"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?"

The captain coughed gently. "Mr. Carmichael? I'm afraid..."

"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.

"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.

A dozen cars whipped past, another dozen and Sam became desperate. His breakfast had been skimpy that morning and it must now be lunchtime or later. His stomach growled, he became faint from hunger. And his feet ached terribly.

Brakes squealed and a 1937 Chevrolet pulled up beside Sam. "I'm only goin' a little way," he said, "but if you want a lift, you're welcome."

"Thanks, mister, you saved my life," cried Sam. He piled into the Chewy beside the driver.

"How far's it to New York?" he asked.

"I dunno rightly," was the reply. "I ain't been there in three-four years. But PeekskilTs just a hop and a jump from here and that's where I'm going. That all right for you?"

"It certainly is!"

The little car roared along, turning off the Parkway a few minutes later. It rattled along a street, paved with large cobblestones, then turned down a street lined with stores and small office and professional buildings.

"Anywhere special you want me to drop you?" Sam's deliverer asked.

"Some place where I can get something to eat. I'm so hungry I could eat a stuffed moose. Say—that hotel there looks pretty good." An inspiration had suddenly struck Sam. He had no money in his pocket, but he simply had to eat

The man pulled up before the hotel. Sam got out. "Thanks a million, mister. You saved my life."

"You're entirely welcome. Always glad to help a neighbor."

Sam entered the lobby, a fairly large one. He brightened when he saw a dining room off it. A man came out picking his teeth with a toothpick.

Sam found a leather chair not too far from the desk. A bellboy walked through the lobby. One came in from the front, went into the dining room. The first bellboy took up a post near the desk. Five minutes went by. Sam got a whiff ol roast beef from the dining room and practically drooled.

Another five minutes. Then the bellboy turned from the desk. "Mr. Pinkley, calling Mr. Pinkley."

Sam got to his feet. The bellboy walked toward the fronl to the lobby and called out Mr. Pinkley's name. He returnee to the desk, calling once more.

No Mr. Pinkley showed up. That was enough for Sam.

He strode into the dining room and seated himself at a table for two. A waiter came up promptly.

"Will you have a cocktail before lunch?" he asked politely

"Naw, don't bother. I want the biggest, thickest steak in the house. No—never mind, a steak takes too long to cook What've you got that's ready?"

"We have prime ribs of beef, roast veal "

"The beef," cried Sam. "A big double order and all the trimmings that don't take too much time. Potatoes, gravy, s lot of gravy, the works. And make it snappy."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter happily. He went off. A momeni later he returned with a silver dish full of bread and rolls Sam munched until his order came. He ate every scrap of the 82

food, mopped up the gravy, drank his third cup of coffee and leaned back, contented.

The waiter laid the check face down before him. Sam turned it over, saw the amount, $4.35 and beamed. "Lemme have your pencil, Buddy." The waiter gave him a pencil and Sam scribbled the name, "Mr. Pinkley."

"Your room number, sir," the waiter reminded.

Sam wrote down Room 821, then went through the motions of searching his pocket for change. "I don't seem to have any change. I'll just add the tip to the check."

He scribbled: "Tip, $1.00."

He handed the check to the waiter. "How's that, pal?"

The waiter stared at the check. "One moment, please." He headed swiftly for the door leading to the lobby. Sam, startled, got to his feet. He heard the waiter call out, "Mr. Pinkley— if you please!"

Sam winced and decided to brazen it out.

The waiter returned, accompanied by a heavy-set man of about forty. The heavy-set man was scowling at the check the waiter had given him and the waiter was chattering excitedly, although Sam could not hear the words.

Sam went to meet them. "What's the matter?" he asked deliberately. "I just signed the tab for the check, that's all."

"That is not all," said the heavy-set man firmly. "You signed the name Mr. Pinkley. I, sir, am Mr. Pinkley."

Sam gulped. "What a coincidence, two of us by the same name staying at the same hotel."

"I am not staying here," Mr. Pinkley snapped. "I, sir, am the manager of the hotel!"

Sam staggered, rocked by the blow. He gulped down air, made a clawing motion with his right hand, then said weakly, "Well, whaddya know, the manager's got the same name I have. I—I just checked in a little while ago."

"Did you?" Mr. Pinkley asked icily. "Into Room eight twenty-one?"

"Yeah, Room eight twenty-one—that's right."

"And Room eight twenty-one is on the eighth floor?"

"It always is."

"Precisely. Now, there is only one thing wrong with that— there is no eighth floor in this hotel. It has only four stories."

"Oh, no!" cried Sam, in mortal anguish.

Mr. Pinkley raised his hand, began snapping his fingers. Two waiters came forward, a third and then a bellboy. "The police," Mr. Pinkley called. "Call the police."

"Not the cops, mister," begged Sam. "I—I can't go to jail. I was so hungry I couldn't help myself. I—I'll wash dishes, anything."

"You forged my signature," said Mr. Pinkley coldly. "No one can forge my signature. Positively no one."

The waiters were surrounding poor Sam. Urged on by Johnny Fletcher or led by him, Sam would have scattered the waiters—and the manager—like tenpins and made his escape. Leaderless he was an ox to the slaughter. It was only seconds before policemen, two of them, entered the dining room and Sam found himself, with handcuffs on his wrists, led to a police car.

17

The desk sergeant poised his pen over the police blotter. "Name?"

"Sam Cragg."

"K-r-a-g?"

"C-r-a-g-g, anybody knows that. But look, captain, this is all a mistake."

"It sure is. Previous convictions?"

"Whaddya mean, previous convictions?" asked Sam indignantly. "Do I look like a crook?"

"Yes. Now, you might as well tell the truth, because we'll only check your fingerprints and it'll be so much the worse for you if you lie. How many previous convictions?"

"None! I ain't even been in the clink before—well, hardly ever—and it wasn't for anything serious. Just "

"Just what?"

"Little things, that's all. Mistakes, that's all. Like now, this is a big mistake. I can explain."

The desk sergeant looked at the two arresting officers. "What's the charge?"

"Larceny. Forgery," said one of the policemen.

"Oh, sure, just little things," said the desk sergeant sarcastically.

"Can you put down just plain dumbness, Sarge?" grinned one of the policemen.

"Who's dumb?" challenged Sam.

"You are, stupid," retorted the policeman. "Otherwise you wouldn't go into a hotel dining room and sign the manager's name to the check and then, to make it worse, put down Room eight hundred and something when the hotel's only got four floors."

Sam winced. "Anybody can make a mistake. Johnny pulled the same stunt and it worked. There wasn't nothing . . ." Sam stopped, realizing that he was talking too much. He said des-84

perately, "Ain't it true that a prisoner's allowed to make a phone call?"

"A jailhouse lawyer," said the desk sergeant. He shrugged. "Yes, you're allowed one phone call. Go ahead, here's a telephone."

Sam grabbed the phone, took off the receiver. "Give me New York . .."

The desk sergeant snatched the phone from his hand.

"That's long distance. You're not getting any free long distance calls on this phone."

"But I don't know anybody in this burg. The only person I know, I mean the only real friend I got in the whole world is in New York. He'll come running out to square this beef."

"He's a county supervisor, maybe?" asked the desk sergeant sarcastically. "He can square this—this beef?"

"Maybe he's a Congressman," suggested one of the policemen. "Why don't you write him a letter? Everybody writes to his Congressman."

"Look, captain," Sam said to the desk sergeant, "be a sport. Okay, it's a long distance call. I ain't got a red cent in my pocket, but Johnny'll pay you. He's got five hundred fish in his pocket. He'll come buzzing round out here and pay you. He—he might even slip you a couple of bucks. All of you."

"Bribery!" exclaimed the desk sergeant. He picked up his pen again. "Attempting to bribe an officer ..."

"No!" howled Sam. "I wasn't. Don't put that down. It's bad enough. I just meant Johnny'll pay up everything. Everything I owe. The dinner—the lunch at the hotel, the phone bill."

The desk sergeant could not quite conceal a grin. "All right, son, I'll trust you for that phone call. Go ahead and make it. But mind you, New York City, not Los Angeles or Seattle."

Sam caught up the phone once more. Hurriedly he put through his call, then waited. The hotel operator rang Room 821 and rang and rang. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, there's no answer."

"Gimme the bell captain—Eddie Miller!" Sam cried desperately. "This is important."

"One moment, please."

After a long wait, Eddie Miller's voice said cautiously, "Bell captain."

"Eddie! This is Sam Cragg. Look, I haven't got time. I'm in a jam. Have you seen Johnny Fletcher since this morning?"

"Not since about ten o'clock. He came in then and—say, aren't you kidnaped?"

"No-no. I mean, I was, but I got away. I'm okay. Except— I'm in the clink!"

"You're in jail?" Where ...?"

"I dunno. Wait..."

Sam turned to the desk sergeant. "What town is this?"

"Peekskill."

"Peekskill," Sam said into the phone. "I'm in the Peekskill hoosegow. Johnny's got to get me out. Tell him I need him — right away."

"I'll tell him as soon as I see him," Eddie said.

"He knows that I don't like jails," Sam went on. 'Tell him to make it snappy."

"Sure thing."

Sam hung up, sighing in relief. "In a couple of hours Johnny'll be down here and everything'll be okay."

"Maybe so," said the desk sergeant cynically, "although I personally think you need a lawyer more than a friend. All right, boys, take off the cuffs and put him in a cell."

"Can't I just wait out here?" Sam asked.

"What do you think this is, a hotel lobby? Uh-uh, we got a nice room in back. It's got a bed in it. Of course there's no mattress on it, but if you're really tired you won't mind that."

One of the policemen removed the handcuffs from Sam's wrists. The other held out his hand. "Your necktie and belt."

"I need my belt," Sam said. "I'll lose my pants."

"Prisoners can't have neckties or belts," the policeman said firmly. "It's against the rules. They might hang themselves."

"I ain't going to hang myself."

"Your belt!"

Sam groaned. He removed his belt and discovered that his trousers were not too loose around the waist. An occasional hitch would keep them up. He surrendered the belt and his necktie. Then one of the policemen began feeling his pockets.

He exclaimed in chagrin. "What's this?"

He brought out the revolver that Sam had taken from Sid. "Holy smoke, we didn't search him when we made the arrest."

The second policeman winced. "I didn't think he'd be carrying a gun and pulling a cheap job like that." He handed the weapon to the desk sergeant.

"You boys are slipping," the sergeant said. He picked up his pen. "Carrying a concealed weapon—to wit, a revolver. Brother, that's a violation of the Sullivan Act."

"I took it away from the guy who kidnaped me," said Sam.

"Kidnaped!" The sergeant snorted. "You're getting fanciei all the time. Mmm, forgery, larceny, attempting to bribe an officer and the Sullivan Act. Yes, sir, you haven't got a thing 86

to worry about. Not for the next fifteen or twenty years. The State'll take care of you."

"Twenty years!" howled Sam. "You're kidding. Please, Captain, don't make jokes like that."

One of the policemen took his arm. "Come on, mister."

Sam jerked his arm free of the policeman's grip. He appealed to the desk sergeant. "Don't put me in a cell. Lemme wait here. Johnny Fletcher can explain the whole thing."

"Come on," said the policeman firmly. He gripped Sam's elbow hard, but Sam again jerked his arm away and went so far as to slap down the policeman's hand.

The policeman cried out, "Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer."

The desk sergeant began to write. "Resisting arrest, assaulting "

"No-no, don't add any more," cried Sam. "I'll go quietly. Come on, boys."

He started eagerly for the door leading to the jail proper. The policemen followed him.

There were three private cells in the rear, but each was occupied so Sam was led into the bullpen, a larger room equipped merely with two steel cots. Two prisoners were already in the bullpen. One of the policemen unlocked the door.

"In you go."

Sam entered. The policeman locked the door and both went to the front of the station house.

Sam regarded his fellow prisoners glumly. One was a youth of nineteen or twenty, the other a grizzled old-timer.

"What're you in for, buddy?" the old-timer asked cheerfully.

Sam shook his head. "It's all a big mistake. I hadn't ought to be here at all.

"A mistake, eh? The cops're always making mistakes. What do you think they're charging me with?"

"I dunno."

"Burglary, that's what."

The youth made a wet raucous sound with his mouth. "Vagrancy, that's what you're in for. You're nothin' but an old bum."

"I resent that, bub," retorted the oldster. "I been in more jails than you'll ever see from the outside. I served time in Joliet, Sing Sing and Alcatraz. I got a record. And whaddya you got to brag about? Pinchin' pennies off a newsstand."

"Oh, yeah? Well, it just happens that I'm in for grand lar-

ceny, heisting a Caddy limousine, breaking and entering and resisting an officer. How do you like that, old man?"

"Yah!" The old tramp indicated the youth with his thumb. 'They talk big, these young punks, don't they? Tell him, paL tell 'im what you're in for."

"Forgery. Grand larceny. The Sullivan Act, attempting to bribe an officer, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest."

The youth sat up straight. "All that? You kiddin'?"

"I wish I wasn't. The captain says I'll be in jail for fifteen-twenty years. I'll never make it. I can't stand bein' locked up."

"Nothing much holdin' you here," said the old tramp. "If I had an old saw or even a little crowbar I'd be out of here in no time. Lookit them old iron bars. Half rusted away, set in plaster or somethin' instead of concrete."

He pointed to the barred window at the rear of the cell. Sam stepped up to it and looked through at an alley. He examined the bars. Age had crumbled the concrete foundation, age and the elements had weathered the iron bars. Sam gripped two of the bars, tested them. They wobbled in their concrete sockets.

He turned away from the window, his eyes narrowing. 'Tf I had a lever or something, I could tear them bars loose."

"You and who else?" jeered the youth. "A horse couldn't tear out those bars."

"I'm almost as strong as a horse," said Sam modestly.

The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. "That's the one thing I can't stand in these crummy jails. The bull the other prisoners throw. Always bragging how good they are at something. How many cops did it take to pinch you?"

"Two. But I couldda handled them easy if I'd wanted." Sam's eyes fell to the cot on which the youth was sitting. It was made of heavy tubular steel and contained a rusted spring. He dropped to his knees, tried one of the legs.

"Get up!" he ordered.

"I don't feel like it," snarled the youngster.

Sam reached out, pushed the boy gently. He turned a complete somersault and came up on the far side of the cot. On his hands and knees he stared at Sam, goggle-eyed.

The little bolts that held the leg of the cot to the frame were badly rusted. Sam gripped the tubular leg, gave it a sudden wrench and it came away from the frame. "Holy smoke!" gasped the old tramp.

Grimly, Sam strode to the window. He put the tubular lef of the cot between two bars and put his strength to pushing the inner end.

Iron ground in the concrete. Sam reversed his push, saw bits of concrete spew out of the loosened socket of one of the bars, then reversed himself again. He took a deep breath and put some real effort into it this time.

The iron bar tore loose from its lower mooring, leaving a wide opening. Wide enough for a man to get through.

Sam turned and looked at his cellmates who were staring at him in awe.

"You boys want out?"

The old-timer backed away. "Not me. I got two-three days more to go, then I'm out. By the front door."

"I'll go with you," said the boy. He shot a look of contempt at the old tramp. "The old coot's better off in jail."

"I'll boost you," Sam volunteered to the boy. He locked his hands together and held them as a stirrup. The boy stepped on Sam's hands and was raised to the window. He clambered through.

"Give me a hand," Sam said. He held up his hand, but no hand from outside touched his. The boy was out and wasted no time making himself scarce.

Swearing under his breath, Sam reached up, gripped two bars still remaining and swung himself up. The aperture was a tight fit, but, by holding his breath and squirming, Sam made it

On his feet, he ran quickly down the alley to a side street.

18

Johnny Fletcher came out of the Harover Club and a taxi pulled up at the curb. "Taxi, mister?" asked Leonard, the cabby.

"Yes." Johnny pulled open the door, had one foot in the taxi when he saw the man inside. "Oh-oh!"

"I want a word with you, Fletcher," the man in the cab said.

Johnny backed swiftly out of the cab. "Not with me chum!"

"Get in," snarled Harry Flanagan. "This is money in your pocket."

"I've got enough money," said Johnny.

"Then how about this?"

Flanagan's hand went under the left lapel of his coat. Johnny took two big backward steps.

Flanagan whipped out his gun, a .32 automatic, and lunged toward the open door. "Come here, or I'll let you have it."

Johnny continued to skip backward, almost colliding with the doorman of the Harover Club.

"You haven't got the nerve!" he yelled at Flanagan.

And Flanagan didn't have it. He saw the doorman, two or

three men coming out of the club, some pedestrians. Too many witnesses. Besides which the taxicab driver, Leonard, wanted no part of a shooting on Forty-sixth Street. He was already meshing gears, stamping on the gas pedal. The cab roared away, heading for Madison Avenue.

The doorman was at Johnny's side. "Why, I do believe that man had a gun," he said solicitously to Johnny. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine. As fine as nylon."

Johnny shook his head and strode toward Sixth Avenue. It was a one-way street and the taxicab had headed in the other direction.

At the corner of Sixth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, Johnny stopped. He looked uncertainly northward. There was someone he wanted to see in that direction, but he was worried about Sam Cragg. He had not yet found a clue to his abductors. Still, Sam might have gotten word to the hotel. He might even have returned.

Sighing, Johnny walked to Forty-fifth Street, and turned toward the hotel. There was a squad car parked in the taxi stand, he noticed, but there were always squad cars around. The Forty-Fifth Street Hotel had a small bar in connection, where drinks were rather modestly priced.

Johnny entered the hotel. A uniformed policeman stood just inside and there was another standing by the elevator. Eddie Miller, in the middle of the lobby close to a post, made a quick, covert signal to Johnny.

Oh-oh, thought Johnny. He continued toward the elevator, slackening his stride, then snapped his fingers as if he had thought of something and wheeling, headed for the street.

Alas, Mr. Peabody came out of his office behind the desk at that moment and caught sight of him , "Mr. Fletcher!" he called.

The policeman beside the elevator came to life. "Here, you . . . !" Johnny pretended not to hear, but the policeman just inside the door caught his partner's signal and swarmed forward. Caught between two policemen, Johnny stopped.

"Hi, fellas," he said.

The policeman came up from the rear. "Your name Fletcher?"

"I park my limousine in a no-parking zone?" Johnny asked pleasantly.

The policeman shrugged. "I don't make the charges. We got orders to come here and detain a man named John Fletcher."

"You've got a warrant?" 90

"I said detain, not arrest. We don't need a warrant to detain you."

"If you think I'm going down to the station house without a warrant for my arrest, you've got another guess coming."

Mr. Peabody came out from behind the desk. "Arrested again, Mr. Fletcher? This is getting to be too much. We cannot have officers coming in here all the time because of you. It's bad for the hotel's reputation."

"Reputation? What reputation?"

Lieutenant Madigan came swinging into the hotel. "Johnny, what happened to Sam?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

Mr. Peabody squealed when he saw the lieutenant. "Lieutenant Madigan, please take this man with you at once. People are coming and going here all the time and I simply cannot have policemen all over the lobby."

"Let's go up to your room, Johnny," suggested Madigan.

"Why bother? If I'm arrested, we might as well "

"You're not arrested. It's your pal Cragg, this time."

"Sam!"

Lieutenant Madigan stepped impatiently into the elevator. Johnny followed. "You've got Sam at the station?" Johnny asked sharply.

"No, that's the trouble. But he ought to be."

They got off at the eighth floor and Johnny unlocked the door of Room 821. They went in. A quick glance around told Johnny that there had been no more searchers in the room since he had left it in the morning.

"Now why," he asked Madigan. "should Sam be in the clink?"

"We got a call from the police in Peekskill. They arrested Cragg up there, threw him in jail and he broke out, taking another prisoner with him."

Johnny regarded Lieutenant Madigan in astonishment. 'This is Sam Cragg you're talking about? My pal, Sam?"

"None other. And who else could tear iron bars right out of the concrete?"

"Sam did that?"

"He did."

"I haven't seen Sam since early morning," said Johnny. "I went out and when I got back the bell captain told me that Sam had received a phone call that I'd been hurt in a traffic accident. He dashed out to go to me and no one's seen him since. No one, that is, except the people who snatched him."

"How could anyone make Sam go anywhere against his will?"

"Oh, Sam's strong enough, but he can't punch bullets with his fist."

Lieutenant Madigan scowled. "What're you up to, Fletcher? It's that Carmichael business, isn't it?"

"I'm not interested in who killed Jess Carmichael."

Madigan regarded him suspiciously. "You're not playing cop again?"

Johnny did not say yes and he did not say no.

Madigan sat down on the bed and drummed his fingers on the nightstand. "This is a courtesy pinch, Fletcher. The Peeks-kill police want Cragg and we're picking him up for them. He made a phone call to you here at the hotel, that's how we got here so quickly. When Cragg comes in we'll pick him up and hold him for the Peekskill boys. The Peekskill boys are not interested in you, unless they come up with an accessory-after-the-fact rap."

"I haven't been in Peekskill in eight years."

'Then they probably won't want to bother you, But they've sure thrown the book against Cragg. Grand larceny, forgery, the Sullivan Act, assault "

"Are you kidding?" cried Johnny. "Sam a forger? Why, he can hardly write his own name, much less someone else's."

"That's what they said over the phone. Forgery, along with the other items."

"No wonder he broke out of jail. Forgery!"

Madigan got up. "You're sure you're not messing in the Carmichael case?"

"I just told you."

The phone rang. Johnny started for it, but Madigan reached automatically for it. "Hello," he said, then, "Who? ... I see, Well come right up, sir. Room eight twenty-one."

"Sam?"

"Uh-uh, someone else. I'm glad to hear you're not snooping around the Carmichaels, Fletcher. Mr. Carmichael's a very rich man and he's got some important friends. Down at City Hall, for instance."

"He's also got twenty-two hundred grocery stores."

19

There was a discreet knock on the door. Johnny called, "Com« in."

The door opened and Jess Carmichael entered. "Ouch!" exclaimed Johnny. He shot a quick, accusing look at Lieutenani Madigan. 92

Carmichael nodded to Johnny. "How are you, Fletcher? I thought I'd run over and talk to you for a minute, but I see you've got company."

"He isn't company," Johnny said easily. "He's a policeman. Lieutenant Madigan, Mr. Carmichael."

Carmichael nodded acknowledgment but did not offer to shake hands with the lieutenant. "I had a little chat with the deputy commissioner this morning."

"I know," said Lieutenant Madigan unhappily. "I, uh, am assigned to the case."

"Then why aren't you out working on it?" asked Carmichael curtly. "I want the man—or woman—who killed my son. I told the commissioner this morning that unless . . ." He stopped, made a gesture. "Never mind. Fletcher, I want a word with you in private."

"I was just leaving," said Madigan stiffly.

"Good-bye, sir—and remember what I said."

Madigan went out.

Carmichael said, "I had a phone call a little while ago. From a—a person who calls herself "

"Just a moment," said Johnny.

He whipped open the door and said to Lieutenant Madigan who was standing just outside, "That's the elevator over there."

Red-faced, Madigan whirled away. He punched the pearl elevator button. Johnny waited until the elevator came and Madigan was aboard, before he closed the door.

"That man was eavesdropping!" exclaimed Carmichael.

"Cops have big ears."

Carmichael looked around the meagerly furnished hotel room. "I used to have a room like this once. Paid four dollars a week for it."

"This crummy hotel charges us twelve."

"Us?"

"I have a pal, Sam Cragg, the strongest man in the world." Then, as Carmichael looked at him inquiringly: "I'm a book salesman. I sell a book called Every Man a Samson. Sam helps me. We put a chain around his chest and I give the suckers, I mean, the prospective customers a sales pitch on how I discovered the secrets of health and strength and vigor. They're all in the little book. Sam breaks the chain by expanding his chest. And then I sell the books."

"Not bad," said Carmichael. "Not bad at all. In my first store I had a big glass jar full of beans. Everybody who made a purchase had the privilege of making a guess as to how many beans there were in the jar. If they guessed the right number

of beans, they got a prize of a hundred dollars in cash." He chuckled. "Nobody ever even came close. You'd be surprised though how many people bought jars of the same size and filled them with beans and then counted the beans one by one. They still couldn't guess the number of beans."

"Because you put some big stones in the center of the jar where they couldn't see them?"

"Smart," said Carmichael. "Only it wasn't stones—it was blocks of wood. Mind you, I didn't lie about it. I just didn't mention that the jar wasn't filled solidly with beans. I wouldn't exactly cheat anyone, but, after all, I didn't make a hundred dollars a week off that store."

"A man's got to be sharp to get by," said Johnny. " 'Cause if he isn't, there's always somebody sharper waiting for him."

"True, Fletcher, true. I used to tell Jess all the time . . ." He stopped, his face becoming sober. "That brings me back to the reason I'm here. This woman who telephoned me—Alice Cummings, she calls herself."

"Ah, yes!"

"She got everything she could out of Jess, but she isn't satisfied."

"They weren't married? Or, were they?"

"Not that I know of. I'm thankful for that, at least. No, she wants to sell me something." He paused and took a quick turn about the room. "I have no confidence in the police. If I were to tell them about this they'd say I was a sentimental old fool. Oh, they wouldn't say it to my face, but they'd be thinking it. I'm too rich for anyone to insult me to my face. That's one of the troubles about being rich."

"I wouldn't mind having such troubles."

Carmichael frowned. "When Jess was a small boy, seven or eight, I gave him a bank "

"A bronze goose bank?"

"You know about it?" Carmichael asked eagerly. "You've seen it?"

"Yes,"

"Where?"

"Perhaps you'd better finish first," Johnny suggested.

"I had a dozen or more stores by that time," Carmichael went on. "My wife had died and a governess was taking care of Jess. A governess and a housekeeper. I wasn't rich, but I was comfortably off. I spent as much time with the boy as I could, but it wasn't enough. I wanted to teach him the value of thrift, so I gave him this little bank. For some reason it became Jess's favorite toy. I've gone into his room at night when he was sleeping and found the bank clutched in his 94

hand." Carmichael drew a deep breath. "And then he grew up and I don't believe I ever saw the—the goose bank again. And now this woman tells me that she has the bank and wants to sell it to me."

"For how much?"

"That's the fantastic part of it. Fifty thousand dollars."

"Fifty thousand...!"

"I hung up on her. She called back. Said she wasn't just selling me the bank, she was selling me the name of the person who murdered Jess. What do you think of that?"

"Mr. Carmichael," Johnny said softly, "she might have been telling the truth!"

"Are you crazy too?"

"Since yesterday more people have tried to get that bank from me ..."

"You? You mean you have it?"

"I had it. It was stolen from this room this morning."

Carmichael groaned. "Why didn't you tell me you had the bank?"

"I didn't know it was so valuable when I had it."

"The woman knew. She told me over the phone that Jess had had a premonition of his death and that he'd told her if something happened to him to give the bank to me, because it contained the name of the person who had killed him."

"The bank," Johnny said, "was a plain ordinary casting. It couldn't have cost very much."

"It didn't. I bought it for a trifle, possibly a quarter. I saw it in a store along with a dozen others. The bank itself had no value. It was what was in the bank that was important."

Johnny dug deep into his right trousers pocket and brought out the handful of coins he had taken from the bank the day before. He dumped them on the counterpane of the bed. "They got the bank, this morning, but I had already emptied it. This is what was in the bank."

Carmichael looked sharply at Johnny, then scooped up most of the coins. He looked at them carefully, then let them trickle through his fingers, back on the bed. "Pennies and dimes and quarters, that's all. I've heard these old coins have some value, but they can't have so great a value that "

"They haven't. I've studied them carefully. The face value amounts to six dollars and thirty-eight cents. A coin dealer offered me less than twenty dollars for the lot. He may have understated their value, but I'm positive that shrewd marketing of the coins wouldn't fetch over forty or fifty dollars."

"There must have been something else in the bank, something you overlooked."

"I thought-of that. I fished inside, thinking there might be a piece of paper—something with a message. If there was, I missed it."

"What about the outside? Were there any scratches or anything of that kind?"

"I assure you there weren't. I even thought that a message had been written on it, then the bank replated to cover it There wasn't anything like that, though."

Carmichael shook his head. "It beats me. The woman sounded so confident, so certain that the bank was worth fifty thousand to me."

"She said she actually had the bank?"

"Mmm, she intimated that she could deliver it."

"I wonder if she wasn't possibly anticipating that? This room was ransacked this morning and the bank taken, no question of that."

"Why didn't they take the coins?"

'They weren't here. I've carried them in my pocket ever since I fished them out of the bank."

Carmichael again picked up some of the coins and scrutinized them closely. "I thought there might be some markings on the coins. There aren't."

"My friend, Sam Cragg, was kidnaped this morning after the bank was stolen. A man tried to kidnap me less than an hour ago as I came out of the Harover Club."

"You've been there?"

Johnny nodded.

Carmichael scowled. "Kidnaped? Why ... ?"

Johnny shrugged. "I can assume, in view of what you've told me, that the bank was stolen by someone in the employ of Alice Cummings. I can assume one of two things regarding the kidnaping; that Miss Cummings did not find what she expected in the bank—or that someone not connected with her is also after the bank—rather the message they believe it contains."

"How a man could get himself so involved!" exclaimed Carmichael. "That boy of mine, I mean. You've met this Cummings woman?"

"I have. And it isn't too difficult to understand how Jess went overboard for her. She's an extremely good-looking girl."

"Hard as nails."

"She wouldn't be that way with a man she was working. She'd be all soft and cuddly. She's got the looks to go with it."

"Jess was engaged to a fine young girl, Hertha Colston."

"I've met her. She's worth a dozen of Alice Cummings. But Hertha is the kind of girl men marry, Alice is the kind they become infatuated with. The kind they buy mink coats for." 96

"Pah! I'm not complaining about the money he gave her, the things he bought her. But that he should give her his boyhood treasure, the goose bank; that he should confide in her. ... That's what gets me. If I had it to do all over again "

He stopped and was silent for a moment "but I can't do it over again. Jess is gone. There's nothing left."

In that moment, Johnny felt sorry for the multi-millionaire.

"I know what you mean, sir."

Carmichael drew himself together. "Got to this woman, Fletcher. I've confidence in you; you're much like I was at your age. Not many people will pull the wool over your eyes."

"When they try, I wind up with the wool," Johnny said.

Carmichael nodded approval. "Find out what she knows— get the bank from her. Buy it, if you have to."

"For fifty thousand?"

Carmichael grimaced. "That's nonsense. I've never been blackmailed in my life and I'm not going to start at this stage of the game. By the way, how are you coming along in your search for Lester Smithson?"

"Quite well, I think. I've stirred up some things and I think I'll get results very shortly."

"Good. I'm counting on you."

Carmichael started for the door, but Johnny stopped him. "Do you want these coins, Mr. Carmichael?"

Carmichael hesitated, then shook his head. "No, it was the bank that Jess was interested in, not the coins. I bought him that bank. Keep the coins."

He nodded again and went out.

20

Johnny looked down at the heap of dimes and pennies and quarters, then scooped them up in his hand. He spread them out on the bed, turned them all up, "heads" upwards. He examined them carefully, then turned them all over, so that the "tails" were up.

He sighed wearily. The coins gave him no message.

The phone rang, startling Johnny. He scooped it up.

"Yes?"

"Fletcher," a harsh voice said, "you want that gorilla friend of yours in one piece?"

"Who is this?" Johnny asked sharply.

"We haven't got time for that stuff. I asked you a question, do you want Cragg alive?"

"You haven't got Cragg," Johnny retorted.

"Oh, no? If he's with you, put him on the phone."

"All right," said Johnny. "Suppose he isn't here. What do you want from me?"

"I'll call you back. I ain't havin' this call traced."

The phone went dead. Johnny hung up and scowled at the phone. He scooped up the coins and looked around the room. He walked to the bathroom and saw the washing Sam had done the day before. On a sudden impulse he took down from the shower curtain rod one of the socks and poured the coins into it, shaking them down into the foot. He tied a knot into the top half of the sock, then taking down the other socks, threw the entire pile into a corner of the bathroom.

The phone rang out in the bedroom. He went back and picked it up.

"All right," said the harsh voice, "listen careful. Leave your hotel and walk slowly down Forty-fifth to Seventh Avenue. A Lucky Clover taxicab will come along and "

"Oh, go back to Peekskill," snapped Johnny, slamming the receiver back on the hook.

The phone rang again instantly. Johnny jerked it off the hook. "Go to hell!" he snarled.

The voice of James Sutton exclaimed, "I say, Fletcher, that's no way to talk to a man."

"Oh, you!" growled Johnny. "Somebody else just called and I thought he was calling back."

"I'd like to talk to you," Sutton said. "I wonder if you could come over to my digs at the Barbizon-Waldorf."

"Can't right now. Busy."

"I'll make it worth your while."

"I'll try to make it in about an hour."

"All right, but sooner than that if you can. This may be important. It's something about Lester Smithson that I don't think you got at the Harover Club."

"Oh, you know I've been there?"

Sutton chuckled. "You scared the hell out of Whittlesey. An hour, then?"

Johnny agreed and hung up. He left the room and rode down to the lobby. The policemen were still there and Lieutenant Madigan sat in a far corner, reading a newspaper. Johnny looked around, saw Eddie Miller near the desk and walked up to him.

"Gosh, Mr. Fletcher," Eddie said. "I tried to warn you, but Mr. Peabody spilled it."

"I know, the louse."

"Mr. Cragg phoned from Peekskill. He said he was in jail up there."

"He isn't any more. That's why the cops are here. Sam 98

broke out of jail and the Peekskill cops called the New York police."

"Ouch!" said Eddie. "Then Mr. Cragg is really in trouble."

"He is, and there isn't a thing I can do for him right now. He's somewhere between Peekskill and here and if he shows up they'll grab him."

"If I see him first, I'll try to give him the high sign. If only Peabody . . . which reminds me, I know the reason he's so sore. Some crook got into his room and swiped one of his suits, his best one, he claims."

"Serves him right."

"He thinks you stole it."

"Me? Would I do a thing like that?"

Eddie hesitated before replying. "No, I don't think so. But Peabody's really burned. I know he went into your room with his passkey, but apparently he didn't find the suit there. He thinks now that you sold it."

"I didn't sell his old suit," Johnny said, slightly accenting the word sell, "but it's an idea. If he doesn't lay off me, I might just do something like that one of these days. I've got to go out now. If Sam does happen to come in while I'm gone and the cops grab him, try to get in a word to him. I'll get him out if I have to bomb the New York police department. He can't stand jails."

"That's what he said."

Johnny nodded and stepped up to the desk. He laid a five-dollar bill and a single on the desk and said to the clerk, "Have you got a roll of dimes and two rolls of pennies?"

The clerk was somewhat surprised, but took the bills. "I think I can spare them."

He opened the cash drawer and brought out three rolls of coins. Johnny tore off the paper wrappings and emptied the coins into his right-hand trousers pocket. Eddie Miller stood nearby, puzzled. Johnny grinned at him and left the hotel.

Across the street, a Lucky Clover taxicab was double-parked, facing Seventh Avenue. Johnny put his thumb to his nose and walked toward Sixth Avenue. A harsh voice yelled after him but Johnny continued on to Sixth Avenue.

A bus was waiting for the light and Johnny clambered aboard. A short time later he got off the bus, walked to Fifth Avenue and entered the Chateau Pelham.

The switchboard operator recognized him instantly. "Miss Cummings? I'll see if she's in." She spoke into the phone, then nodded to Johnny.

"You may go up."

Johnny headed for the elevator, then J. J. Kilkenny came

ato the lobby. He passed the switchboard operator and came ip to Johnny just as the door of the automatic elevator opened.

"Have you been announced?" Johnny asked sarcastically.

The pride of the A.A.A. stepped into the elevator.

"I got words to say to you."

"Why don't you write me a letter?" asked Johnny. "Then

can read and appreciate your words at my leisure. Right iow I'm pretty busy."

Kilkenny punched the button for the fourth floor and the ar went up. Kilkenny sized up Johnny. He was obviously oaking a tremendous effort to contain himself.

"I notice," Johnny pointed out, "you knew what floor."

"I know," Kilkenny said tautly. "I know a lot of things."

They got off at the fourth floor and Kilkenny pressed the buzzer of Alice Cummings's apartment. She opened the door. Ihe was wearing a street suit that had probably cost in the ;eneral neighborhood of three hundred eighty-five. She looked ery nice.

"Oh," she said when she saw Kilkenny with Johnny.

Both men entered the apartment. "Miss Cummings," ohnny said promptly, "you know that you're responsible for urniture and glass breakage."

"That's right," the girl said, looking at Kilkenny. "I'm in nough trouble with the apartment house people right now. rhey've given me notice to move. I don't want a big bill added in."

"Don't crowd me," Kilkenny said to Johnny. "I've already ost my job on account of you."

"Which job?" Johnny asked.

"You know damn well which job," snarled Kilkenny. "The me with the Acme Adjustment Agency."

"Good. That'll be a load off Sam's mind. He won't have to vorry about that old mandolin rap. I thought maybe you were eferring to the other job." Johnny indicated Alice Cummings.

Alice Cummings flared. "Have you brought those coins, Letcher?"

"If you've got the seventeen dollars ready."

She got her purse from a table and opened it.

Johnny said, "I warned you, you're losing money on the leal."

"I want what's mine, that's all."

Johnny shrugged. He reached deep into his trousers pocket tnd brought out the handful of pennies and dimes. He held hem out to Alice Cummings. She put the seventeen dollars n bills on the table and cupped both hands to take the coins.

Johnny, looking closely, saw that her nostrils were wide and hat she was breathing heavily with suppressed excitement 100

"And now, Mr. Fletcher," Alice Cummings said coldly, "I've seen enough of you to last me for some time."

"Well," said Johnny. "I'd like to talk to you a moment— alone."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"I think you have. And I know I've got something to say to you."

"Nothing you can say could possibly interest me."

"Let's put it this way," Johnny said. "You made an arrangement with our friend Kilkenny here to, ah, retrieve a certain object from my hotel room. A goose bank."

"Beat it, Fletcher," snarled Kilkenny.

"Your cheap hoods ripped the hell out of my room," Johnny went on calmly. "They didn't have to do that to find the bank, because it was handy. But they didn't want the bank alone— they were looking for something that had been in the bank."

"Breakage or no breakage," Kilkenny said thickly. His hands came up and he started for Johnny. The latter moved quickly around behind a table on which rested a nice china bowl containing flowers.

"Here goes the furniture," Johnny warned.

"Stop it, you two," cried Alice Cummings. "If you have to fight wait until you're outside."

"You heard the boss, buster," Johnny said.

Kilkenny stopped.

Johnny pointed at Alice Cummings. "The real reason I came over is because a certain party came to see me. He said you'd telephoned him and offered to sell him something. Do you know who I mean?" he demanded.

Alice Cummings looked sharply at Johnny. "What do you know about—that?"

"Everything."

She hesitated, then her eyes went to Kilkenny. "Why don't you come back in a half hour?"

"I'm here now," Kilkenny said bluntly. "You're not going to pull a fast one on me."

"You'll get your money," Alice said, beginning to show her claws to the former bill collector.

"I'll get it, all of it," Kilkenny snapped. "I've stuck my neck out on this job and I want what's coming to me."

"You'll get it."

"I don't think Fletcher knows one damn thing. He's got a big mouth, that's all. He'll make you think black is white and he'll steal the fillings out of your teeth."

"I like you too, J.J.," Johnny said.

Kilkenny bared his teeth, but suddenly wheeled toward the door. "I'll be back in a half hour and I'm warning you, don't y any double-cross on me." He went out.

Johnny said, "Carmichael, Senior. I'm working for him." "Why? Why should he employ a man like you?" demanded lice Cummings.

"Maybe it's because he trusts me."

"You? You're nothing but a two-bit chiseler and sharp looter."

"Baby," said Johnny gently, "that's rough talk. You're too tautiful for talk like that. Why, you're the sort of doll I could go for myself ... if I could afford it." "I could go for you, too," Alice conceded. "If you had

lough of what it takes. But since you haven't "

"Has Flanagan got it?"

The name rocked her back on her heels. "Who?" "Harry Flanagan, the one and only. The gigolo. . . ." That did it. Alice flew at Johnny. She struck him a stinging ip on the face. "You filthy . . .!" she screamed. She tried to ap Johnny again, but caught both her wrists in his hands. "Whoa, Nellie!" he cried. "You called me a two-bit chiseler, it I never took a quarter from a doll in all my life. Harry ianagan's been taking everything he could get from you that you were able to squeeze out of Jess Carmichael. And he's been giving it to another doll."

"That's a he!" screamed Alice. She raked Johnny's shin with ;r high heel, causing him to wince. "That's a dirty, filthy he." Again she tried to use her heel on Johnny, but he shoved ;r away so violently she would have gone over backwards ;cept that her back was to the wall and she collided with that. "Flanagan's a louse and everybody on Broadway and Forty-ghth knows it except you." "Get out of here, get out of here!"

"You got everything you could out of Jess Carmichael and en when he got fed up and buttoned up his wallet you were rough with him. Or maybe he caught you and your fine any Flanagan together ..."

The new trend frightened Alice Cummings out of her blind ge. "That isn't true. Harry didn't kill him. He didn't. I know ! didn't."

"He's got a good chance of frying for it," Johnny said. "No! You're wrong. You—you mustn't put the police on any. He had nothing to do with it." She ran forward, toward e table on which she had deposited the coins Johnny had ve her. "It's here—Jess told me. He gave me the bank and i told me that if anything happened to him to give the bank 102

to his father. He said that the old man would know who—who hurt him."

"There was no note inside the bank. I looked."

"It wasn't a note. It was . . ." She stopped, realizing that she was going too far. She made a tremendous effort to compose herself. "You said—Mr. Carmichael had come to you about—about my phone call to him."

"He told me you tried to shake him down for fifty thousand," Johnny said insultingly.

"That's a lie. I—I wanted to sell him the bank and"—she pointed at the coins—"those. It said in the paper this morning that he'd spend his last dollar to—to find the person who murdered his son. Fifty thousand isn't anything to him. He's probably worth fifty million. Jess told me it was—in the bank —and all I wanted to do was to give this to his father."

"Didn't you get enough out of him?" sneered Johnny. "Mink coats, jewelry, this apartment—the money you gave Harry Flanagan."

She was sensitive about the name Flanagan, wincing again when Johnny tossed it at her.

"Leave Flanagan's name out of this," she said. She became suddenly vicious again, "and you can tell that old goat that the price is going up. Tomorrow it'll cost seventy-five thousand."

"Tomorrow," said Johnny, "you can eat that small change. And the limping goose bank, too. Although I suggest you use some salt and pepper on it. I imagine your stomach is pretty tough, but the bank is made of bronze and it may be a little hard for even you to digest."

"Get the hell out of here!" cried Alice Cummings.

"Baby," said Johnny, "I'm going."

He opened the door and went toward the elevator. She ran after him.

"Wait!" she called.

Johnny punched the button for the elevator.

"A rivederci! Auf wiedersehen —good-bye."

The elevator door opened.

"Forty thousand. Tell Mr. Carmichael I'll take forty thousand ..."

Johnny grinned nastily and pushed the "down" button.

On the first floor he walked through the lobby, winking at the switchboard operator. Outside the apartment house, Kilkenny stood by the door. And at the curb was the Lucky Clover taxicab, with Harry Flanagan standing by the door.

"All right, Fletcher," Flanagan sang out. "I'm through monkeying around with you."

Kilkenny closed in from the side. "Now, you and me are going to have this out!" he snarled.

Johnny danced aside. "Do you boys know each other? You're both being played for suckers by Alice Cummings."

Flanagan and Kilkenny had apparently never met before. Both looked at each other with hostile eyes.

"Who're you?" barked Flanagan.

"Punk!" sneered Kilkenny.

"Good-bye, now," called out Johnny. He turned and ran swiftly down the street. Both Flanagan and Kilkenny made as if to take after him, but each was suspicious of the other. When he reached the corner, Johnny stopped and looked back.

Flanagan and Kilkenny were facing each other, both gestic-lating angrily.

21

Sam Cragg was free, but he was thirty-five miles from New York City, without a nickel in his pocket. And the Law was after him. He ran from the rear of the jail to a street and he walked swiftly down the street and then ran through another alley. It wouldn't be long before the police would be after him. Die old tramp would yell the moment he thought Sam was clear of jail and not likely to return.

They'd be after him. He walked swiftly up another street, cut through a third alley and saw railroad tracks. This was safer than the highway, he thought. A train.

Of course he had no money, but Johnny and he had ridden the rods in the days of old. A freight train was all Sam needed.

A long platform was ahead of him. There were two or three people waiting for a train. Sam went up to one of the men. "When does the next freight train go through here?" he asked politely.

"Freight train? I don't think I've ever seen a freight train on this line."

"All railroads have freight trains," insisted Sam. "How else would they move their freight?"

"Search me. All I know is that there's my train coming right now."

A train, pulled by an electric engine, rolled smoothly into the depot. The few passengers on the platform began to board it. Sam looked around him, caught sight of a blue uniform at the far end of the platform. He sprang for the steps of a car, scrambled in.

The train began to move. Sam went in and found a seat. The conductor entered the front of the car, scanned the tickets 104

of the passengers, stuck into the metal wedges beside the windows. He took a ticket from a new passenger, came down to Sam.

"Ticket?"

"Huh? Uh, didn't you get my ticket at the last station?"

"I don't believe so." said the conductor. "I'd have left the slip there." The conductor indicated the ticket wedge by Sam's window. It was empty.

"I was sure I gave it to you," grumbled Sam.

"I'm sorry, you didn't."

Sam began to search his pockets. Deliberately he explored his coat pockets, then stood up and went through his trousers pockets. The conductor waited patiently.

"I know I bought a ticket," Sam insisted.

"You may find it later."

"Yeah, sure—I'll give it to you later. When I find it"

"I'm afraid I'll have to have it now. Or the price."

"How much is it?"

"To Grand Central? A dollar ten."

"Okay, I'll pay." Sam thrust his hand into his trousers pocket, showed exaggerated alarm. "Holy smoke!" Quickly he reached into his breast pocket. "My wallet!" He snapped his fingers. "I left it at home on the piano."

"You have no money then," said the conductor, "and no ticket."

"Tell you what, buddy," Sam suggested, "I'll pay you tomorrow."

The conductor had played the game all the way. But he was an old hand at this sort of thing. He said nastily, "You'll get off at the next station."

"I can't," cried Sam. "I've got to get to New York. It's— it's important."

"You'll get off," snapped the conductor, "or I'll kick you off."

"You and who else?" challenged Sam.

The train was already slackening speed for the next stop. The conductor pointed to the door. "Out!"

"I asked you, who's going to make me?"

"I'll call a policeman," the conductor said. "It's against the law to try to swindle the railroad out of a fare."

The word "policeman" was enough for Sam. He got up meekly and went into the vestibule. When the train stopped he stepped off to the platform. The conductor swung out and kept his eye on Sam until the train was moving again.

Five miles. Perhaps six. He could wait for the next train and try the same routine and advance himself another five or six miles. In seven or eight tries, he would be in New York. But it was the slack time of the day and the trains did not

a too frequently. Sam waited on the platform for fifteen inutes, then left it—suddenly.

A policeman had appeared out of nowhere. There were vays policemen around railroad stations. Sam gave up the idea of riding into Manhattan by train, j walked through a little village and found himself upon a nding macadam road. A grocery delivery truck came along id Sam gave it the old thumb. The truck stopped. "What's the matter?" the driver asked. "I want a ride."

The man grinned. "Okay, I'll give you a lift—as far as I go." Sam got in and the grocery truck drove all of a hundred rds and stopped before a house. "This is as far as I go. I liver these groceries, then go back to the store." Sam got out of the truck. "Thanks," he said curtly and irted walking again. He walked a mile. The road wound to e right, to the left, went up a small hill and down into a lall valley. It was a back road.

Ahead, there was a crossing. Sam quickened his steps when saw the road markers. When he came up, he read: Peeks-11, 3 Miles."

He cried out in chagrin. The winding road had led him back ward Peekskill. Almost half of the distance he had made on e train was lost. He sought the sign on the cross road and und a marker: "White Plains, 22 Miles." That was no good, e had been in White Plains before and if he remembered rrectly, White Plains was at least twenty miles from Man-ittan.

Reluctantly he retraced his steps, reached the railroad depot d crossed by the road. There he found a marker that told m New York was only thirty-one miles. He started resolutely down the road.

He walked. He walked a mile. A single car whizzed past m without even slackening speed. He walked another mile id an ancient car came chugging along. Sam stepped out as r into the road as he dared and waved violently. Brakes squealed and the car stopped. "For the love of Pete, ister," Sam cried, "give me a lift. My dogs are killin g me." The driver of the ancient jalopy was a white-haired man owding seventy. He said, "Get in!"

Wearily, Sam got into the old car. "Where you going, ister?" the driver asked. "God's country, New York."

The elderly man smiled slightly. "First time I ever heard ew York called that. You don't like the country?" Sam shuddered. "Not me. Gimme New York, just let me 106

see it once more and I'll never leave it again. The things that have happened to me I"

"Nothing much ever happens out in the country," the driver went on. "In the city there's all sorts of trouble, all the time. I had the radio on just a minute ago and they were telling about some fella back in Peekskill who broke out of jail. A real desperado, shoot-'em-up type." Sam wished that he could shrink to half his size. "Yep," the old man went on, "a real killer, they say. The police are setting up roadblocks all around."

"Roadblocks!" exclaimed Sam in consternation. "You mean —they'll stop all the cars?"

The driver pointed ahead. "Wouldn't be a bit surprised if that was one up there."

A New York State highway patrol car was slewed across the road, blocking most of it. The driver began braking his ancient car. A State Trooper waved him down.

Sam made a complete mental surrender. He knew he was going back to Peekskill—and this time he would remain there. He was gone, finished, done.

"What's the trouble, Carl?" the old man was saying to the Trooper.

"Usual stuff, Judge," the Trooper replied courteously. "Jail-break. Some two-gun man they picked up shot his way out of the Peekskill jail."

"Oh, they'll get him, all right," said the man beside Sam.

"I'm sure they will," replied the State Trooper. He scarcely looked at Sam as he waved the old driver to continue on past the police car.

For a full half mile Sam could not say a word, then he asked weakly, "You're a judge, mister?"

"A justice of the peace, that's all," was the cheerful reply. "I've lived up here in the country all my life and the neighbors wanted me to have a little income in my old age, I guess, so they voted me in for an easy job. Nice chap, that Trooper. Most of 'em are good boys."

"Sure," said Sam, "they sure are."

He was silent again and the little car ate up the winding back road miles. After a while the car turned into a parkway and picked up some speed. But finally, as they were nearing Yonkers, the justice of the peace said, "I guess I ought to tell you, neighbor, the police don't approve of hitchhikers out here and they've been arresting a lot of people. But Yonkers is as far as I go. If you're in a hurry to get home, I think you'd better take the subway at Yonkers. I'll drive you to it. Uh, could you use a quarter?"

He tendered the coin to Sam. The latter took it. "Judge,' he said, with deep emotion, "you're the first honest-to-gost human being I've met in a year of Sundays. You—you almosi make up for what I went through today."

22

When Johnny re-entered the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, the policemen were still on duty in the lobby. And Lieutenan Madigan was still sitting glumly in a far corner. Johnny wavec to him and went up to his room.

Entering, he went into the bathroom and retrieved the socl weighted with the dimes and pennies he had taken from Jes! Carmichael the Third's limping goose bank.

"It's here," he muttered. "It's got to be here."

He dumped the coins on the bed and began to examine then: individually. He wished he had a magnifying glass, but his eyes were good and he studied the coins with elaborate care. Mosi of them were worn; a scratch or mark would have shown up readily on them. There was none. He counted the feather; in the Indian's headpiece on the pennies. They all matched He studied the milling around the edges. There was nothing out of place. He turned the coins over and studied them.

He separated the dimes from the pennies, studied each ir turn. A half hour went by and he was no nearer the solution

"It's here," he exclaimed aloud. "Jess Carmichael was nc smarter than I am."

He had the coins lined up according to their age. The oldest he discovered, was an 1860 penny. The oldest dime was ar 1862. The next dime was dated 1865.

Idly, he pushed the two rows of coins together, the oldesi dime, the penny, then—a thought struck him and he movec swiftly, lining up the coins according to the dates, regardless of their value. The coins' dates now ran continuously 1860 through to 1939. "That's it!" he cried. "That's it!"

He raked the coins together, scooped them up and dumpec them into his pocket. He started for the door, but wheelec back and picked up the phone.

"Give me the Barbizon-Waldorf!" he exclaimed. A moment later he said, "Mr. James Sutton, please."

Sutton came on the wire. "I'm sorry," Johnny said. "I've been delayed. If it's all right I'll come over now."

"I was wondering what happened to you," Sutton said

"I'll see you in fifteen minutes." Johnny hung up, then picked up the telephone book and called another number. "I want tc 108

talk to Mr. Jess Carmichael. That's right. . . . No, no, don't give me that. Tell his secretary that this is Johnny Flecher talking. If she'll pass that on to him he'll talk to me." He waited a full two minutes, then a woman's voice said:

"This is Mr. Carmichael's secretary speaking. Mr. Carmichael is not in at the moment."

"This is Johnny Fletcher," Johnny persisted. "I'm investigating the—the murder of his son. Mr. Carmichael himself engaged me this morning. Personally. I have something very, very important to tell him."

"Mr. Carmichael still isn't in." the secretary said, unperturbed. "He was in, but he left about a half hour ago."

"Can you tell me where he went?"

"Mr. Carmichael doesn't take me into his confidence every time he goes out."

"All right," said Johnny. "Can you tell me just one little thing? The telephone number of Hertha Colston, the late Mr. Carmichael's fiancee?"

"I'm sorry," was the reply. "I am not permitted to give out telephone numbers."

Johnny groaned, but knew when he was licked. He replaced the phone on its springs.

He strode to the door and went out. As he stepped into the elevator the operator gave him a quick look, then averted his eyes. Johnny rode down to the lobby and stepped out of the elevator into a scene of violence.

Sam Cragg stood at bay. He had a huge leather chair raised over his head and was defying two policemen, Lieutenant Madigan, and Mr. Peabody.

"Nobody's throwing me in no more clinks!" Sam howled. "I ain't going with you until I talk to—" Then he saw Johnny. "Johnny!" he cried in vast relief. "Johnny, don't let them throw me in the hoosegow. Go ahead, tell them it's a mistake."

"Fletcher," grated Lieutenant Madigan, "we don't want to hurt him. Will you order him to put down that chair?"

"Put it down, Sam," Johnny said.

"Out of my hotel!" bleated Mr. Peabody. "Out of my hoteL This is an outrage. I won't take this another minute."

Sam lowered the chair to the floor, but still stood at bay. "You ain't goin' to let them pinch me, are you, Johnny?"

"It'll be all right, Sam."

"It won't be," persisted Lieutenant Madigan. "You know very well that I've got to take him in."

"No!" roared Sam.

"Out!" screamed Mr. Peabody.

"Cragg," said Lieutenant Madigan, "you can come quietly, or you can be dragged out."

"Who's going to do it?" defied Sam.

Lieutenant Madigan produced his revolver. "For the last ime, Cragg..."

Peabody bleated again, "Please—no blood on my carpeting, 'lease . . .!"

Johnny crooked a finger at Madigan, "I've got something or you, Madigan, something that will "

"No! I was sent here to get Cragg, that's all."

"Aren't you still on the Carmichael case?"

"I am, but first things first."

"You think you'll be a hero, picking up Sam on a fugitive varrant? Would you rather pinch him and turn him over to he Peekskill police on a silly misdemeanor charge than bring n the murderer of Jess Carmichael the Third?"

"I'm not going to listen to you. And Sam Cragg isn't facing my misdemeanor charges. It's forgery, grand larceny, jail-leaking and "

Johnny waved it all away. "I can straighten all that out in wo minutes. But, listen, I've got the murderer of Jess Car-nichael. I can give him to you, all wrapped up and tied with i pink ribbon."

"You can do one thing," Madigan said bitterly. "You can alk bigger and faster than any sidewalk spieler I ever heard."

"You were in my room an hour ago, Madigan. Who knocked on the door and came in?"

"All right, I grant you that. You bamboozled the old man, omehow."

"I've bamboozled the murderer, too."

"All right, who is he?"

"I'll name him for you in just about fifteen minutes. And rou can then put the handcuffs on him."

"Tell me now, if you want me to believe you."

"No—I can't prove it now. I can in fifteen minutes."

"All right," said Madigan grimly. "The boys can take Sam Cragg down to the precinct house and I'll go with you."

"No dice," said Johnny. "Sam comes along with us."

"He goes to jail!"

"No, Johnny!" cried Sam.

"Sam goes with us," Johnny said stubbornly. "You can bring four policemen along if you want to, but Sam goes with us."

Madigan hesitated and was lost. "There's no monkey business about this?"

"I promise you," said Johnny. "I'll hand over the murderer o you or I'll "

"You'll what?"

"I'll hand him over. That's all."

"Fletcher, it's my job to bring in a prisoner as soon as I 110

arrest him. If I carry Cragg around town with me, I've got to explain the reason to the captain. If it isn't a good reason, I'll be pounding a beat."

"And if you bring in the person who murdered the son of one of the richest men in the United States?"

"That's the reason I'm gambling. I know you're a slick, fast-talking sharpshooter "

"Don't believe him, officer," cried Mr. Peabody. "Don't believe a thing he tells you. I have reason to believe that he—he entered my apartment and stole a suit of my clothes."

Johnny waggled a forefinger at the hotel manager. "Some day, Peabody, some day ..."

"Come on," snapped Madigan suddenly.

He started for the door. Sam fell in beside Johnny and the two uniformed policemen fell in behind them.

"Oh, the things I went through today, Johnny," moaned Sam.

"I know, Sam, I know."

"First I was kidnaped. Then I escaped and—I was so hungry. My backbone was pushing my chest. I—I had to eat or starve, so I"—he gulped, swallowed hard and shuddered—"I—I can't even tell you about it, Johnny. The thing that happened to me."

"Tell me later."

The squad car was at the curb. The two policemen got into the front seat and Madigan, Sam and Johnny crowded into the rear. "Where to?" asked Madigan.

'The Barbizon-Waldorf."

The driver used the siren until Madigan curtly ordered him to stop.

Five minutes later the police car pulled up before the Barbizon-Waldorf. A doorman came over, then backed away. "You want to make a scene?" Johnny asked the lieutenant.

"Damn!" swore Madigan.

"Sam won't escape. I'll give you my word."

"Yeah, I promise, too," chimed in Sam.

"All right, come on," snarled Madigan. He gestured to the policemen. "You boys wait out here."

"Sure you can handle it alone?" one of the men asked.

"I can handle it."

The three men climbed out of the rear seat and went into the hotel. They rode up to the floor of Sutton's apartment, then as they neared the room, Johnny stopped. "Let me and Sam go in, Lieutenant. You wait outside until I call you."

"Don't give me that," snapped Madigan.

"Play it my way."

Madigan gritted his teeth. "I'll be right outside this door."

ohnny pressed the button of the door buzzer. "Come!" ailed the voice of James Sutton.

Johnny and Sam entered Sutton's suite. Hertha Colston sat a a big chair near the window, a half-emptied glass in her Land.

"Johnny!" she cried. "It's nice seeing you again."

"Hello," said Johnny casually. "This is my friend, Sam "ragg."

"How are you, Sam," Hertha said cordially.

"You made a conquest this noon," Sutton said, smiling. But I gather you didn't do so well with Don Wheelwright."

"He's an advertising man," replied Johnny carelessly.

"That's more than I am," said Sutton wryly. "I've got Scotch ind bourbon. What'll it be?"

"I'll take a bottle of beer," Sam offered.

"Beer? I'll have to send down for some."

"Never mind," Johnny interrupted. "You said you had something important to tell me."

"I have, but let it wait a few minutes. Uncle's on his way over."

"You called him? They told me at his office that he was out."

"He probably was. He called me."

"Don's on his way over, too," said Hertha.

"Good," said Johnny. "Suppose I telephone Alice Cummings md ask her over?"

"That woman!" said Hertha disgustedly.

Johnny grinned. "I've got four inches of raw shin—and I hink I've got three teeth loose."

"You had a fight with her?"

"Not me with her. Her with me."

"Uncle Jess said something about her trying to blackmail dm," Sutton offered.

"Blackmail? I thought she was merely trying to sell him omething."

"The name of Jess's murderer." Sutton smiled thinly. "I juess that's her description of blackmail." He crossed and poured himself a fresh drink.

"Can I give you a refill?" he asked Hertha.

"This is a refill. That's my quota." Hertha studied Sam. "Is his the strong man?" 112

"If I was in a good mood, I'd show you my muscles," Sam volunteered.

"Why, aren't you in a good mood?"

"Things—happened to me today."

"Sam had a rough day of it. So did I, for that matter." Johnny seated himself in a chair near a table.

"You've been trying to find Cousin Lester," Sutton said. 'That's what I want to tell you about. I had a call from him."

"What!"

"I was as much surprised as you, Fletcher. He said he'd heard it on the radio, about Jess "

"Where'd he telephone you from?" Johnny asked sharply.

"Idaho. Place called Lewiston."

"He's been there all these years?"

Sutton shrugged. "I asked him. He said he'd tell me about it when he got in. He's taking a train tomorrow and he ought to be here by Sunday."

The door buzzer whirred. Johnny rose swiftly and went to the door. He opened it and Jess Carmichael, Senior, came in. "I'm glad you're here, Fletcher. Isn't that the ...?"

"Yes," said Johnny. "You might as well come in now, Lieutenant."

Madigan came in. Sutton and Hertha Colston looked at him, puzzled.

"Lieutenant Madigan," Johnny announced, "of Homicide."

"Homicide!" exclaimed Sutton.

"Sam's under arrest," Johnny explained. "Madigan wouldn't let Sam come with me unless I brought him, too."

Carmichael looked sharply at Johnny. "You saw that woman?"

"I saw her. She's got the bank, all right. And she thinks she's got what was in it."

"What was in it?" Sutton asked.

Johnny dug the handful of pennies and dimes from his pocket. "This!' He put the coins on the table beside his chair. "She wanted pennies and dimes so badly, I bought her seven dollars' worth. Pennies are pennies to her, and dimes, dimes."

"This is what was in Jess's bank?" Sutton asked.

"Yes."

Sutton looked at his uncle. "A bunch of old-fashioned Indian head pennies—and dimes and quarters. I thought there'd be "

"A note?" Johnny asked.

'The Cummings woman claimed-

That there was a message in the bank? That's the message." Johnny indicated the heap of coins.

Sutton looked at the coins, perplexed. "One of your jokes, Fletcher?"

"No joke."

Hertha Colston got up and came over. She looked at the coins. "I never saw these, but Jess told me once about the bank he had as a boy." She looked at Carmichael. "You gave it to him?"

Carmichael nodded quietly. "He was very fond of the bank."

"Can I have these?" Hertha asked, a note of wistfulness in her voice. "It's—it might be a kind of remembrance."

"There're some things I want to say first," Johnny said, "then I don't care who takes these coins. Mr. Carmichael, Miss Colston, some of this is going to be rather painful."

"Go ahead, Fletcher," said Carmichael gruffly.

"You all know about Alice Cummings. She's—well, she's Alice Cummings. But Jess was infatuated with her. So much so that he gave her one of his boyhood treasures and confided in her. Up to a point. He told Alice Cummings that if anything happened to him, to give the limping goose bank to his father. It would tell him who had killed him."

"I don't understand that," Hertha said, puzzled. "It—it sounds as if he expected to be killed."

"He did."

"I stumbled into this thing," Johnny went on. "A bill collector came to my hotel and one thing led to another and he defied me to collect a long overdue bill. A bill against Alice Cummings. Nothing would have happened—that is I would not have gotten involved in this myself—if I hadn't taken a short cut to finding Alice Cummings. I might add that the bill she owed was for a sixty-nine-dollar fur coat she bought four years ago. She made just a few payments on it, then skipped without leaving an address. With interest, the amount still due was seventy-four dollars.

"I nailed her for that seventy-four dollars, but she only had fifty-seven dollars in her purse at the time. I held out for the other seventeen dollars and then the phone rang and Jess Carmichael was announced. Things hadn't been going too good lately with Cummings and Jess. She wanted to get me out in the worst way and without stopping to think she gave me the limping goose bank to make up the diffeernce of seventeen dollars." Johnny paused. "Cummings and Jess quarreled and she went out, leaving him in her apartment "

"That's what she says," Hertha put in spitefully.

"I think she told the truth. Somebody else came in—somebody who knew that Jess was there. That's the person who killed him." 114

"Fletcher," Carmichael asked soberly, "do you know who that person is?"

"Mr. Carmichael," Johnny said, "this morning when I was here talking to Mr. Sutton and you were in the other room listening, he said that you started out in life as a telegraph operator. Was that true?"

"Why, yes, I was the station agent and telegraph operator at a little town in Ohio."

"Can you still read the Morse code?"

"Once you learn that you never forget it. I might not be able to send a message any more, at least not very quickly, but I could still read one unless it was in International code."

"Just a moment, then."

Johnny stepped to the table and began sorting out the quarters, dimes and pennies. He lined them up, according to the date, beginning with the 1860 dime, continuing down to the last 1939 coin.

The others in the room watched him. When Johnny was nearly through, James Sutton suddenly laughed, "You're a character, Fletcher. You spring your childish games on us and we're hypnotized. We listen to you and we watch you." He chuckled. "Do you know, Uncle Jess, that our friend Fletcher here last night hired a limousine to take him out to your home and that he charged the hire to his room at the Barbizon-Wal-dorf Hotel here? . . . and he happens to be living at the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel."

"I've been to his room," said Carmichael.

Johnny straightened from arranging the coins. "Read it, Mr. Carmichael. Read it. It's the message your son wanted you to read."

"I taught Jess the Morse code when he was eight years old," said Carmichael. He looked at the rows of coins spread out on the table. "I don't understand, Fletcher."

"The pennies are the dots, the dimes the dashes and the quarters the spaces between words. Read it, Mr. Carmichael."

Carmichael gave a start. His eyes darted to the coins. " 'If Jess C. is killed,' " he read slowly. Then he gave a violent start.

"One of Fletcher's tricks," cried James Sutton hoarsely.

"Is it, Sutton?" Johnny demanded. "Does the message give his name, Mr. Carmichael?"

Carmichael continued dully, " 'Jim Sutton did it. He' "—he hesitated—"he killed L. Smithson!' "

"That's a he!" yelled Sutton. "Lester isn't dead. He—he phoned me today from Idaho."

"Did he?" Johnny shot at him.

"I talked to him," Sutton said wildly. "I—he wrote me a letter two—three years ago. He's alive, I tell you, he's alive."

"He's dead," said Johnny bluntly. "You killed him twelve ars ago. Jess knew it then, but kept quiet. But he never isted you. He was afraid of you."

Carmichael faced his nephew, his eyes blazing like an enging angel's. "Did you kill my son?" Sutton backed away. "He was raised with a gold spoon in his mouth. He had everything and I—I was poor." "Poor!" burst out Sam Cragg. "How can a guy live in the rbizon-Waldorf and be poor?"

"I gave him an allowance," Carmichael said. He moved svard Sutton. "I gave you money and you—you killed my a..."

"I needed more money," Sutton wailed. "I—I've been wiped t. I speculated and I lost every dollar and went into debt" tton sank into,a chair and began to sob. Carmichael stood over him; his big body seemed to slump d he aged before Johnny's eyes. Hertha Colston moved up him quietly and put her arms about Carmichael's shoulders. Carmichael looked at her and smiled wanly. "They told me len he was a boy that he had a vicious streak in him. I—I sught he'd outgrown it. I would have made him my heir...." "He counted on that," Johnny said soberly. "He hired me t night to find Lester Smithson. He knew very well that I mldn't be able to do that, but he figured it was a good thing, throw suspicion in another direction. Blame Lester Smith-n. Lester had reason to kill Jess, he figured. If he could make u believe that Lester had come back and killed Jess he was right."

Lieutenant Madigan moved forward. He snapped a pair of ndcuffs on Sutton's wrists and said, "We'll get a statement from him down at Headquarters."

The phone rang suddenly, shrilly. Everyone in the room looked at it, but no one moved toward it. Johnny finally skipped across the room and picked it up. "Yes? Who?" He need. "Yes, he's here." He covered the mouthpiece. "Mr. Carmichael, it's Alice Cummings. She wants to talk to you." "I have nothing to say to her."

Johnny said into the phone, "Sorry, babe, Mr. Carmichael s nothing to say to you. . . . Yes, it's me, your old friend, hnny Fletcher . . ." He winced again. "You've cut your ice to ten thousand? For what... Oh, the pennies and dimes ?"

"Let me talk to her," Hertha said suddenly. "She wants to sell seven dollars' worth of change for ten 116

thousand," chuckled Johnny. He handed the phone to Hertha Colston.

Hertha told Alice Cummings what to do with the coins.

24

Johnny and Sam shook hands with the lawyer outside the courthouse in Peekskill. "A tremendous victory, gentlemen," the attorney said enthusiastically. "I told you I could do it."

"You call a five-hundred-dollar fine a victory?" asked Johnny cynically.

"For forgery, grand larceny, jail-breaking ..."

"Cut it out," shuddered Sam.

"A victory," the lawyer said firmly. "If it wasn't for the fact that the city prosecutor is my cousin and that I just happen to play golf with the judge, it would have been five years in the State penitentiary. Six months in the county jail, at the very least."

"All right," said Johnny. "Thanks. Thanks a million. You did a great job. The next time one of us gets arrested in Peeks-kill, we'll give you our business."

"You'll be in good hands. And now, I must say good-bye to you, gentlemen. One of my, ah, clients has been charged with stealing a, ah, a bus. Ridiculous, of course, but I must do my duty by him. Good-bye, gentlemen."

The attorney bustled away and Johnny and Sam walked toward the bus stop where they would get a bus that would take them back to Manhattan.

"I'm never going to come anywhere near Peekskill again," said Sam solemnly.

"It's a good thing Mr. Carmichael gave me that thousand dollars this morning. He didn't really have to give it to me, you know. It was for finding Lester Smithson. And I never found him."

"How could you find him when he was dead?"

Johnny suddenly snorted. "Imagine that lawyer—a thous-sand bucks! And cash he wanted, too. Before the trial."

"I'm sorry, Johnny. We're just about broke again, aren't we?"

"After we pay the bus fare we'll have about seventy cents left over." Johnny shook his head and sighed. "Well, that's too bad. I was going to mail thirty-six dollars to Mr. Peabody— along with the pawn ticket for his suit. But now, I guess, I'll just mail him the pawn ticket. That's better than nothing, isn't it?" "Yeah, but don't we owe some room rent again?" "Sure, but what's that? I'll think of something. I always do."