“I can’t make a key without having a duplicate key — or the number of the lock.”
“I wanted to get the number, but it was too dark down in the basement.” Johnny smiled pleasantly. The locksmith gave him a sour look and taking Johnny’s key, walked down a ways behind his counter. He studied several huge bunches of keys, finally took one down and began pawing over the individual keys. At last he took a key from the ring. He brought it to Johnny and dropped it on the counter, along with Johnny’s own key.
“Fifty cents,” he grunted.
Johnny picked up the two keys. “You’re sure it’ll fit?”
“Of course it’ll fit. It’s a master key of that series. I shouldn’t ought to sell it, on account of that other key sure ’nough looks like a hotel key and if the hotel association finds out...”
“Thanks,” said Johnny hastily and dropped a half dollar on the counter.
Sam could scarcely wait until they reached the sidewalk before he whirled on Johnny.
“What’re you going to do, Johnny? That was your hotel key.”
“That’s right,” said Johnny. “I want to read Tombstone Days and since I haven’t got six-fifty to buy a copy, I thought—”
“No!” howled Sam. “You can’t do that...”
“Maybe I can’t,” said Johnny. “But I’m sure going to try.” He took a nickel from his pocket and extended it to Sam. “He doesn’t know your voice so run into that drugstore there and telephone him...”
“I won’t!”
“Telephone Charlie Ralston. Tell him...” Johnny thought rapidly. “Tell him you’re the county morgue and that he must come down immediately and identify the body of Hugh Kitchen. No, not identify. He may have done that already. They want to ask him some questions. And while you’re about it, look up the address of the morgue.”
Sam gave Johnny a bitter look, then he took the nickel and went into the drugstore. He was gone about two minutes. When he came out he nodded gloomily.
“I think he took the bait, but I’m not sure...”
“What’s the address of the morgue?”
“Two-eleven West Temple.”
Johnny nodded. “A good half hour each way by taxicab. Five minutes in the morgue. A safe hour. Not enough, but I’ll read fast.” He took a five dollar bill from his pocket. “To be on the safe side, you’d better follow him. See that he goes to the morgue. If he doesn’t and there’s danger of him coming back sooner than I expect you’ll have to telephone me in the room.”
“All right,” Sam said hopelessly. “I’ll go all the way... but I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either,” retorted Johnny.
As they neared the hotel — on the opposite side of the street — the doorman blew his whistle for a cab. As it pulled up, Charles Ralston crossed the sidewalk.
“Go to it, Sam,” said Johnny, clapping his friend on the back.
Sam started across the street. Johnny waited until he had climbed into a second taxi, then he crossed and entered the hotel.
This time Tim O’Hanlon was not in the lobby. Johnny got into the elevator, rode up to the fifth floor, then climbed six flights of stairs to the eleventh. The corridor was deserted when he reached it and Johnny stepped quickly to the door of Room 1116.
The newly-purchased key fitted perfectly and a moment later he was in the room. He bolted the door on the inside, went into the room proper and picked up the copy of Tombstone Days. Seating himself in a chair he turned to the title page. It read: Tombstone days, Being an account of the fabulous boom town of Tombstone in Arizona Territory. By Jason Lord, a resident of Tombstone from its earliest days. Copyright 1889.
Johnny settled back in his chair and began reading. The first chapter told of the discovery of gold on the site of Tombstone, by Ed Schiefelin, a former Army scout. The second chapter continued with Schiefelin’s adventures in the early days of the mining camp. Then the story swung into the boom town days of Tombstone, the coming of the honky-tonk, the gambler and bad man and the resultant peace officers, who were sometimes...
At that point the telephone rang and Johnny Fletcher jumped about six inches. Two chapters, three... he couldn’t have been in the room more than ten or fifteen minutes. Charles Ralston wouldn’t even be at the morgue by this time.
Johnny picked up the phone. He said, cautiously: “Yes?”
“Ralston?” asked a voice.
Chapter Eight
Johnny blinked at the telephone receiver. The voice definitely was not that of Sam Cragg. In fact, it sounded muffled, hoarse; a disguised voice.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, making his own voice hoarse.
It was the wrong thing to do. The voice on the wire tumbled. “Who is this?” it demanded. “It isn’t Ralston.”
“It’s the house detective,” Johnny retorted.
“The house detec...” began the voice on the wire, then stopped. A click sounded in Johnny’s ear and the wire went dead.
Johnny hung up, scowled at the phone a moment, then looked at the door. His position was precarious. In a matter of moments he could be discovered.
But he hadn’t yet found what he hoped to find in the ancient book. Well, there was only one thing to do. Johnny did it. He picked up the book, slipped it under his coat and departed.
There was no one in the hall and it wasn’t until he was descending from the seventh to the sixth floor that he encountered anyone — Bellboy Number Three, the smart lad with whom Johnny had matched wits the day before.
“Hi, Eddie,” Johnny greeted the bellboy.
“The name’s Julius,” retorted Bellboy Number Three and continued on his way.
Johnny shook his head. Julius was the last person he wanted to meet on this predatory expedition. The meeting might prove embarrassing in the long run.
He continued to his room, let himself in and shot the bolt on the inside. Then he took up a comfortable position in an easy chair and again opened the book on Tombstone. The volume accidentally opened in the back and Johnny discovered for the first time that it contained an index. And one of the first names that caught his eye was: Walker, Jim. Page 211.
Johnny turned to page 211. It was the beginning of Chapter Eighteen and bore the title: “The Silver Tombstone.” Johnny shook his head in admiration-clever, these writers, making things so easy.
He began reading:
More fabulous even than Schiefelin’s discovery was that of Jim Walker’s Silver Tombstone Mine, near Hansonville. Walker was no miner, nor was he definitely connected with the Cowboy Gang which made its headquarters in Hansonville. He did, however, have friends in the gang, notably the notorious Jim Fargo and his source of livelihood was speculated upon. Walker was able to come to Tombstone frequently for convivial entertainment and always seemed to be well heeled with silver and gold — none of which he dug from the ground.
Perhaps the deadliest man in the entire Cowboy Gang, Jim Fargo, met his end under decidedly mysterious circumstances. Carrying a quart of whisky in each of the two pockets of his long bearskin coat, which he wore winter and summer, Fargo left Hansonville one morning for an unknown destination. This was not uncommon, for Fargo was known for his moody spells when he would have nothing to do with his associates. Fargo was believed to be the son of a wealthy doctor in California. It was known that Fargo upon these occasions betook himself to a hideout with a couple of books of poetry and a large quantity of liquor and read poetry and drank whisky until he was stupefied with both. When he recovered he would return to his regular haunts.
Fargo went upon his last reading and drinking orgy in October, 1883. He was gone for six days and then a Mexican found his body under a live oak tree. Two empty bottles were nearby, and Fargo had a bullet in his brain. One of his revolvers contained an empty cartridge. It was obviously suicide.