“Indeed? And, ah, would you care to tell me Mr. Fletcher’s salary?”
“It’s ample to pay cash for a suit of clothes, if that’s what you mean.” Then, testily: “All right, I know Fletcher. Can’t resist a poker game. Hmmph. He gets a hundred and thirty-five dollars a week. You’d think on that he’d be able to save some money, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Bailey, of the California Credit Clothiers. “But we all have our little weaknesses, you know. In other words, then, you’d say that Mr. Fletcher was a good credit risk.”
“The best,” said Johnny curtly. “As good as myself.”
“Thank you, sir, we’re glad to hear that. Goodbye.”
Johnny hung up the receiver and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He looked through the glass door and saw Sam Cragg waiting outside. He opened the little door.
“You see,” he said, “it’s the build-up, that’s all.”
Chapter Five
Johnny and Sam retired early that evening — the new suit from the California Credit Clothiers hanging safely in the closet. Sam pulled down the bed in the sitting room and Johnny luxuriated in the big double bed in the bedroom. It was ten-thirty.
At ten-thirty-five the argument started in the room across the court. It waxed vigorous and loud. Johnny endured it for ten minutes then went to the window.
“Cut out that racket!” he yelled.
If anything the argument became louder. The window across the way was raised but the shade was pulled down almost to the sill so that Johnny could not see into the room. From the voices, however, it seemed to him that two or three men and at least one woman were involved in the argument. He leaned out of the window.
“Cut out that noise!” he roared. “Cut it out or I’ll come over and give you something to yammer about.”
The window shade across the way flew up and a stringy, weather-beaten man of about fifty stuck out his head. “You and who else?” he cried.
“Me and me alone,” Johnny retorted.
“Oh yeah?” The stringy man drew back. His arm came forward and something flew from his hand.
In panic, Johnny jerked back. A foot above his head, glass crashed. The falling shards missed him only because of his agility.
“Why, you...!” he gasped. He whirled and headed for the door in the sitting room. Before he reached it he collided with Sam Cragg.
“What’s the trouble?” Sam cried.
“Guy across the way heaved a rock through my window. I’m going over to murder him.” Johnny side-stepped Sam and tore open the door.
He traveled six feet. Big Tim O’Hanlon, the house detective, was just stepping out of the elevator.
“Hey, Fletcher!” he called.
Johnny retreated to the doorway of his suite. Before he could close the door, O’Hanlon charged forward.
“What’s the idee chasing around the hall in your underwear?” the detective cried.
“Who, me?” Johnny asked innocently.
“Yas, you — and look, while we’re on the subject, there wasn’t any horse named Mr. Copperman running today. What do you think of that?”
“Isn’t today Tuesday?” Johnny asked.
“You know damn well it’s Thursday.”
“Thursday! How time flies. Well, Mr. Copperman will be running again next Tuesday.”
“So will you.” O’Hanlon bared his teeth. “You know what I think about you? I think you’re a slicker. I got a tip that you checked in with a suitcase full of bricks...”
Johnny drew himself together. “Do you want to force your way into my room and find out?” he asked coldly.
O’Hanlon hesitated. Johnny clinched it. “In the morning, sir, I’ll ask the manager if it is customary for the employees of this hotel to insult the guests. In the meantime — good night!” He slammed the door in the house detective’s face.
He went into the bedroom. “Okay, Sam!”
Sam came out of the closet. “That was a close call,” he said, exhaling heavily.
“Tomorrow,” Johnny promised grimly, “tomorrow I’m going to pin back that bellboy’s ears.” He looked at the floor, then stooped suddenly and picked up the stone the man across the way had heaved through the window.
He whistled. “Heft, this, Sam!”
Sam took the stone. “Cripes, it’s heavy! Feels like it’s iron... or something.”
Johnny took back the stone and scratched it with a thumbnail. “Or something.” He shook his head. “I’m a monkey’s uncle if this isn’t a chunk of silver ore...”
“Silver!”
“It must be almost pure, too. It weighs at least twenty pounds and is only about three or four inches thick.”
“How much is it worth?”
“That’s hard to say. Silver’s around fifty cents an ounce. Let’s say it’s only fifty per cent silver — about ten pounds — that would make it eighty dollars.”
“Only eighty dollars? You’d think a nugget like that’d be worth thousands.”
“If it was gold.”
“Maybe it is.”
“No, it’s black. Silver’s black in its native state... or is it?”
Johnny went to the window. The room across the court was dark. He turned back to Sam.
“We’ll find out in the morning.”
Johnny Fletcher did not sleep well, despite the big, comfortable bed. His conscience was heavy. Yet he was only half dressed in the morning when there was a loud knock on the door. Muttering, he went into the sitting room and shook Sam.
“We’re about to be evicted,” he said. “Get up.”
Sam groaned and jumped out of bed. “What a life!”
Johnny went to the door and jerked it open.
The man standing there was the stringy one from across the way. He was grinning foolishly. “Hello, neighbor. Mind if I step in?”
“If you don’t mind getting a knuckle massage,” Johnny said, belligerently.
“Well now, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said the man in the doorway. “On account of I only came over to apologize for losing my temper last night.” He beamed and held out a gnarled hand. “My name’s Dan Tompkins.”
Johnny took the hand. “I’m Johnny Fletcher.” He led the way into the sitting room. “And this is Sam Cragg.”
Sam was wearing shorts, nothing else. Tompkins regarded him admiringly. “You got’s good a build as that doggone Cotter.”
“Cotter?” Johnny asked quickly.
“The guy was doing all the arguing with me last night — Joe Cotter.”
“Jeez!” said Sam.
“Joe Cotter’s here at the hotel?” Johnny demanded.
“Uh-huh. You know Joe?”
“I’ll murder him,” Sam said thickly.
Tompkins showed interest. “Well, now, we might make a deal. How much you figure the job’s worth?”
“Are you kidding?” Johnny asked.
“Not me, gents. Where I come from we don’t joke about murder. I don’t like Cotter and I’m willing to pay a fair amount to have him rubbed out. If I was ten-fifteen years younger I’d do the job myself. But Joe’s pretty tough. What do you say to five hundred?” He looked at Johnny. “All right, seven-fifty. But that’s my top offer. The job ain’t worth more than that.”
“We’ll talk it over, Tompkins,” Johnny said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us...”
“Oh, sure. That wasn’t what I really came over for, though. It was about that — that piece — I threw through your window last night.”
“Oh, forget that. I’ll tell the management to put the window on your bill. Okay?”
“I guess so — but that ain’t all. That chunk of rock I threw — I’d like to have it back.”