Peabody's suite consisted of two rooms, a sitting room and a bedroom. The rooms were large and nicely furnished, much better than the regular rooms in the hotel.
Johnny sent a quick look around the room and headed for the clothes closet. The hotel manager had at least a half-dozen finely tailored suits in the closet, in addition to several sport jackets and slacks. Johnny ran over the suits and picked out a blue serge with a white pin stripe. It was the newest-looking of the suits, having probably been worn only once or twice.
He grinned crookedly as he moved to the door, but panic whipped through him as the phone suddenly shrilled. He jerked open the hall door and bounded out into the corridor.
Fortunately the stairs were not too far away and he took them quickly down to the eighth floor. On the eighth floor he stopped to catch his breath, then walked casually to the elevators and pushed the "down" button.
A few minutes later he stepped out into the lobby. Sam Cragg, near the house phones, came over briskly.
"He catch you?" Sam asked. "I hardly got down than he headed for the elevator. Hey"— He noted the suit over Johnny's arm—"where'd you get that?"
"Where do you think? Peabody loaned it to me."
"How could he when he was downstairs in the lobby while you were up "
"Never mind, Sam, I'll draw you a picture of it."
Outside, they walked briskly to Eighth Avenue. They passed Uncle Ben's Loan Shop, but went on to Uncle Charlie's Friendly Loans.
Uncle Charlie was a redheaded man with ulcers, which is an occupational disease with pawnbrokers. He regarded Johnny and Sam sourly.
"Uncle Charlie," Johnny said brightly, "it's certainly a pleasure to see you again."
"The pleasure's all yours," Uncle Charlie retorted.
"I just passed Uncle Ben's place," Johnny went on unheeding. "Sam wanted me to go in, but I said no, Uncle Charlie's been awfully good to us in the past and it's up to us to repay him "
"Mister," interrupted Uncle Charlie, "I remember you now. Do me a favor, will you?"
"That's why I'm here."
"All right, go to Uncle Ben, will you?"
"Why, Uncle Charlie!" exclaimed Johnny. "I just got through telling you, I owe you a favor "
"All right, all right," howled Uncle Charlie. "That's what I'm telling you—go to Uncle Ben. Do me that favor. I got ulcers "
"So has Uncle Ben." Johnny held up Mr. Peabody's blue pin-striped suit. "Brand-new, never been worn. Real English wool, styled and tailored by Quintino and you know what that means—the best!"
"A suit's a suit," groaned Uncle Charlie. "I'm telling you, my ulcers are acting up. I ain't in the mood. If it was hemstitched in gold thread and there was purple lining mixed with Egyptian cobwebs, I couldn't go over fif "
"Not fifty!" cried Johnny. "I couldn't possibly let you have it for less than seventy-five!" 26
"Fifty, who said fifty? Fifteen dollars, and not a nickel more."
"Sixty bucks and you got yourself a deal," cut in Sam.
Johnny gave Sam an anguished look. "Sam, please stay out of this, will you? Uncle Charlie and I understand each other. We know the value of merchandise."
"I ain't feeling good," moaned Uncle Charlie. "I told you I wasn't up to this. But now that we've started, all right, all right, take twenty dollars."
"Forty-seven fifty," said Johnny. "And Quintino will hate me for it. Two hundred and twenty-five dollars he's charging for such a suit now. If he heard that I was thinking of letting this brand-new suit go for forty-seven..."
"Brand-new in a pig's eye," snorted Uncle Charlie. "That suit's two years old."
"I just took it out of the box. Here—feel. The nap isn't even lying down yet...."
Uncle Charlie took the lapel of the suit between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed it, rubbed it and then caressed it. "Six months it's been worn. Twenty-five, mister!"
"I hear you," Johnny said. "Not good, but I hear you. Forty-five and it's a loan, that's all. Not an outright sale."
"I should hope so. I couldn't sell this suit nohow. Twenty-seven fifty. I'll make out the ticket."
"Make it out for forty."
"My last offer. Take it or leave it. Twenty-nine seventy-five."
"Look, Uncle Charlie," Johnny said, giving it everything, "I've done business with you in the past. You've made money off me—a lot of money. I don't mind that. A man's got to live. That's my motto, five and let live. It's a good motto, too, but some people don't think so. The manager of our hotel, for instance. We owe him a measly little thirty-six dollars "
"No, no, not thirty-six dollars. I couldn't make it. You'd let me keep the suit and I'd be stuck."
"My personal guarantee. Three days, that's all you'll keep it. You'll have your money back in three days."
"Yah! I hear that a hundred times a day."
"Look," said Johnny. "You had my friend's suit here a while ago. One day. A single day, that's all. I hardly got the money out of here, than I was back with it—with interest. I've got a check coming in the mail tomorrow..."
"Thirty-two dollars, positively and finally. Thirty-two dollars, no more, no less."
"Thirty-six," said Johnny. "Not a penny less."
"Good-bye. Go to Uncle Ben's. He wouldn't give you over
twenty-two fifty. I'm an easy mark, that's why you come to me. Thirty-two dollars, that's all. Positively and final. Goodbye."
"All right, Uncle Charlie, if it's come to this . . . goodbye."
Johnny started for the door. Sam, startled, had to jump to keep up with him.
Johnny got the door open, was stepping through reluctantly when Uncle Charlie called out, "Thirty-four dollars."
Johnny turned back. "All right, Uncle Charlie, you've got yourself a deal. Make out the ticket. Thirty-six dollars."
"I said thirty-four."
"Thirty-six. You called me back. I need thirty-six and thirty-six it's got to be. T-h-i-r-t-y six. . . ."
Uncle Charlie clapped his hand to his forehead, and began writing out the ticket. "The name, please."
"Why, you remember me," Johnny said, "uh, James T. Mad-igan "
"Madigan?" Uncle Charlie turned out the inside breast pocket. "It says here Wilbur Peabody."
"My stage name. All right, use that name. Most everyone knows me by it, anyway. Yeah, put down Wilbur Peabody, Forty-Fifth Street Hotel."
"Wilbur Peabody, Forty-Fifth Street Hotel," said the pawnbroker, writing. He got thirty-six dollars from the cash register. Johnny counted the money. "Thank you, Uncle Charlie. I'll be back in a day or two to pick up the suit."
"Do me a last favor," Uncle Charlie said. "Forget that you ever heard of Uncle Charlie, the easy mark. Give your future business to my competitor up the street, Uncle Ben."
Johnny made a clucking sound with his tongue, winked at Uncle Charlie and strode to the door. Outside, Sam Cragg heaved a great sigh of relief.
"I never thought you'd get him up to thirty-six dollars."
'I should have held out for forty," Johnny said. "I think he'd have given it."
They crossed Eighth Avenue and were about to turn into Forty-Fifth Street, when Johnny caught sight of the lettering on a small store front: Universal Stamp & Coin Sales.
"Now we'll see what these old coins are really worth "
They entered the store and a heavyset, bald man of about iorty looked up from a stamp catalog he was studying.
"You buy rare coins?" Johnny asked.
"Depends what you've got," was the reply. "I'd certainly never refuse an eighteen twenty-two half eagle."
"I sold the one I had last week," retorted Johnny. He brought out a handful of coins from his pocket. The dealer 28
wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Indian head pennies! A drug on the market."
"Some of these are pretty rare," Johnny said, "and I've got some Barber head dimes here, too."
The dealer made an impatient gesture. "Everybody's got Barber head dimes."
"Not eighteen ninety-four-O's!"
"Well, not exactly. But here, take a look at them."
"I don't have to look. How many dimes and quarters you got? How many pennies?"
"There's twelve quarters, ninety-eight pennies and twenty-four dimes."
The dealer nodded. "Two dollars and forty cents' worth of dimes, twelve quarters and ninety-eight pennies, that's six dollars and thirty-eight cents. All right, I'll pay you two for one for the lot... Mmm, twelve dollars and seventy-six cents."
"Are you kidding?" cried Johnny. "Some of these coins are rare. The catalog says that an eighteen seventy-two Indian head is worth thirty bucks."
"Uncirculated," replied the dealer. "These are worn, some of them pretty thin." He shrugged. "That's the way I buy— two cents for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes, and fifty cents for the quarters."
"According to the catalog prices "
"Catalog prices!" cried the dealer. "Don't talk to me about catalogs. Those prices don't mean a thing."
"Look," said Johnny, pointing to a display in the showcase, "you have some Indian head pennies right there. How much would you charge me for an eighteen sixty-four-L . . .?"
"Oh, you want to buy? That's different." The dealer reached into the showcase and brought out a card of Indian head pennies. "I just happen to have a very nice eighteen sixty-four-L penny that I can let you have for, uh, eighteen dollars."
"Two cents," said Johnny. "That's what you said it was worth."
"I did nothing of the kind. I said I'd give you a straight two cents apiece for the lot. I take a chance. Maybe they're all eighteen nineties, nineteen hundreds."
"They aren't."
"And what about my time?" pursued the dealer. "I got to go over them."
"I'll do it for you," Johnny offered.
"Look, mister," said the dealer, "you got your business and I got mine. Two cents apiece for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes and fifty cents for the quarters. Take it or leave it."
"Good-bye," said Johnny, heading for the door.
The coin dealer waited until Johnny had the door open. Then he said, "Three cents!"
Johnny did not even look back. Outside, he said, "The cheap chiseler!"
"I dunno," Sam said, "three cents for a cent don't seem so bad to me."
"We can always come back to that, but I've got a hunch that these coins are lucky pieces."
"They wasn't lucky for the doll," retorted Sam.
"She's wearing a mink coat. That's luck, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but she lost her boy friend."
"That might have been a lucky thing for her. For that matter, we don't know that she didn't help it along. You know, sort of nudged him a little."
"How can you nudge a guy with a bullet?"
"I dunno," said Johnny, "but I think I'll try to find out." He made the remark casually and they had gone several steps down Forty-Fifth Street before Sam Cragg suddenly stopped. "No, Johnny!" he howled. "You're not going to be a detective again."
"Do you know any other way of making any money?"
"We can sell books like we always did."
"We could sell books if we had books to sell," said Johnny, "but you know very well that we can't get any books from Mort Murray until he's raised enough money to pay his back rent, and get his stock of books out of hock."
"Aren't there some other books we can sell?"
"You name them."
"You know I can't, Johnny. That's in your department. Only —you know what happens every time you play detective. We wind up behind the eight-ball and I get a punch in the nose."
"What's a punch in the nose to a guy like you, Sam?"
"Nothin'. It ain't the punch in the nose so much, it's the —well, you know...."
"What?"
"The—the things I suffer. Somebody trying to kill you 01 me. The cops ..."
"The cops are breathing down our necks right now. You haven't seen the last of Lieutenant Madigan. I've been thinking it over, Sam. We're on the warm spot. We're liable to wind up in a nice little cell built for two."
Sam winced. "Don't joke about that, Johnny. You know how I always hate to be in jail."
"You don't hate it any more than I do. So let's get busy and keep out."
Sam groaned in surrender. "All right, what do we do?" 30
"I think a little visit to old Jess Carmichael ought to start
the ball rolling."
"Ain't Carmichael the guy that owns all the grocery stores?" "That's him. And there's one of his little old stores right
there."
8
They crossed the street and approached a wide store front which was almost completely covered with the name of the store and various sales slogans. On the glass door was the notation, in quite modest lettering:
Carmichael Store # 1144
They entered the store. Although it was early evening the place was well patronized. They approached one of the checkers.
"The manager," John said easily.
The checker pressed a buzzer and a clarion call went up all over the store. After a moment a man wearing a tan jacket approached the checker.
The latter indicated Johnny. "He wants to see you."
"No-no," said Johnny to the manager. "I want to see Mr. Carmichael."
The manager looked at Johnny puzzled. "Who?"
"Jess Carmichael. The boss."
The store manager's eyes suddenly narrowed. "What's the idea?"
"No idea. I want to talk to Old Jess. This is his store, isn't it?"
"Yes," said the grocery manager. "It's his store, all right. Store Number eleven forty-four."
Sam tugged at Johnny's sleeve. "Hey, does he mean Car-michael's got eleven hundred and forty-four stores?"
"Twenty-one hundred and fifty-nine," said the store manager, "unless he's opened a couple of dozen today that I don't know about."
Johnny nodded. "Old Jess must be rolling in it. Well, that's fine, just fine. Now if you'll tell him that I'd like to see him."
"You must be crazy!" the store manager finally exploded. "You expect him to be here—selling groceries, maybe?"
"Why not?"
The man tried hard to compose himself. "Look, mister, a joke's a joke, but I'm a busy man. Will you go and bother somebody else?"
"Is it too much bother for Mr. Carmichael to talk to a
customer?" demanded Johnny. "I've spent a lot of money ir Carmichael stores and I think the least Carmichael can dc
"Go away!" cried the store manager. "I'm busy. So's Mr Carmichael."
"So am I," snapped Johnny. "So let's cut it short. Do I see the boss, or don't I?"
"I've never seen him," gritted the groceryman. "I wouldn'i know him if I did see him. He's a name, that's all. He's nevei been in this store and he'll probably never come in."
"That's a funny way to run a business," growled Johnny "Man owns so many stores he can't even get around to lool at them. All right, if he isn't here, where can I find him?"
"His office, his home. How should I know?"
"That sounds silly," Johnny proceeded. "You're the manage] of this store, ain't you? Suppose something happens? Who do you call?"
"The district manager."
"Does he know Carmichael?"
"I doubt it. I doubt if he's ever seen him. He reports tc somebody higher up."
"And the somebody higher up?"
"How do I know?"
"Somebody's got to know. Somebody's got to be able to ge to Carmichael."
"Sure, sure. There's somebody 'way, 'way up, who probabb even knows where he lives "
"He lives in Manhasset," suddenly said the checker, besidi the store manager. "I read it in a magazine once."
"Thanks," Johnny said to the checker. "You're a bright aler worker. Some day you'll be manager of this store and he"— nodding to the manager—"will be holding down your job."
He turned and went out of the store, followed by Sam Outside Sam said, "Manhasset?"
"Yep. Mmm, that's out
on Long Island. Twenty-some miles Probably cost us more than a buck apiece, round trip on tb Long Island Railroad. We've only got a dollar forty-five, thank to that appetite of yours."
"We got the pennies and dimes "
"I'm not going to spend those. Not unless I really have to and we can't spend the rent money."
Sam brightened. "Then we can't go out to Manhasset."
"Oh yes, we can. There are ways of traveling withou money."
"Not walking, Johnny!"
"Are you kidding? 1 don't like to walk any more than yoi 32
do. I was thinking of riding out there. In a nice, shiny limousine. A Cadillac."
"What's the matter with a taxi?"
"You've got to pay for a taxi—cash."
"But you'd have to pay for a limousine, too."
"We didn't pay for our lunch today, did we?"
Sam groaned. "Again?"
"Necessity, my boy, necessity. And don't feel bad about it. Anybody who can afford to buy Cadillacs and rent them out can afford to, uh, take a little chance."
They continued on down Forty-Fifth to Park Avenue and turned north to the Barbizon-Waldorf Hotel. In the vast lobby, Johnny found the bell captain's desk.
"I say, old man," Johnny said, "I'd like to rent a car for the evening."
"Yes, sir," said the bell captain. "With or without a driver?"
"Oh, with a driver, I suppose. This city traffic, you know
"Yes, sir, I know. Let's see, will you want it by the mile or by the hour?"
"What's the difference?"
"It's thirty cents by the mile. Six dollars per hour."
"I think I'd better take it by the hour, then. I want to take a drive out to Long Island and visit awhile."
"What is the number of your room, sir?"
"Eight twenty-one," replied Johnny truthfully, although he neglected to say that this was the number of his room at the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel.
The limping goose Page 4