Sid pointed at a couch with his revolver. "Sit down."
Sam seated himself. He saw a telephone on a stand nearby. "Can I make a phone call?" he asked.
'To Johnny Fletcher?"
"Yeah."
"You certainly can call him. In fact, I was going to sugg that very thing myself." Sid signaled to Leonard to watch Si and crossed to the phone. He picked it up.
"New York City," he said. "The Forty-Fifth Street Ho! The number here is eighty-two R three." He covered t mouthpiece. "What's the number of your room at the hotel
"Eight twenty-one."
Sid nodded. He waited a moment, then said pleasant "Room eight twenty-one, please." He waited, then shook 1 head. "No, there's no message." He hung up. "You pal does seem to be very worried about you. He isn't even at the hote
"He's probably out looking for me."
"In New York?" Sid drew a deep breath. "Well, let's t about things, fat boy."
"You're going to call me fat boy once too often," wan Sam Cragg.
Sid made a gesture of dismissal. "About this bank—wl did you call it?—the limping goose bank?"
"One foot's shorter than the other."
"All right, so it limps. Well, that's all we want from Fletch the bank."
Sam grunted. "Ain't you got it?"
"If I had it, would we have gone through all this?"
Sam suddenly chuckled. "You mean you two birds ain't 1 ones who went through our room this morning and swip the bank?"
Alarm showed on Sid's face. "What's that?"
"The bank's gone. We ain't got it any more. It's swiped."
"You're lying!"
"Uh-uh, cross my heart. If you'd've asked me about I bank the first thing, I could've told you and saved you all t trouble."
Sid took a step toward Sam, then thought better of it a backed away. "You almost convinced me for a moment."
"You'd better be convinced. You're wasting your time. I ain't got the bank. If you two didn't swipe it, I don't know who took it."
Sid appealed to Leonard. "What do you think?"
"Search me."
"We could work him over."
"You and who else?" challenged Sam.
Sid bared his teeth. "You think you're really tough? Leona see if you can find a good piece of rope."
Leonard went into the kitchen and returned in a momi with a short length of clothesline. "How's this?" 66
"It'll do very nicely. All right, fat boy, put your hands behind your back."
"What for?"
"Because I said so."
"You ain't going to tie me up!"
"Oh, no?" Sid came closer and pointed his revolver at Sam's left knee. "There isn't a house within a half mile. Nobody'll hear. I'll count to three and if your hands aren't behind your back, bang, right through the knee. Think of it, bone splinters rubbing one another. One ..."
Sam let out a howl and got to his feet. His hands went behind his back. Leonard stepped behind him and twisted a rope end about each wrist, circled both wrists twice, then pulling the rope taut, knotted it securely. Sid put away his revolver then and pushed Sam back on the couch.
"Now I'll ask you quietly, where's the limping goose bank?"
"I told you," snapped Sam, "it was swiped from our hotel room this morning."
Deliberately, Sid clenched his fist and smashed it against Sam's jaw.
"Once more, where's the goose bank?"
"All right," said Sam, "what do you want me to tell you?"
"I want you to tell me where the bank is?"
"It's in my safe deposit box at the Chase Bank, along with my diamond rings and my loose cash, consisting of fifty thousand bucks. I put it there because Mr. Chase is my uncle and he needs the six bucks a year that I pay him for the safety deposit "
Sam couldn't quite get out the last word. Sid hit him a savage blow on the right side of his face, then followed with a blow on the left side. Blood trickled out of Sam's mouth.
Sid said, "What do you think of that, wise guy?"
"It don't get you the goose bank," Sam said.
Sid drew back his fist to hit Sam again, but the taxi driver stepped forward. "Wait a minute, Sid, I think he was telling the truth."
"Maybe he was," snarled Sid, "but unless we get those coins we won't make enough out of this caper to take a blonde and her girl friend to dinner."
"With those pennies and dimes and quarters you can take a babe to the Automat, but that's about ail," Sam said.
Sid looked at Sam sharply. "How do you know there're only pennies and dimes and quarters in the bank?"
Sam realized that he had said too much. He shook his head, his lips taut. Sid looked at Leonard.
"You took the money out of the bank," Sid accused Sam.
"It wasn't easy," Sam admitted. "The slot was pretty narrow."
"Stand up!" Sid rapped at Sam.
Sam got to his feet and Sid went through his pockets, turning them inside out. "Not a penny! Your friend Fletcher's got the money." He nodded savagely. "That's it, the bank was stolen, but it was already empty. Fletcher's got the money."
A few feet away the phone shrilled. Sid whirled and went to it. "Yeah?" He listened carefully, his eyes narrowing. "I just searched him. He hasn't got a dime in his pockets. And he claims the bank was stolen from his room this morning." He listened again, scowling. "I called, but I haven't been able to get him. Yeah, sure, I'll keep trying. What?" He listened some more, then nodded. "Okay, boss, he'll leave right away."
He hung up the phone and turned to Leonard. "The boss says for you to come into town. He's got an angle."
"What about him?" Leonard asked, nodding to Sam.
"He stays here. Just in case. I'm going to keep him company." He signaled toward the door. "I'll go out with you."
The two men left the cabin.
The moment they were out, Sam began flexing his hands. He twisted them back and forward, but discovered that the ropes had been tied too tight. He rubbed his wrists together in a semirotating manner, grinned after a moment.
Sid re-entered. "All right, fat boy," he said. "Sit down and make yourself comfy. We're going to be here for a while."
Outside, the taxicab motor began to purr. Gears ground and the noise of the motor became fainter.
14
A drunken sailor on shore leave after a five months' cruise in the South Pacific was no freer with his money than Johnny Fletcher when he had it. It was seldom that he had it, but when he had it he spent it. He gave the captain of waiters at the Beau Jester a five-dollar bill and when the man started to lead him to a table in the far corner, he tapped him on the shoulder.
"How about this table right here?" he asked, showing the captain the markings on a ten-dollar bill.
"Why, yes, sir, it's a very nice table." He drew out a chair for Johnny. "Would you like a drink?"
"Yes—milk."
"Milk? You mean ... milk?"
"That's right, milk. And I wonder if you'd mind telling me a little about this place?" 68
"Not at all, sir. We serve the best foods, the finest vintages and give you the best service in town."
"So I've heard. Friend of mine down in Texas spent a little money here last year. Told me it was the best little place in New York. From Houston, my friend."
Texas and Houston meant oil to any captain of waiters in New York and the one by Johnny's table brightened. "Texas is a wonderful place," he said, "and Houston!" The captain rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and exhaled heavily.
"Mister," said Johnny, "you said a mouthful! I ain't been in New York myself in ten-twelve years and I'm practically a greenhorn here. Used to know a few folks here, but I don't even know where to look them up now. I don't s'pose you happen to know old Jim Sutton?"
"Mr. James Sutton? He comes here frequently."
"He does? Thought he'd be married with six kids by now." He snapped his fingers. "Jim and I had some great times together. He had a cousin I liked a lot. Wonder whatever happened to him?"
"Naw, I wasn't thinkin' of Jess. I saw in the papers what happened to him. Too bad, but Jess wasn't one of my favorite people, I'm sorry to say. No, I was thinkin' of another cousin of Jim's, Les Smithson. Great lad."
"Mr. Smithson, mm? I didn't know him very well. Of course he came here now and then, but I was only the head waiter then and I didn't know him too well. I do remember, though, that he and Mr. Sutton were rather close friends. For cousins, that is."
"Oh, sure," said Johnny easily. "I know what you mean. I got a cousin back in Houston. We fight all the time, but we're buddies just the same. We had a big spat a couple of years ago—regular knockdown and dragout—then the following week he was opening up a new field and needed a little ready, so who'd he come to? Me, naturally. And what's more, I helped him out. Good thing, too."
The captain of waiters practically drooled. "Quite so, sir, quite so. Mr. Smithson and Mr. Sutton had words now and then, but they were cousins, after all."
"I'd sure like to talk over old times with Les and Jim. Or any of their really close friends, if Les and Jim aren't around town."
"Mr. Sutton's in town, but Mr. Smithson . . ." The captain hesitated. "He, I believe, disappeared some years ago. Nobody seems to know what happened to him."
"He went to Europe, maybe? He always said he wanted to do a lot of traveling."
"Perhaps he's living there permanently now," said the captain. "I haven't heard about him in some years. Mmm, I wonder . . ." His eyes went past Johnny to a table along the wall. "There's Mr. Wheelwright, he was a very close friend of Mr. Smithson's."
Johnny half turned and followed the captain's eyes to a sleek, well-fed man in his middle thirties. His eyes barely rested on the man, however, going instantly to his companion, Hertha Colston, who had been Jess Carmichael's fiancee and whom tie had seen so briefly the night before as he dashed into the Carmichael home at Manhasset.
The captain continued, "Perhaps I could introduce you to Mr. Wheelwright—if he doesn't mind, that is."
"Hey," said Johnny, "I know the little lady with him. Thanks, captain." He pushed back bis chair and rising, crossed to the table of Wheelwright and Hertha Colston.
"Miss Colston!" Johnny said enthusiastically, as he came up to the table.
She recognized him instantly. "You're the man I saw at Uncle Jess's last night."
"That's right." Johnny pulled out a chair and sat down facing Wheelwright and the girl.
"Uncle Jess told me about you. He"—she half smiled—"he said you were fantastic. That's the exact word he used."
Johnny chuckled. "My name is Johnny Fletcher, Mr. Wheelwright."
Wheelwright regarded him coolly. "How are you?"
"I understand you were a friend of Lester Smithson's."
"So?"
"So I'd like to ask you some questions about him. Exactly when did you last see him?"
Wheelwright looked at Hertha Colston. "Just who is this man?"
"I'd like to know myself." Hertha smiled at Johnny. "Answer the man."
"I just told you—I'm Johnny Fletcher."
"And are we supposed to know who Johnny Fletcher is?"
"I thought everybody knew about Johnny Fletcher," rohnny said cheerfully.
"All right," said Wheelwright. "We know you. Your name is Fletcher. Now, do you mind telling just what you are?"
"That's what bothered Uncle Jess last night," Hertha said brightly.
"It doesn't bother him now, though. I saw him this morning, ['m now working for him." He pursed up his lips and looked 70
straight at Wheelwright. "I'm making a confidential investigation for Mr. Carmichael."
"You're a detective?"
"That's not exactly the right word," Johnny murmured.
"I see," said Wheelwright thoughtfully. "You're investigating the murder of Jess."
"No," siad Johnny bluntly. "I'm investigating the disappearance of Lester Smithson."
Wheelwright stared at Johnny a moment, then he looked quickly at Hertha.
She seemed to hold her breath a moment, then she exclaimed, "You think Lester .. .?"
"Killed Jess?" Wheelwright finished.
"What do you think?" Johnny asked, looking at Wheelwright.
Wheelwright continued to stare, then slowly shook his head. "It's so long ago. Yet ..." He paused, doubt growing in his eyes. "It's true that there was bad blood between Jess and Lester."
"Just when," Johnny asked, "did you last see Lester Smith-son?"
"Oh, Lord, it's eleven, no, twelve years ago. Mm, yes, it was the day Jess threw the coffee in his face. He told me about it."
"Then you saw him after that lunch at the Harover?"
"Oh, you know about that? Yes, I saw Lester that evening. He came over to my place and he told me about it. He said"— he stopped, then went on—"He said he'd never talk to Jess again as long as he lived."
"And that was the last time you ever saw him?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever hear from him?"
"Not a word. There was a lot of talk for a while and then ... we assumed something had happened to him—somewhere. It's years now since anyone even thought that he might still be alive. Lester wasn't the kind to bury himself, you know. He liked what he was doing."
"Just what was he doing before he—disappeared?"
"Why, I believe he had some kind of job with his uncle. Mr. Carmichael can tell you, I'm sure. Well, maybe not. Come to think of it, it was that kind of job. After all, his uncle was the president of the company."
"So Lester was probably a vice-president?"
"No-no, he didn't have any kind of a title. Neither did young Jess, for that matter."
"He worked, then?"
"For a while. It was right after he graduated from Harover.
His father thought he ought to come into the business and Fess didn't seem to mind too much. Not then . . ." He looked at Hertha. "I'm sorry, Hertha."
"It's all right, Don, I had no illusions about Jess. I thought— well, I guess every girl thinks the same thing—that I could get Sum to settle down, but 'way down I knew he was just—a playboy." Her eyes dropped to the table.
Johnny switched back to the subject of Lester Smithson. "How was Lester Smithson fixed financially?"
"He had to work. His mother was married to an engineer of some kind, who left her only a small amount of insurance."
"Sutton's mother married better?"
This was the first time Sutton's name had been mentioned. Wheelwright frowned. "Sutton's made a pile, in the stock market, I guess."
"You don't see a lot of him?"
"Oh, I run into him all the time."
"But you're not as friendly with him as you were with Smith-son?"
"I'm a working man. Advertising. In fact, I'm going to have my lunch now and get back to the office." He signaled to a waiter who was hovering nearby.
"I guess I'll join you in a sandwich," Johnny said. "Waiter, how about a nice grilled hot dog sandwich?"
"A what?"
"A hot dog, a frankfurter—a wienie!"
The waiter regarded Johnny coldly. "What are those things made of?"
"Meat," snapped Johnny. "Meat and—oh, never mind. Bring me a corned beef on rye. Just plain—no mayonnaise."
"The chipped beef on toast is very good today, sir," the waiter suggested. "Or perhaps lobster a la Newburg, and salad with our special Beau Jester dressing."
"Ugh!" shuddered Johnny. 'Tell me—is it possible to get a plain ordinary corned beef on rye?"
"No sir, the closest to it that I can suggest is a Swiss cheese sandwich, garnished with "
"No garnish. Bring me the Swiss cheese—just a plain ordinary Swiss cheese sandwich with just the cheese and bread. And positively no mayonnaise. Remember now, put it down on the order— no mayonnaise."
"I guess you don't like mayonnaise," Hertha Colston said wryly.
"It makes me sick," said Johnny. "I can't
stand the stuff.
[ once made a survey of the people in a restaurant and found
out that eighty-three people out of a hundred positively hated
it, fourteen didn't mind it too much and three actually said
they liked it. Yet in spite of that, I've been fighting a losing battle. Every da—excuse me, every doggone restaurant, cafe and hot dog stand in the country swabs the stuff all over your sandwiches. Those mayonnaise salesmen must be the greatest salesmen in the country. The mayonnaise salesmen and the ones that sell rolls with caraway or poppy seeds . . ."
"I think," Wheelwright said to the waiter, "I'll have a sliced chicken sandwich with mayonnaise!"
Johnny groaned. "One of the three out of a hundred!"
Hertha laughed. "But I'm not one of the three. I don't like mayonnaise either."
She ordered a salad.
The waiter went off and Johnny said to Hertha Colston, "Did you know about Alice Cummings before yesterday?"
The color faded from Hertha's face and a shudder seemed to run through her. Don Wheelwright exclaimed angrily, "That's a lousy think to ask her, Fletcher."
"It certainly is," agreed Johnny. "But the police are going to ask her that question, if they haven't already?"
"They asked it this morning—between seven and nine o'clock. They asked me a lot of things, among other things, if I.. . had killed Jess."
"And what did you tell the police about knowing Alice Cummings?"
"I told them that I knew about her. In fact, I told them I had even met her. I also told them I knew about a woman named Maxine and one named Mavis and one named Madeline and a cigarette girl at Chasepp's and four chorus girls." Her face was still pale, but she looked steadily at Johnny. "He told me about some of them himself and, well, the gossip columns told me about the others. I—I was still going to marry him."
"Because you thought you could change him?"
"Because ... I loved him."
"That's a very good reason," Johnny said.
"More questions?" Wheelwright asked harshly.
The waiter came with a large tray of food. He set down Johnny's sandwich before him. It was nicely cut up into four triangular bits and one long, thin wedge. Johnny raised one of the pieces of bread.
The limping goose Page 9