"Mayonnaise!" he roared. "I told you, no mayonnaise, positively no mayonnaise!"
"I'm sorry, sir," said the waiter. "I put it down on the order. No mayonnaise."
"Take it back," cried Johnny, "and I want a brand-new sandwich. I can tell if the cook scrapes the mayonnaise off the bread and the cheese. New cheese, new bread, understand? Don't write it down. Tell the cook personally. . .."
It was a few minutes after two when Johnny faced the doorman of the Harover Club.
Being a doorman for the Harover Club, he naturally spoke grammatically correct English. "Whom did you wish to see?"
Johnny looked around him with exaggerated care, then said in a low tone, "I'm an investigator, employed by Mr. Jess Carmichael."
The doorman showed concern. "I do hope, sir, that you will be discreet."
"That, sir," said Johnny with quiet dignity, "is why Mr. Carmichael engaged me, instead of a regular private detective. Discreet, confidential investigations are my specialty. No one, positively no one, will even know that an investigation is being made."
"Thank you, we would appreciate that. We realize that these things have to be done, but after all, this is the Harover Club and our members . . ." The doorman emitted a slow sigh of ecstasy.
"I would like to see the manager."
"That'll be Mr. Whittlesey. Right through the door, past the bell stand and the door on your right."
Johnny entered the club, walked past the bell stand and knocked discreetly on the oaken door. The bell captain opened his mouth to question him, but caught the eye of the doorman who had followed Johnny into the club. The doorman put his finger to his lips, nodded gently.
The bell captain said, "Mr. Whittlesey is in the billiard room, sir. If you'd care to wait...."
"I'll find him, thank you," said Johnny.
He walked past the washroom into a large combination bar and reading room. A dozen or so men sat in leather chairs reading the Wall Street Journal and a pair of ancient Harover men were playing chess.
A group of sporty, younger club members were gathered about a table playing Indian dice for ten cents a game and received annoyed glances from some of the Wall Street Journal readers because of their restrained boisterousness.
Johnny continued on into a vast dining room, where some of the diners, having partaken of the requisite number of pre-luncheon cocktails, were eating and talking in normal conversational tones.
A club member was carrying a plate of finnan haddie in one hand and a huge mug of coffee in the other from the self-service food counter to a table.
Johnny tapped him on the shoulder.
"I wonder if you could tell me where I could find the billiard room?"
"Same place it's always been, old man."
"Where's that?"
"Second floor. I say, we're about the same age and I imagine I should know you, but dashed if I do. I'm Gately, Class Df Thirty-three."
"I'm much younger," said Johnny. "It's the business I'm in—puts years on a man."
"What are you in, old man?"
"Books."
The Harover man showed surprise. "But I'm in books— Gately and Wakely, you know."
"Sorry, Laddie. Get out of it if you can."
Johnny dropped his hand sympathetically on the Harover man's shoulder and, turning, walked out of the dining room. He saw a flight of stairs leading to the second floor and ascended.
The clicking of ivory balls being knocked together led him to the billiard room, which contained a half-dozen billiard and pocket billiard tables. Three or four were in use. A uniformed attendant turned from racking up a triangle of pool balls and Johnny crooked his finger at him. The man came over.
"Mr. Whittlesey here?"
The attendant turned and nodded toward a silvery-haired man wearing a dark gray suit. He was chatting with a couple of club members who were playing billiards.
"There's Mr. Whittlesey over there."
Johnny walked up to the table. "I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment, Mr. Whittlesey."
The manager of the club looked at Johnny with polite surprise. "Why, I don't believe I know you."
"You don't." Johnny inclined his head for the manager to come aside with him and Whittlesey followed him until they were out of discreet earshot of anyone else.
"My name is Fletcher," Johnny said. "I've been engaged by Mr. Jess Carmichael to make an investigation."
Horror spread over Mr. Whittlesey's features. "An investigation here—at the Harover Club? This is terrible!"
"It needn't be. The inquiries can be tactful, discreet . . .or . . . they can be rather distasteful. It depends on how much cooperation you will give us."
A little shudder ran through Mr. Whittlesey. His eyes went to the far side of the room. Johnny, following, restrained a
slight start. James Sutton was at the farthest table, playing billiards with a pudgy little man. He did not see Johnny, however.
"What—what did you want to know?"
"Everything you can tell me about Lester Smithson."
"Mr. Smithson! But he's dead—he died years ago."
"Did he?"
"Of course. Everyone knows that. I thought your investigation, that is, I assumed it would be . . ." He faltered.
"You thought it would be about Jess Carmichael the Third?" Johnny shook his head. "No, it's Lester Smithson. I'm trying to find him."
"My word," breathed Mr. Whittlesey, "this is a surprise. You say Mr. Smithson isn't dead?"
"I don't know. He may well be. But that's what I'm trying to determine. If he is dead, I want to prove it definitely and finally. If he's alive, well, Mr. Carmichael wants me to find him. Lacking an heir, you know . . ."
Whittlesey's eyes went again to the far end of the room.
Johnny said, "Oh, Mr. Sutton's one of the heirs."
"You know Mr. Sutton, then?"
"Yes. And he knows about this investigation. In fact, it was he that suggested it to Mr. Carmichael, Senior."
"I see. And what is it you wanted to know? Wait, we had better go to my office."
Johnny agreed and they adjourned to the manager's office, just inside the lobby. There, Mr. Whittlesey said, "I did not know Mr. Smithson too well. He was one of our younger members, only a short while out of Harover. And you know young men. High spirits and all that. Of course a Harover man knows how to drink; still at that age . . ." Mr. Whittlesey smiled indulgently. "You have to make certain allowances."
"Smithson drank too much?" Johnny asked.
"Oh no, sir, I did not mean to imply that. Not at all. In the time he lived here "
"He lived here at the club?"
"I thought you knew."
"I was simply verifying the fact. When Mr. Smithson disap—left, rather, did he give up his room?"
"No, he did not. We ask our resident members to notify us when they intend to be gone from their rooms any length of time, but Mr. Smithson neglected to do that. We held his room just as it was, for some time, and then we removed his effects."
"Ah, yes," said Johnny. "I want to ask you about that. Who removed his effects?"
"One of our porters. Naturally, I supervised the operation." 76
"Good. Now, think a moment, what was your impression at the time? I mean, had Mr. Smithson taken any effects with him —clothing, personal belongings ...?"
"I don't have to think about that. I recall distinctly that I was rather surprised at the time. His room was exactly as if he'd gone out for an evening and had not returned. His clothing, all of it, as nearly as I could determine, was in his room. Except for what he was wearing, naturally. His shaving gear, even his toothbrush, was in his room. His extra cuff links, a valuable cigarette case, tie clasp, a ring or two, even his Har-over class ring. That was all the proof I needed. Mr. Smithson did not disappear of his own free will. Something must have happened to him."
"Don't think over my next question, Mr. Whittlesey. You've had all these years to form an opinion. Just give me that opinion,
upon impulse. What do you think happened to Mr. Smithson when he walked out of this club twelve years ago?"
Mr. Whittlesey did not respond properly to Johnny's question. He hesitated, shook his head. "Something happened to him, that's all I'm certain about. He was involved in an accident, or—or he was a victim of amnesia."
"Amnesia?"
"I merely mentioned it as a possibility."
"Because he was experiencing an emotional disturbance— his feud with young Carmichael?"
"No, sir, I did not mean to imply that."
"You wouldn't go so far as to say then that Mr. Smithson might have been murdered?"
Mr. Whittlesey cried out in horror. "Oh, no . . . Not— murder!"
"But young Jess Carmichael was murdered yesterday. You admit that?"
"According to the newspapers "
"Not just the newspapers. The police. Jess Carmichael was definitely and positively murdered."
Mr. Whittlesey showed unhappiness. "Mr. Carmichael was a, ah, an entirely different sort from Mr. Smithson."
"Let me try this for size, Mr. Whittlesey. You will concede that there was bad blood between Jess Carmichael and his cousin?"
"They were young. Mr. Carmichael was a bit, well, hot-tempered."
"All right, Smithson went off. He laid low, waiting his time —his opportunity. At long last he found it—and killed Jess Carmichael!"
"He waited twelve years, sir?"
"After twelve years no one would suspect him. He could
wait another year, two, then make his reappearance and say he'd been in the Belgian Congo, hunting gorillas, or prospecting for uranium. Or he could say he'd been a victim of amnesia all these years and that he suddenly recovered and found himself working as—a clerk in a Carmichael grocery store."
"I'm afraid that that is stretching credulity a little too far."
"Well, try this one. Smithson had a fight with Jess on the day of his disappearance. Later that day he told Don Wheelwright about it. He worked himself up to a fine frenzy and went to have it out, once and for all, with young Jess. They had it out and Smithson lost." Johnny paused significantly. "Carmichael killed him!"
"Oh, no!" Mr. Whittlesey cried out, aghast.
Johnny shrugged. "I've given you your choice of several theories. You don't like any of them. You try one."
"I've given you my opinion."
"But I don't like it. And there's still Jess's death to take care of."
"I should think," Mr. Whittlesey said stiffly, "that should be obvious. Young Mr. Carmichael got involved with a—a woman. A woman of, shall we say, poor repute?"
"Oh, you can say it, all right. But she wasn't in the apartment when he was shot."
"There's only her word for that."
"One of the neighbors heard the shot after she'd left the apartment. Some minutes later."
Mr. Whittlesey hesitated. "Perhaps someone entered her apartment after she left."
"Someone did, all right. The question is—who?"
"Exactly," Then the club manager winced. "We're back to the—the other matter."
"I always come back to that," Johnny said. "Every time I think about it, I come back to that. Of course, there's always the possibility that Miss Cummings, the young lady involved, had another gentleman friend."
"That's it," exclaimed Mr. Whittlesey eagerly.
"A man named Harry Flanagan, for instance?"
"Flanagan? I don't believe I know the name."
"A hoodlum, a no-good—perhaps a gigolo."
"Ah, yes!"
"Perhaps he was afraid his meal ticket was going to be punched out on him. Perhaps he was—jealous—if such creatures can be jealous."
"Do the—the police know about this Flanagan?"
"No."
"There is such a person?"
"There is." 78
"Then," said the club manager firmly, "I believe the police should be informed of him. That is by far the most likely prospect of all."
"There's only one thing wrong with that," Johnny said doggedly. "I'm not engaged to find the murderer of Jess Car-michael the Third. My job's to find Lester Smithson—or what happened to him, if he is dead."
"I'm afraid I've told you as much as I know."
"Except for one or two small things. You intimated that young Smithson was a bit indiscreet, at times? With his whiskey and such. Would you say that he, ah, got soused here?"
"No, sir, I did not mean to insinuate anything. Only—well, once or twice, some of the, ah, the members mentioned that he was a little noisy, shall we say?"
"And you told him to behave?"
"Words to that effect."
"By himself? Was he noisy alone?"
"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Whittlesey. "You're not suggesting that Mr. Smithson had companions in his room—feminine?"
Johnny looked at him inquiringly.
"The club does not permit such tilings! No woman has ever passed the portals of this establishment—at least beyond the confines of the lobby, or possibly the reading room. We are very careful of such matters."
16
His hands bound behind his back, Sam relaxed on the sofa in the rustic lodge. Sid sat in a chair opposite, watching him for a while, then, becoming bored, got up and wandered about the room. He went into the kitchen and Sam heard a refrigerator door open and close. Then the tinkle and gurgle of a bottle of beer being poured into a glass.
Sam gritted his teeth and twisted mightily on the ropes that held his wrists tightly together. They relaxed a little, giving him some play. But it was a fairly new clothesline and very strong. The perspiration came out on Sam's face.
Sid re-entered the room, carrying a glass of beer. "Mud in your eye, fat boy!"
Sam relaxed and made no reply. Sid chuckled wickedly. "What's the matter, fat boy? Cat got your tongue?"
"Leonard ain't big enough to take Johnny all by himself," Sam said.
"Maybe somebody'll help him."
"Who?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"What's the diff? I'm here, I can't help him."
"Fella who paid us for this job doesn't want his name known. No matter what."
"I could tell him one thing right now," Sam said. "He's gonna be awful disappointed even if he does get those coins. They ain't worth as much as he thinks."
"That's his business."
"We tried to sell them last night to a rare coin dealer. He offered us two for one."
"Yeah, but what kind of coins?"
"Two cents apiece for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes and fifty cents for the quarters. That's around thirteen dollars for the lot. If he's paying you out of the profit from that, you're working awful cheap."
Sid frowned. "We've already collected more than that. We got fifty dollars so far."
"Apiece?"
"Two ways. We get another hundred later." .. "If your cutthroat boss makes a profit."
"If nothing," snarled Sid. "It's none of your business."
"Okay—turn me loose, then."
Sid grunted. "Just sit still, fat boy."
He returned to the kitchen. Sam heard the icebox door open once more. He got to his feet, went into a half crouch and drew a huge breath. Then, exerting every bit of his tremendous strength, he gave his wrists a slow, mighty twist.
The rope cut into the skin, went deep into the flesh. Pain shot through his arms to his shoulders, but Sam persisted. A half inch, an inch—and then the ropes burst!
Sam's hands were free. But he was gasping from the exertion and pain. He scooped, snatched up the ends of the knotted rope and holding them behind his back, sat down again on the sofa.
Sid came in, carrying a fresh glass of beer. Sam was breathing heavily and Sid looked at him suspiciously.
Sam said, "I could use a glass of that beer myself. It's hot in here."
"It'll be hotter later."
"I can't stick around much longer," Sam said. He half rose to his feet.
"Down, fat boy!" exclaimed Sid.
"I warned you about that fat boy stuff," said Sam.
He got to his feet and brought his hands in front of him. Sid gasped in astonishment. The glass of beer slipped through his fingers, smashed on the hardwood floor. His right hand darted for his coat pocket. 80
Sam lunged forward, grabbed the hand just as it was going into the pocket. He twisted it. Sid let out a scream of anguish that could have been heard over on the Saw Mill River Parkway.
"Fat boy, huh?" grunted Sam. He brought up his right hand, clenched it, then deliberately, almost lazily, cuffed Sid on the left side of his face. The force of the short blow tore Sid from Sam's grasp and hurtled him a half dozen feet away.
Sid lay on the floor quivering. Sam walked over to him, stooped and took the revolver from Sid's pocket. "Johnny and me can get rich selling the guns we collected today."
He grabbed the front of Sid's coat, jerked him to his feet and half dragged, half propelled him to the couch. Sid's eyes rolled wildly.
Sam slapped him gently, but his fingers left marks on Sid's face. "Who hired you for this caper?" he asked.
Sid was conscious but seemed to have trouble speaking. His mouth opened, closed and opened again. Sam slapped him with his left hand-just so Sid would not go around with his head lopsided.
"I asked you a question."
"H-H-Harry F-F-Flanagan," gasped Sid.
"Who's Harry Flanagan?"
"Just a—a g-guy I know."
Then Sam recalled having heard the name that morning. Eddie Miller had given it. He was the single who had called at the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, the friend of Alice Cummings.
Sam put the revolver in his pocket. He looked around the room, nodded, then went to the door. He looked back at Sid.
"Good-bye, now!"
He opened the door and went out.
Outside, he started down the rutted road. The taxi that had brought him out had bounced and jolted along this road for several minutes. It had not seemed to Sam that they had traversed any great distance, but a half hour later he was still on the dirt road and beginning to limp. His shoes were tight and he was not accustomed to too much walking. Another ten minutes, however, brought him to the Parkway. Cars whizzed by in both directions. Sam got on the New York-bound side and used his thumb.
The limping goose Page 10