A taxi was at the curb. Johnny and Sam climbed in.
“Where to?” asked the cab driver.
“Forty-fifth Street Hotel,” replied Johnny and instantly changed his mind. “Make that the Grand Central Station.” To Sam he explained: “Violet Rodgers.”
“She said she’d be at the Commodore at five-thirty. It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“So I’m late.”
“Yeah, about five hours.”
“She may still be waiting.”
She was. She sat at a corner table, an empty glass in front of her, her body rigidly erect, her eyes glazed.
Johnny sat down at the table. “Sorry, Vi, I didn’t get your message until a little while ago.”
“J-Johnny Fle-Fletcher,” Violet said thickly, “I wouldn’t wait for any man, no matter who he is. When I say six o’clock, I mean six o’clock. I’m going home.”
“Sure,” said Johnny, “why not? I’m going your way; I’ll drop you off.”
Violet struggled to get to her feet. She wouldn’t have made it if Johnny hadn’t helped her. Then she looked owlishly at Sam Cragg.
“Who’re the two fellows with you, Johnny?”
“The one on the right is my pal, Sam Cragg.”
“H’arya, Vi,” said Sam.
“H’arya, yourself. Hey, Johnny, walk to the subway with me, willya? Wanna talk with you.”
Johnny took her arm and with Sam on the other side, assisting, they led Violet Rodgers out of the bar, to the sidewalk and into a taxicab. They got in and seated themselves, Sam on Violet’s right, Johnny on the left.
“What station do you get off at, Vi?” Johnny asked.
“Whatsamatter? Don’t you think I know I’m not in a subway? I’m not drunk, you know. I live on Eighty-fourth Street, near Second Avenue.”
“Eighty-fourth and Second Avenue,” Johnny called to the driver.
The cab jerked off and Violet grabbed Johnny Fletcher’s hand. “Listen, big boy, I wanna talk to you. I’m scared, see...”
“Of what?”
“Of what... of what happened to Marjorie Fair. You think I don’t know anything about that, huh? Well, I do — I know more’n anybody thinks, see. And the fella that did it knows that I know, see? Otherwise he wouldn’t a sent me this letter...”
She fumbled in her purse and finally found a soiled and folded envelope. Johnny took it from her hand, saw that it was postmarked Station C, New York City. It was addressed in smudged and penciled printing: Miss Violet Rogers, Mariota Record Company, Kamin Bldg., New York, N.Y.
Inside was a sheet of cheap ruled paper on which had been pasted, in words clipped from a newspaper, the message:
“Keep your trap shut or you’ll get what she got.”
“When’d you get this?” Johnny asked, soberly.
“It came in the mail this morning. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“It says here to keep your trap shut.”
“Yeah, well I did. I kept it shut all day, didn’t I? I didn’t say a word to nobody at the office. And I didn’t tell the police that I got a threatening letter. The fella that wrote this isn’t kidding and I know enough to keep my mouth shut.”
Johnny hesitated. “Just what is it you’re not supposed to tell anyone?”
“That’s the thing that gets me. I don’t know.”
“You just got through telling me that you know more than anybody thinks.”
“I guess I do.”
“Well, what?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Look, Vi,” cut in Sam Cragg. “How can you know something when you don’t know something?”
“Stop tryin’ to confuse me, big boy. I know plenty.”
“What?” Johnny repeated patiently.
“I got this letter, didn’t I?” demanded Violet, indignantly. “It says to keep my trap shut, don’t it? That means I know something I’m not supposed to tell.”
“For the last time, Violet,” said Johnny, “what do you know?”
“For the last time, Johnny Fletcher, I don’t know what I know. But I must know something or I wouldn’t have got this letter. That’s simple, isn’t it?”
“If it is, I’m a Quiz Kid.”
“Let’s try it again,” said Violet Rodgers. “I know somethin’ the person who killed Marjorie Fair knows I know. Only I don’t know what it is. D’you understand that?”
Johnny exhaled wearily. “Have you got a key to the office?”
“What office?”
“The Mariota Record Company office.”
“Of course I have. Why...?”
Johnny leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver. “Change that to Lexington and Forty-second.”
Brakes squealed and the taxi made a careening U turn and began to zoom southward.
“Hey, where we going?” Violet demanded.
“To your office, to see if we can find out what you know.”
“We can’t go to the office in the middle of the night.”
“Why not? You’ve got a key, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but...”
“But what...?”
“You two — you don’t work for Mariota.”
“If you want to be technical, neither do you. But you’ve got a key and we can get in.”
“That’d be burglary.”
“So it’s burglary.”
Violet groaned. “I need a drink.”
“You’ve had a drink.”
“I had two, but they’re beginning to wear off.”
“That’s fine,” said Johnny.
Chapter Twenty
The taxicab pulled up before the Kamin Building and the three climbed out. Johnny paid the bill and they headed for the door of the building. It was a huge glass door and locked but, peering through into the dimly lighted corridor, Johnny could see a man sitting behind a high stand near the elevators. Johnny rattled the door and when that produced no results took a half dollar from his pocket and tapped it on the door.
That got results. The man inside came up to the door and unlatched it from the inside.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We want to go in the building,” Johnny replied. “The Mariota Record office.”
“You work there?”
“Yes, and we’ve got the key.”
The night watchman hesitated, then pulled the door wide open and led them to his little high stand. “You’ll have to sign the book.”
Johnny signed for all three: Jefferson Todd, George Molotov and Helen Smith. Then they stepped into the elevator, which the night watchman operated himself.
On the twelfth floor they went to the offices of the Mariota Record Company, the door of which Violet unlocked with her key. Inside, Johnny switched on all the lights in the main part of the office, then went back and locked the door on the inside.
“Now, what do we burglarize?” Violet asked.
“What is there to burglarize?”
“The safe is locked and I don’t know the combination. If you ask me, there’s nothing here but the office furniture and records.”
“Records,” said Johnny, “where do they keep those?”
“In the stock room.”
“Where’s that?”
Violet led the way to a door and opening it switched on a light inside, revealing a long, narrow room, lined on both sides with shelves. Several contained nothing but office supplies, another contained bookkeepers’ ledgers and several had narrow slots in which reposed several hundred records, all arranged alphabetically.
“If we had a phonograph we could play some records,” Sam said.
“Are you kidding? Every private office here has a phonograph. But it seems kinda silly to come up here at night and play phonograph records.”
“Pay no attention to Sam,” said Johnny.
He cast another glance around the room and was about to leave when his eyes fell on the bookkeepers’ ledgers. “Say are the list of stockholders in any of these books?”