On the eleventh floor Johnny discovered that 1116 was directly opposite the elevators. He knocked on the door. There was no response.
Sam nodded toward the elevator. “Nobody home.”
Johnny shrugged and knocked again. Inside the room a voice cried out in agony. “Go ’way’n lemme alone!”
Johnny chuckled and beat a tattoo upon the door. After a moment it was opened by a man in purple pajamas and the worst hangover Johnny had ever seen.
“What the devil do you want?” Charles Ralston cried.
“Talk, Charlie,” Johnny said and brushed past Ralston into the room.
“I like to talk,” Ralston groaned. “But not this early in the morning. Besides — I don’t know you men.”
“Simple. I’ll introduce us. This is Sam Cragg and I’m Johnny Fletcher. And you’re Charlie Ralston.”
Ralston gripped his head in both hands and sat down on the edge of his rumpled bed. “Excuse me if I fail to show any enthusiasm.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Johnny said, making himself comfortable in a chair. “I’ll do most of the talking anyway.”
“You always do,” Sam Cragg said.
Johnny gave him a sharp glance. Then he gave his full attention to Charles Ralston. “Charlie, just how much would you pay for the Silver Tombstone?”
“Pay? I own it now...” Then he lowered his hands from his head. “Say — who’re you?”
“I just told you — Johnny Fletcher.”
“I heard the name, but who, rather what are you?”
“You mean you never heard of me?” Johnny shrugged. “Well, such is fame. But then come to think of it, you’ve lived in New York all your life. The point is, Helen Walker is the legal owner of the mine...”
“That remains to be seen,” Ralston retorted. “I admit that my grandfather mentioned her in his will, but that will was made under duress...”
“Okay,” said Johnny, “let the lawyers fight that out. And let them split the Silver Tombstone among themselves — for their fees.”
Ralston scowled. “What’s the idea...?”
“The idea is that one of your lawyers, Hugh Kitchen, has already been murdered...”
“What do you know about Hugh Kitchen?” cried Ralston.
“I know that he was murdered in a motel in San Bernardino. And I know that he would be alive today if he hadn’t been messed up in this mine-and-will fight of yours.”
“Are you a policeman?” Ralston cried.
Johnny made a deprecating gesture, dismissing the accusation. “Mr. Ralston, murder breeds murder. And we don’t want any more murders... So... how much will you take to withdraw your claim — whatever the right or wrong of it — to your grandfather’s estate?”
Ralston looked at Johnny a moment. Then he shook his head. “Who sent you here?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“All right, you won’t tell. Then I’ll give you my answer. I’ll take half a million dollars.”
Johnny nodded. “Let me reverse the process, now. How much will you pay for Helen Walker’s claim?”
“Nothing.”
Johnny sighed wearily. “We’re not going to get very far this way...”
“No, we’re not.”
Johnny got up from his chair and in doing so knocked a book off the edge of a dresser. It fell to the floor. Johnny picked it up, saw that the title was Tombstone Days. The author’s name was Jason Lord. He put the book back on the dresser.
“Very well, Mr. Ralston, I will bid you good morning.”
“Good-bye,” said Ralston firmly.
Johnny went out, followed by Sam. As they were waiting for the elevator Sam sniffed. “What a nice waste of time that was.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Sam.”
The elevator door opened and they got in.
“Five,” said Sam.
“No, lobby,” Johnny corrected.
They got out in the lobby, dodged Tim O’Hanlon once more and went to the street. For a half block or so Sam walked in silence beside Johnny. Then he could stand it no longer.
“What’re you up to, Johnny?” he cried.
Johnny yawned. “Oh, I’m a little tired. I thought I’d pick up a book and catch up on my reading. Ah — here’s a store.”
He led the way into a small bookstore. A mild-mannered clerk descended upon them.
“I’d like to get a book called Tombstone Days,” Johnny said.
The clerk shook his head. “I’m afraid we don’t have it. Who’s it by?”
“Jason Lord.”
“Mmm, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it. But I’ll look it up.”
He went to a huge index, turned pages and finally shook his head. “It isn’t even listed. Flow old a book is it?”
“I don’t know exactly. Fairly old, I would say.”
“Then the book is undoubtedly out of print. You may have to get it from a rare book dealer... Why don’t you try Eisenschiml’s place? It’s right across the street.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
They left the store, crossed the street and found a store with lettering on the window: Oscar Eisenschiml, Out of Print Books, Autographs, Prints.
They went into the musty-smelling store. In the rear of a shop a bald, heavy-set man in his early sixties was seated in an old-fashioned rocking chair, reading a yellowed pamphlet. He did not even look up.
Johnny winked at Sam and started toward the back of the shop. “I say,” he said, “I’d like to get a book called Tombstone Days, by Jason Lord.”
“So would I,” said Oscar Eisenschiml, still keeping his eyes on his pamphlet.
Johnny drew a deep breath. “I’ll pay up to ten dollars for the book — if you can get it for me quick.”
Eisenschiml finally lowered his pamphlet and sized up Johnny. “Are you kidding?” he asked, bluntly.
“No, I’ll pay the price.”
“Ten dollars?”
“Yes.”
Eisenschiml got up, went to a rolltop desk and picked up a paper-covered book. He riffled the pages, came to one and read a moment. “Yes,” he said, “a copy of Tombstone Days was sold in 1927 for six hundred and fifty dollars.” He looked at Johnny. “And you’re willing to pay ten dollars for another copy.”
Johnny looked discomfited. “We live and learn. I heard about the book and since I’m interested in Tombstone, I thought I’d like to read about it.”
“You can buy a good book on Tombstone for seventy-nine cents,” the book dealer said. “Probably a lot better than the Lord book.”
“Have you got one — the seventy-nine cent one?”
Eisenschiml looked at him in disgust. “There’s a dump across the street where you can probably pick one up.”
“The dump across the street sent me over here,” Johnny said, drily.
“Yes? Well, tell ’em to keep their customers,” grunted Eisenschiml. He returned to his rocking chair and picked up his yellowed pamphlet. “Wastin’ my time!”
Johnny and Sam left the store. Outside Sam whistled. “Imagine a guy like Ralston payin’ six hundred and fifty bucks just for a book!”
“It isn’t right,” said Johnny. “It isn’t right or fair... Come in here.”
Sam looked at the window of the store Johnny was already entering and uttered a startled exclamation. Then he went into the store after Johnny.
Johnny was already showing a key to the proprietor. “Like to have a key made like this one — only a little different.”
“Like this, only different?” The locksmith turned Johnny’s key over and over in his hands. “Looks like a hotel key...”
“Does it? It’s for the door of my wine cellar. The last butler I had walked off with it. I changed the lock, just in case he should come back some night... and then I lost the new key. But it’s something like this one — I bought two locks at the time; this one’s for my wife’s fur vault...”