had arrested him, you’d have bought yourself a one way ticket to Staten Island.”

“Maybe that’s where I ought to be?” Rook said bitterly. He jerked his head at Sergeant Kowal. “Come on...!”

Kowal started for the door, but Rook turned back to Johnny.

“Look Fletcher, do you or do you not know who killed Marjorie Fair?”

“If I knew,” said Johnny, “I could collect a thousand dollars this morning... and I need a thousand dollars more than the devil needs a deep-freeze cooler.”

His, lips protruding in a big pout, Rook left the room.

When the door was closed, Johnny turned to Sam and exhaled heavily. “He almost had me a couple of times.”

“What do you mean, Johnny?”

“When he got on the subject of me getting beat up, I was afraid he was going to ask why someone thought I had the record.” Johnny shook his head. “That’s such an obvious question, too.”

“I don’t see what’s so obvious about it.”

“You’re thinking like Rook, Sammy. You and I don’t work for Mariota Record Company. We never had any contact with them until Marjorie Fair was killed... so how could anyone have thought I had such a record? Unless he knew.”

“Repeat that, Johnny!”

“He had to know I had the record. And the only way he could have known would have been for him to be in Marjorie’s room when she sailed it over here. And the person who was in that room killed Marjorie Fair.”

Sam blinked once or twice, then exclaimed. “Why, sure, Johnny. The guy killed her because she threw it over here.”

“Well, maybe not quite. Maybe he had to kill her because he revealed himself to her — or his intentions. They had a fight and she managed to throw the record over here. Then he had to go through with it, and kill her.”

Sam nodded. But there was a cloud in his eyes. “Yeah, Johnny, only there’s something that bothers me...”

“What?”

“Georgie and that other guy — Sherman. They worked you over to make you give them the record. They were working you over when they made you telephone me. And then — then the record was already gone.”

Johnny smiled wanly. “That is what’s been driving me crazy, since yesterday evening. The murderer hired those lads to dig up the record, but somebody else got it... Or, was it the murderer himself?”

“What’d be the point in that?”

“To cover up. To throw me — or the police — off the track.” Johnny picked up a piece of cold toast from the breakfast tray and nibbled at it. “There’s one other thing keeps annoying me.”

“All of it annoys me,” declared Sam.

“Last night,” Johnny mused, “Orville Seebright and Susan Fair together at the Club Mague.”

He suddenly nodded, as if coming to a decision and headed for the door. “Wait here, Sam.”

“Where you going?”

“Upstairs. I want to ask the fair Susie a personal question.” He left the room and climbing the stairs, knocked on Susan Fair’s door.

She called from inside: “Yes?”

“Johnny Fletcher,” Johnny said. “Like to talk to you a minute.”

Susan’s voice was quite cool. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see you right now.”

“It’s important.”

“I’ll see you down in the lobby, in about an hour.”

“You’d better see me now,” Johnny said, meaningly.

There was a pause, then Susan opened the door. She was fully dressed and wearing a hat, ready to go out. She held the door open a few inches and blocked ingress to the room.

“Well, what’s so important?” she demanded.

“It’s about your fingerprints,” Johnny said softly. “You left them in my room.”

Her eyes widened in shock. For a moment she stared at Johnny, then she opened the door. Johnny went into the room and Susan closed the door.

“You got the record from my room yesterday,” Johnny accused.

“What record?”

Johnny smiled. “It’s a little late in the day for that, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why’d you let me into the room?”

“All right,” she said, “I was in your room yesterday. I had a right, after the way you’ve been prying into my sister’s affairs...”

“Then why didn’t you wear gloves?”

“I don’t believe you found my fingerprints, at all.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then, why...?”

“Why were you with Orville Seebright last night?” Johnny asked quickly.

“I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”

“Maybe it isn’t, but I kept asking myself that question and suddenly I had the answer. You were with him last night because you were discussing a deal with him.”

A slow flush started to spread across Susan’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Fletcher, and I don’t think I care for the tone nor the trend of your conversation.”

“I’m getting too close?”

“Too close to what?” Susan exclaimed scornfully.

“The truth.”

“You want the truth?” Susan cried. “I’ll tell you. You killed my sister and I can prove it.”

“I thought you might think that,” said Johnny. “Because of the record.”

“If you hadn’t killed Marjorie you wouldn’t have had the record. You couldn’t have had it.”

“Then, if you believed that, why didn’t you go to the police with your story... and your proof?”

“Because you’d have told them you merely found the record.”

“That’s right. That’s just what I’d have told them. And the jury, too. And I’d have told them about my alibi — which Lieutenant Rook verified a half hour after your sister’s death.”

“I heard about that alibi,” Susan said grimly. “But I didn’t hear one for that strong-arm pal of yours...”

“So you searched my room.”

“Yes! And I satisfied myself!”

“At the time you were searching my room,” Johnny said, “a couple of hirelings of the real murderer were giving me this” — indicating his battered face — “to make me tell them where I’d hid the record.” He paused. Susan’s expression told him that she didn’t believe a word he was saying. Nevertheless, he went on. “The record was thrown into my room by your sister; thrown through her window, across the air shaft and into my room... to keep it out of the hands of the man who killed her a moment later.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Whether you do or not, it’s the truth. I never talked to your sister. I had no reason to kill her. I wasn’t in love with her, I wasn’t jealous. She had no money, so there was no reason for me to kill her for profit. I didn’t know her.”

“Suppose for the sake of argument that you didn’t kill Marjorie,” Susan said. “And suppose she did throw the record through your window. Why... why did you keep it; why didn’t you turn it over to the police?”

“That was my mistake. Your sister was dead. It was obvious that the record was important. Important enough for someone to want it badly enough to commit murder. And I... well you said yesterday that I was a picaresque character. I live by my wits... and I thought I could make some money—”

“By selling the record to the murderer?”

“Not by selling the record — no. Orville Seebright offered me five thousand dollars. And I didn’t sell it to him, did I?”

“Because you wanted more?”

“If he’d offered ten times five thousand I wouldn’t have sold it. But for finding the man who committed the murder, for that I would take money.”

“You’re not a detective.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I am a detective — yes, an amateur detective. But a good one. There was a man killed in this hotel once, right in my own room. I got the man who killed him, after the police had failed... You can check up on that. Ask Eddie Miller. Or Peabody, the manager.”

Doubt began to come into Susan’s eyes. “Doug paid you some money yesterday to work for him — investigating. Then he discharged you later in the day.”

“Because of the blacklisting of a private detective who hates me. And because... look, you lied to me about this Doug, yourself. You told me you telephoned him in Iowa to tell him about your sister. He was here in New York, all the time... Why did you tell me — and the police — otherwise?”

Susan frowned. “Because Doug asked me to do it. He... he telephoned me from Iowa. That’s why I came to New York. He’d tried to see Marjorie and she’d refused to talk to him. She told him she never wanted to see him again, so he... he telephoned me. I... I came here and found...” She broke off.

“She was down on her luck,” Johnny said, quietly. “She didn’t want to admit to Esbenshade that she had failed. People are that way; when everything goes wrong they crawl into their holes. Sometimes they pull the hole in after them. I can understand that, but I can’t see why Esbenshade should lie about his having been here in New York...”

“He explained that to me; it was the Mariota Record Company. He was a creditor — in fact, he’s also a large stockholder. He thought there was something wrong with the company and he came here to investigate them... secretly. He didn’t want them to know, at the company, that he was here.”

“And it was he who had you go out with Seebright last night?”

Susan regarded Johnny steadily for a moment. Then she went to a chair and seated herself. “I knew Doug Esbenshade, in Iowa,” she said, “I knew him as my sister’s fiancé. I didn’t know him as a businessman and I didn’t know him as a jilted lover. That Doug Esbenshade I’ve just learned to know. He’s cold, he’s vindictive and cruel. The first Doug Esbenshade let my sister come to New York, so that she could do something with her voice. The same Doug invested a huge amount of money in a record company, to help Marjorie. He did it secretly, too, so she’d think she was succeeding in her own right. And then something happened; despite everything, Marjorie failed — she was turned down by the Mariota people—”

“Because of a man named Armstrong, who also loved her and was so vindictive when she threw him over that he wrecked Marjorie’s chances with Mariota...”

“It was Armstrong then who was responsible for turning Esbenshade against Marjorie. When he came here last week he heard about Armstrong and Marjorie. He believed the worst. As a result he destroyed the Mariota Record Company — and Charles Armstrong. And now he hates Marjorie’s memory so much that he won’t do for her the one little thing that would have made her life worthwhile...” Susan paused. “That’s why I made the deal with Orville Seebright last night.”

“You gave him the Con Carson record, so that he can go to his bank and get the money to pay off Esbenshade and get the Mariota Record Company out of bankruptcy...?”

Susan nodded.

“And in return, Seebright will give your sister fame — posthumous fame?”

Again Susan nodded. “Her voice was good. The recording was an excellent one... It’s going to be on the reverse side of the Con Carson record and everybody who plays the Carson record will hear Marjorie’s voice. I... it’s the least I could do for Marjorie. I somehow think she’ll... know...”

“Maybe,” said Johnny, softly, “maybe she will.” He hesitated. “Susan, I know who killed your sister...”

She looked at him steadily. “Doug...?”

He exhaled heavily and shook his head.

“Don’t tell me,” Susan said quickly. “I hate too many people now.”

“You’ll read about it in the papers tonight,” said Johnny and went out of Susan’s room.

He returned to Room 821 to find Sam Cragg fully dressed.

“All right,” Johnny said, “let’s go wash this up.”

Sam exclaimed, “You mean... you know who did it?”

“I’ve known since last night,” Johnny said. “Only I couldn’t prove it.” He scowled. “I still can’t.”

“Then how’re you going to pin it on the guy?”

“I’m going to make him admit it.”

They left the hotel and walked to Times Square. In front of the Times Building, a heavy-set man of about forty was standing reading the Want Ads in the Times. He looked like a substantial citizen, wore a rolled brim fedora and a nicely pressed dark blue suit.

Johnny walked up to him. “Like to make a fast twenty-five bucks, Mister?”

The man sized up Johnny across his opened newspaper. “Driving the getaway car?”

Johnny grinned. “Acting.”

“Not me,” said the man. “I get goose-pimples all over when I have to stand up in front of anyone.”

“You can do this sitting down — and the audience will be a small one. It’ll be all nice and private and it’ll take you an hour.”

“Mister,” said the man, “you’ve hired yourself an actor.”

Johnny signaled to a taxicab and the three of them climbed in. Johnny gave the cabdriver the address and then coached his actor in the lines he was to speak.

They got out of the taxi in front of the Kamin Building and rode upstairs to the offices of the Mariota Record Company. The door was unlocked and seated behind the switchboard was Violet.

She shuddered when she saw Johnny and Sam.

“You two lads were in my nightmare,” she said.

“Violet,” said Johnny, “for a girl who had a nightmare and has a hangover, you look pretty good to me.”

“Here we go again!”

Johnny grinned. “Hear the good news? Mariota’s back in business.”

“Is that why Sir Orville looked so chipper this A.M.? He said good morning to me — and smiled, when he said it.”

“That’s it. And now — can we see him?”

“You can’t get killed for trying.” Violet winced. “Did I say killed?”

She put a plug into a hole and spoke into her mouthpiece. “Mr. Seebright, Mr. Fletcher is here to see you...” She grimaced and broke the connection.

“He says to tell you he can’t think of a thing he wants to talk to you about.”

“Tell him that I can think of something very important to tell him — the name of the man who killed Marjorie Fair...”

Violet stared at him. “You’re kidding!”

“Tell Seebright.”

“But do you really know?”

“Of course I know. I knew last night.”

“You didn’t act like you knew.”

Johnny smiled gently. “After Seebright, you’ll be the first to know, Violet. So...” He tried the door that led into the offices, but it was latched. Inside Violet pressed a button and the release catch clicked. Johnny opened the door.

“You’d better make him forget I let you in,” Violet cautioned.

“He won’t even think about it.”

Johnny started down the vacant main office, toward Seebright’s door. As he came to Armstrong’s office he saw that the door was open. Armstrong was inside, seated at his desk, his hands thrust in his pockets, looking gloomily at a print on the wall.

“Hi,” Johnny called.

Armstrong made no response and Johnny continued to Seebright’s office. He opened the door without knocking. Ed Farnham was in with Seebright, huddled in a huge leather chair, listening to Seebright lecturing him from behind his big desk. Joe Dorcas lounged on a leather couch.

“The bank...” Seebright was saying, then saw Johnny. He scowled. “Who let you in, Fletcher?”

“I did,” Johnny said. “The switchboard operator tried to keep me out, but I sneaked past her.”

“You can just sneak out again.”

“What’s happened between us, Orville? We were pals last night. Remember...?”

“Get out of here, Fletcher!” Dorcas said irascibly, “and take your friends with you.”

Johnny stood his ground. “You boys are pretty chipper today. You’re getting your loan from the bank and the old goose is hanging high.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And all because you got back one thin little phonograph record!”

Seebright’s mien changed. “Where’d you hear about that?”

“From the person who gave it to you.”

“All right,” said Seebright. “So she told you. Did she also tell you that she told me where she found the record?”

“Yep.”

Seebright glowered. “I’m satisfied, Fletcher. But don’t crowd me or the police are going to hear—”

“Oh, didn’t you tell them?”

“I’ve had enough trouble. I’ve got a business to run here and I’m not going to waste hours or perhaps days, testifying in a courtroom.”

“You mean you don’t care who killed Marjorie Fair?”

“Apprehending a murderer is the business of the police. My business is selling phonograph records.”

“Would you still feel that way if you knew that the murderer — the murderer, I said — is a member of the House of Mariota?”

“You’re talking nonsense again, Fletcher, and I’ve heard enough nonsense from you.”

“Do you or do you not want to know, Seebright?”

Seebright pushed back his swivel chair. “No! And for the last time...!”

Then Ed Farnham spoke the first words Johnny Fletcher had ever heard him speak. “I’d like to know.”

“You’re not too busy, Mr. Farnham?” Johnny asked, with heavy sarcasm.

“Murder isn’t my business,” said Ed Farnham, mildly, “but I think it’s the duty of every citizen to do what he can to... to apprehend a murderer.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Farnham, thank you. And you, Mr. Dorcas?”

“You talk too damn much, Fletcher, but you never say anything.”

“This time I’ll say something. Uh, would it be possible to have Mr. Doniger and Mr. Armstrong come in here?”

Seebright picked up the phone. “Miss Rodgers, ask Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Doniger to step into my office.” He hung up and leaning back in his chair, linked his fingers together over his stomach.

“This better be good,” he said.

Johnny nodded to the man he had picked up in front of the Times Building. The latter seated himself at the far side of a leather sofa. Dorcas looked at him curiously, but as Johnny obviously had no intention of introducing him, he made no overtures.

Armstrong came into the office. “You wanted me?” he asked sourly.

“We’re going to put on a little show,” Johnny said.

“Without me,” Armstrong retorted. “I’m in no mood—”

“Sit down, Armstrong,” Seebright snapped.

“As for you,” Armstrong said to Seebright. “You can go take a running jump out of the window.” But he did not leave the room.

Seebright showed his teeth in a frosty grin. “Mr. Armstrong,” he explained, “is no longer vice-president of the Mariota Record Company and he is — well, to put it bluntly, sore.”

“You reorganized him out?” Johnny asked.

“I had that pleasure, yes.”

The door was opened again and Walter Doniger entered. With him was Douglas Esbenshade.

“Surprise,” said Johnny.

“Mr. Esbenshade, gentlemen,” Doniger said smoothly. “He happened to be in my office and I suggested that he come along.”

“I’m glad he happened to be here,” Johnny said, “because he, too, will be interested in what’s going to be said — and done...”

“All right, Fletcher,” growled Joe Dorcas, “get to it.”

“We’ve a quorum here,” Johnny said, “we could hold a stockholders’ meeting—”

“And how much stock do you have in this company?” Dorcas asked.

“Well, none, if you want to be technical about it. But I think I could get the proxy for five shares.” He looked at Ed Farnham. “From Violet Rodgers.”

The mild little Farnham suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

“As a matter of fact,” Doniger said, “it might be a good idea to hold a little stockholders’ meeting.”

“We’ve already had a directors’ meeting,” Seebright said, impatiently.

“A premature one,” Doniger offered, “Mr. Esbenshade wasn’t here at the time.”

“Mr. Esbenshade is not a director of Mariota,” Seebright retorted.

“He might become one, though,” Doniger said. “Since he happens to own a nice block of Mariota stock.”

“Four hundred twenty-five Common,” Esbenshade said, casually.

The announcement surprised almost everyone in the room, but Seebright looked as if he had swallowed a live mouse.

“Four hundred and twenty-five shares of Common stock?” he cried.

Esbenshade smiled. “I’m down on the books for two hundred — under the name of Martin Preble.”

Seebright looked at Farnham for confirmation. Farnham nodded. “Of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Last year when we needed—”

“Yes, I remember,” Seebright scowled. “But that’s two hundred. You said four hundred and twenty-five...”

“The estate of Con Carson,” Esbenshade amplified. “I made a deal with the East River Trust yesterday...”

Seebright shuddered as if he had suddenly seen a ghost. “It’s funny I wasn’t notified.”

“How much Common do you own, Mr. Seebright?” Walter Doniger asked.

Seebright looked at Farnham again. The treasurer of Mariota took a little notebook from his pocket. “It might be apropos for me to give the names of all the Common stock owners.” He cleared his throat: “The estate of Con Carson,” nodding to Doug Esbenshade, “two hundred twenty-five shares. Martin Preble of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, also Mr. Esbenshade, two hundred shares, Orville Seebright, one hundred fifty shares, Charles Armstrong, twenty-five shares, Joseph Dorcas, two hundred shares, Walter Doniger, five shares and” — he smiled apologetically — “Edwin M. Farnham, two hundred shares.”

“Last, but not least,” said Johnny, but no one paid any attention to him. Something was about to happen in the affairs of the Mariota Record Company and the Common stockholders were interested in that, above everything else. Almost.

Doniger said: “I move that we have a formal stockholders’ meeting.”

“For what purpose?” Seebright demanded. “For the same reason you called the directors’ meeting this morning.”

“There was a reason for that meeting,” Seebright said, “the resumption of this business—”

“With you running it,” Doniger said. “Well, maybe we ought to have a recount of votes.”

“I second that motion,” Armstrong said loudly.

Doniger winked at Armstrong. “Good work, Charlie, old boy, old boy...”

“Thought you’d freeze me out, did you?” Armstrong said grimly to Seebright.

Seebright glowered at Armstrong, then shifted his glance to Esbenshade. “This is the man who—”

“I know, I know,” Esbenshade said testily. “That was another matter. Let’s get on with the roll call...”

“Farnham just called the roll,” Dorcas said. “We all know who owns what.”

“What Mr. Esbenshade meant,” Doniger said, “was that we should vote again on the matter of reorganization of this company — how it should be done... and who should be the new officers of the company.”

“Just a minute,” Seebright cried. “I told you men this morning that I had assurance from the Uptown Trust and Savings Bank of a loan of one hundred thousand dollars. That loan — let me repeat — is contingent upon me being the president and general manager of this firm. Me, Orville Seebright, and no other...”

“As to the loan,” Doniger said easily, “Mr. Esbenshade is willing to advance the same amount.”

“Seventy-nine thousand of which will go to satisfy his lien,” Dorcas snapped.

“An honest debt,” Esbenshade pointed out. “You got the shellac and my shellac company is going to get its money.”

“Vote,” said Armstrong.

“Vote!” cried Doniger.

Seebright surrendered. “All right, lets see how we stand. Ed, how do you vote?”

“I’m F.,” Farnham squirmed. “Armstrong is A...”

“I vote for Mr. Esbenshade,” Armstrong cried ringingly. “Whatever he does.”

“Doniger — no, Carson, comes next. That’s you, Mr. Esbenshade?”

Esbenshade merely smiled.

“Four hundred and twenty-five votes for Mr. Esbenshade,” Farnham announced. “Dorcas?”

“Dorcas passes his vote,” Johnny Fletcher cried.

All eyes went to Johnny. Dorcas said evenly, “Who the hell asked you to talk for me?”

“Why,” said Johnny, “I think we ought to hold up the rest of the voting for awhile. Because I’d like to prove to the rest of you here that Mr. Joseph Dorcas is the man who — who killed Marjorie Fair...!”

Joe Dorcas sprang to his feet. “Goddam you, Fletcher...!”

Johnny held up a chiding finger. “Sticks and stone, Mr. Dorcas...!”

“You’ll take that back, or...”

Sam Cragg moved easily in between Johnny and the advancing Dorcas. “Or what...?”

Dorcas tried to side-step Sam, but the latter reached out, placed a hand on Dorcas’ chest and pushed gently. Just enough to throw Dorcas back against the couch, where he seated himself heavily.

“I won’t stand for this,” Dorcas said thickly.

“Mr. Dorcas,” said Edwin Farnham, “shut your mouth awhile, will you?”

“That’ll cost you, Farnham,” Dorcas snarled.

“Let him talk, Joe,” Seebright said suddenly.

“I’d like to hear him,” Esbenshade said quietly.

“As the majority stockholder, Mr. Esbenshade,” Johnny said, “you’ll hear, although you may not like everything you’ll hear.”

“I’ll listen just the same.”

“Marjorie Fair,” Johnny said, “got a job in this office, because she thought the contacts would advance her career as a singer. Armstrong,” Johnny pointed dramatically at the vice-president. “You fell for her, but she couldn’t see you, could she?”

Armstrong said: “That’s my own business.”

“Maybe it is,” said Johnny, “and maybe it isn’t. Anyway, you made things so uncomfortable here for Marjorie that she quit her job. But that didn’t stop you from annoying her. And then — when Marjorie was given an audition by the company you raised such a fuss about it that her recording was voted down.”

“I didn’t like her voice,” Armstrong said tonelessly.

“You didn’t like her voice because all it said to you was no, no, no, no...!”

Armstrong gripped the arms of his chair.

Johnny looked at Dorcas. “Dorcas, you bought shellac from the Iowa Shellac Company, seventy-nine thousand dollars worth of it. Mr. Esbenshade gave you credit for it and when he told you about a friend of his who was in New York, trying to get a start in the recording business, you offered her an audition. It was a small favor to do for a man who was willing to give you seventy-nine thousand dollars worth of credit, that you couldn’t get anywhere else...”

“I voted for Marjorie,” Dorcas said warmly.

“That, you did. But you didn’t vote hard enough, or long enough. And neither did Mr. Seebright or Mr. Doniger, or Mr. Farnham, because by that time you had cut a wax of Con Carson’s latest song and it was only a matter of a week or two before the company’d be back in the black. It wasn’t so important to keep a creditor happy. But then a catastrophe struck Mariota. Con Carson was killed and his last record — and the only one you had — disappeared...”

Johnny paused. “Stolen, Mr. Dorcas?”

“How should I know? It disappeared.”

“Yes, it disappeared. Shall I tell you how?”

“I don’t give a good gosh—” began Dorcas.

“I do,” said Esbenshade. “Tell us, Fletcher.”

“Marjorie Fair’s recording was made here in the office studio, just before you made the one of Con Carson. In fact, you made it while you were waiting for Con Carson. When Carson showed up and you shooed out Marjorie, Con Carson ripped off his song twice, didn’t he? And then he breezed right out, because he got an important phone call... Mr. Seebright, while Carson was yodeling, what were you doing?”

“Listening, of course.”

“Yes, but during the intermission between the first and second singing of the song, to whom were you talking in the studio...?”

“Nobody, that I recall...” Seebright’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “Charlie, weren’t you harping at me then... about the Fair girl...?”

“I wasn’t harping. I talked to you—”

“And Dorcas,” Johnny cut in, “at the instrument was watching you. He knew from what was already said... and probably from seeing Seebright give it to you, that the Marjorie Fair record was a dead duck. And he couldn’t quite hold himself in. He said... what was it you said, out loud, while Carson was singing, Mr. Dorcas?”

“I know better than to talk when the machine’s going,” Dorcas snapped.

“Do you really? Then weren’t you even aware, while the microphone was on that you said, in a distinct, very, very angry whisper... ‘Damn you, Seebright!’ ”

“I said nothing of the kind.”

Johnny appealed to Seebright. “Have you played the record since you got it back?”

“No, but I can do it...”

“You can play it later. It’ll bear out what I’m saying because I played it. After Carson rushed out of here, Dorcas took the record over to the plant with him. The next day Carson was killed and everybody got excited about his last record. And Mr. Dorcas discovered that he didn’t have the record. He didn’t have it, because it had gone out of the studio five minutes after Con Carson... It was given to Marjorie Fair, who was waiting for her verdict, out in the reception room, by... who did give her the record?”

“I did,” Armstrong said. “That is, I gave her the recording of her voice.”

“And broke the news to her, too, that you were turning her down? All right. But the record you gave her, Armstrong — it was handed to you by Dorcas, wasn’t it?”

“Why, yes, the records are his, once they’re made...”

“It is customary to give disappointed auditioners their recordings?”

“It isn’t customary, but Marjorie asked for hers. So I asked Dorcas and he gave me—”

“The Carson record.”

“I didn’t look at it.”

“If I gave Armstrong the wrong record, it was a mistake,” Dorcas said sullenly.

“A mistake, yes. You were so mad you didn’t know what you were doing. You gave him the Carson record and put away the Fair record. And then, the next day, after Carson was dead you got out the record and ran it off. You found what you thought was the Carson record was actually the Fair record. You guessed how the mistake had occurred, but by that time you had a scheme in your brain. Carson was dead, he couldn’t make another record. And you knew where the single, remaining Carson record was. You went to get it — and you killed Marjorie Fair... only... you didn’t get the record. Marjorie Fair sailed it out of the window, right across the air shaft into my hotel room, where it landed on the bed, without a scratch...”

“Is that how you got the record?” Seebright cried.

“That’s how.”

“Prove I killed her,” snarled Joe Dorcas, “prove I killed her.”

“I will — in a minute. But first, tell us, what your idea was for the record? Were you going to sell it to the highest bidder, or were you going to wait until the Mariota Record Company went on the auction block and you could buy the company for a song, find the long-lost Carson record and be back in business?”

“You can’t prove a thing!” Dorcas persisted.

“Mr. Seebright,” Johnny said, “have you got the Carson record handy?”

Seebright pointed to the phonograph.

Johnny went to the machine, and flicked the switch that started the phonograph.

Con Carson sang. He sang Moon on the Desert, then began singing it again. And then, suddenly a harsh voice said, said over the singing: “Damn you, Seebright...”

Johnny shut off the machine. “I appeal to you, gentlemen. Is that the voice of Joe Dorcas?”

“It is,” Seebright said promptly.

Armstrong nodded. Doniger looked popeyed.

“All right,” Dorcas admitted, “I forgot myself. But that doesn’t prove I killed anyone. It proves exactly one thing — that I was sore at Seebright at that particular moment. And that’s all it proves. That and not one thing more...”

“That’s right,” said Johnny, “that’s all it proves. Just that you were sore enough at Mr. Seebright for giving in to Charles Armstrong that you were willing to wreck the company. That’s all it proves. Gentlemen, you’ve all noticed a strange face in this room and some of you may wonder who this man is.”

He walked toward his hired hand. “You, sir, may I ask your name?”

“Clifton Mainwaring.”

“Do you mind telling us where you live, Mr. Mainwaring?”

“Why, at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel.”

“That’s the same place I live — and the same place Marjorie Fair lived...”

“That’s right. As a matter of fact, we all live on the same floor.”

“Oh? What is your room number?”

“Eight thirty-two. It’s right across the hall from Room eight twenty-nine.”

“Eight twenty-nine was Miss Fair’s room.” Johnny nodded, then suddenly stooped and looked straight into Clifton Mainwaring’s face. “Mr. Mainwaring, two mornings ago, at around eight-thirty in the morning, when you were leaving your room, did you happen to see someone coming out of Miss Fair’s room... someone who walked from the room very, very quietly, as if he was hoping no one would see him...?”

“Yes,” said Mainwaring.

“Did you get a look at that person’s face?”

“Why, yes — a rather good look, because I thought he was acting suspiciously.”

“And that face... have you seen it here in this office, today?”

“That’s a lie!” screamed Joe Dorcas. “You never saw me. There wasn’t a goddam soul out in that hall...”

He reeled to his feet and stood there, swaying.

Johnny faced him, coldly, remorselessly. “Mr. Mainwaring is going to identify you at the police station and he’s going to identify you again in court. He saw you and he’s going to swear to it...”

Joe Dorcas sobbed, reeled and suddenly ran... straight for the window. He went through the glass, head first.