Frank Gruber
The Whispering Master
Chapter One
She was twenty-four years old and she had a complexion for which a movie star would have given a husband. She had gloriously golden hair (natural) and the kind of cleancut, fresh features that women hate, if they don’t have them.
And she was broke.
She had exactly three cents in her purse as she stared at Mr. Peabody’s third and positively final ultimatum. Thirty-three dollars and seventy-eight cents, by twelve o’clock, noon, or we must have your room, Mr. Peabody wrote.
Even at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel, this wasn’t a lot of money for a girl to raise — a girl with Marjorie Fair’s, shall we say, pulchritude? Except... well, that was the reason Marjorie was down to three cents.
She dropped Mr. Peabody’s note on her unmade bed and went to the window. The sight was not a cheerful one, an eight-foot air shaft which let a very little light and a great deal of dank air into the rooms surrounding it.
She stared for a moment at the window directly opposite her. One of the two occupants of that room had smirked at her several times in the past week — times when she had encountered him in the elevator or in the lobby. It shouldn’t be hard to get thirty-three dollars from him. His partner, an enormous heavy-set man, was obviously a wrestler or fighter and as such the two men should have money.
Even while she was thinking, the big man across the air shaft came to the window. He was wearing shorts... and nothing else. Marjorie withdrew hastily.
She went into the bathroom, looked for a long time at the medicine chest. Finally she opened it. Tooth paste, toothbrush, mouthwash, cologne, nail polish, a bottle of mercurochrome.
No iodine, no sleeping tablets. And only three cents. She was too poor even to commit suicide.
She came out of the bathroom. Of course, there was the window. She looked at it for a long time. It didn’t appeal to her, but it seemed the only way and she might have decided on it eventually, but before she could come to a decision, Fate intervened.
A knock on Marjorie Fair’s door.
The manager for the rent, she thought. He’s written me for it, hounded me to my death — isn’t that enough? She went to the door and opened it.
It wasn’t the manager. It was a man Marjorie knew, a man who might...
He smiled at her. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He entered and, closing the door, stood with his back to it. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping around this early in the morning.”
“It’s all right.”
“I had to see you,” he went on, his eyes darting about the room. “It’s about the... the audition you made.”
“It was no good,” Marjorie said. “I haven’t the voice...”
“Yes, you have. You need a little training that’s all...”
“I’ve had training,” Marjorie said. “I’ve had ten thousand dollars’ worth of training.”
His eyes ceased their searching of the room and fixed themselves upon her. “With your looks, you don’t have to sing.”
“I know,” Marjorie said. “You’re the twenty-eighth man in New York who’s said that to me.”
“And?”
“There’s a man back in Iowa who said it. He’s got a million dollars... and I still came to New York.”
“Well,” said the man, by the door, “I haven’t got a million dollars. But I’m going to have it in a year or two. That’s why I’m here...”
His mouth twisted in a crooked grin and he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pair of skintight gloves. He began putting them on. Marjorie watched him, not understanding.
“It’s the master,” he said, “you’ve got it and I want it.”
Marjorie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean the — the Con Carson recording?”
“That’s right.”
“But it isn’t yours.”
“It’s going to be.” He reached behind his back and turned the bolt in the door. Marjorie knew what he was doing and retreated.
“Open that door!”
He started toward her. Marjorie opened her mouth. To scream was instinctive, but... in her mind flashed the message on the note the hotel manager had written her. Could a girl about to be evicted for nonpayment of hotel rent scream for help? Could a person in such a position cause a commotion in a hotel?
The scream died in her throat. She sidestepped the man’s reaching hands. He started to follow, but caught sight of the flat metal disk on the top of the chest of drawers, half covered by a newspaper.
Marjorie saw his glance and in a rush beat him to the disk. She got it in her hand and then a gloved fist smashed her face, throwing her against the window sill. He leaped after her and — and Marjorie’s hand came back, went part way out the open window.
The disk sailed smoothly across the air shaft and disappeared through a window on the other side.
A low cry of rage came from the man’s throat. His gloved hands caught Marjorie’s throat in a viselike grip, squeezed horribly.
The girl, who five minutes ago had been on the verge of committing suicide, fought for her life. But the fingers tightened inexorably about her windpipe and after a moment or two, the man dragged what was left of Marjorie Fair into the bathroom. He left her there and coming out, closed the bathroom door.
Knuckles rapped on the hall door. The man froze in his tracks like a tiger caught with his kill.
“Marjorie,” a feminine voice called. “It’s me — Susan!”
Fortunately, he had shot the bolt. The doorknob rattled, the knuckles rapped again on the door and then there was silence.
The man went to the door, put his ear against it and listened. He heard nothing and then for the first time in several moments he dared to breathe. Quietly he turned the bolt, opened the door and went out.
Chapter Two
Johnny Fletcher stepped out of the elevator and crossing the narrow hall, opened the door of Room 821. As he entered the room Sam Cragg popped out of the bathroom.
“Johnny!” he cried, “my clothes are gone!”
Johnny cocked his head to one side and sized up the apparel of his roommate and partner. “Shoes, socks, shorts,” he enumerated, “shirt and necktie—”
“It’s my pants and coat,” Sam wailed.
“Oh yes, I didn’t notice.”
“What do you mean — you didn’t notice? When a guy ain’t got his pants on, you can’t help but notice.”
“All right, Sam, so you haven’t got your pants on. What of it? There’s no law against not wearing your pants in your own room.”
“But I’m telling you, Johnny — they’re gone. Somebody swiped ’em.”
Johnny looked thoughtfully at Sam, then stepped to the closet. He opened the door and peered in.
“Not here,” he said. “Have you tried the bathroom?”
“I’ve looked everywhere — even under the carpet. They’re gone.” Sam seated himself heavily on the edge of one of the twin beds. “And Peabody’s going to throw us out at noon! How can I walk the streets without any pants on?”
“You can’t.”
“But what’ll I do, what’ll I do?”
Johnny stepped to the window and looked across the eight-foot air shaft. “You can relax, Sam. I’ll think of something... Hello — what’s Peabody doing in the good-looking blonde’s room?”
“I don’t know. There’s some monkey business going on over there.”
Johnny exclaimed. “Monkey business! Those are flatfeet with Peabody.” Johnny turned to look at Sam, then caught sight of the metal disk on the nearest twin bed.
“Where’d this come from?”
Sam shrugged. “Search me. I was lookin’ for my pants and I stepped in the bathroom and when I came out there it was on the bed. Guess somebody tossed it through the window.”