“There’s nothing in here,” Violet said.
“Nothing, but the evidence of who killed Marjorie Fair,” Johnny said, tersely.
“You’re crazy!” exclaimed Violet. “I was here when she cut the record. It was right before Con Carson made his—”
“I know,” said Johnny. “Who else was here at the time?”
“Nobody,” said Violet. “Nobody, except the people who were supposed to be.”
“And who were supposed to be?”
“When Marjorie cut the record, or Carson?”
“You said Marjorie went on right before Carson.”
“That’s right. And she waited out in the waiting room for the verdict, which she got right after Carson got through...”
“Was she supposed to wait?”
“No, but she insisted and when I went in about the telephone call I told Mr. Armstrong—”
“What telephone call?”
“The one for Carson. I wasn’t supposed to ring this room, so I came over. The red light went out, so I came in and told Mr. Carson he was wanted on the phone. Then he left. Mr. Seebright didn’t like it, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it...”
“When you came in to give Mr. Carson the message, Violet, who was in the room?”
“It was full of people.”
Johnny gritted his teeth. “A minute ago you said there was nobody here.”
“I said only the people that were supposed to be.”
Johnny said, very patiently: “Close your eyes a moment, Violet — try to get a picture of this room as you saw it when you came in to give that message to Con Carson. Now... tell me who was in this room when you came in?”
Violet kept her eyes tightly closed. “Well, there was Mr. Carson and the orchestra and Jimmy Bailey, the leader and... and Mr. Seebright, of course. And Mr. Armstrong and Donny Doniger. And Mr. Dorcas was over by the recording machine. I guess that’s about all.”
“About all isn’t close enough. Think — was Farnham in here?”
“Mmm, no, I don’t think so. He doesn’t care much about music. He’s the treasurer of the company, you know.”
“What about Marjorie Fair?”
“Oh, she was out in the waiting room. It wasn’t until after Mr. Carson left that Dorcas called her in. Or was it Mr. Armstrong? No, come to think of it, Armstrong and Marjorie weren’t on speaking terms any more...”
“Hold Marjorie a moment, Violet. Let’s come back in here with Con Carson. Just where was everybody in the room when you came in?”
Violet frowned mightily. “Well, Con — Mr. Carson was by that microphone over there; the musicians were all in their places and Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Seebright and — gosh, I don’t know where they were. I was looking for Mr. Carson; in fact, he was about the only one I did see.”
“Once more,” Johnny persisted. “Where was Mr. Dorcas?”
“At the machine, of course. The red light went out just as I got to the door, so they must have been recording... yes, now I remember, Mr. Dorcas was fooling around with the machine...”
“And Seebright?”
Violet shook her head. “I don’t remember. I told you I was bringing in a message to Mr. Carson and he was the one I was looking for. He... he called me sweetheart and — uh, patted me...”
“Where?” asked Sam.
Violet gave him a dirty look. “Not where you think.”
Johnny thought for a moment. “After Carson left, Armstrong called in Marjorie Fair, you said.”
“No, he came out to tell her the bad news.”
“Had you gone back to the switchboard when he went out to see her?”
“Oh, no. I... I was still here.”
“Who was taking care of the switchboard?”
“Nobody, in fact there was a call when I came back out here with Mr. Carson.”
“You followed him out?”
“Yes — I left the recording machine room the same time he did. That’s when — when he patted me. While we were walking out to the switchboard. He was in a good mood. Because of going to Hollywood, I guess. He asked — if I’d like to go to Hollywood with him—”
“Did you?”
“With Con Carson? Are you kidding?” She sighed. “I said yes, and then he left.”
“If you said yes, how come you didn’t go with him?” Sam asked.
“Because he was only giving me a line.” She shuddered. “But if he’d been on the level, I’d be dead now. As a matter of fact, I am dead right now. Dead tired. I’m going home...”
Johnny switched out the lights in the recording room. At the outer door he took another last look over the offices, then shaking his head, followed Violet and Sam out into the hallway.
They rang for the elevator and, after being taken down to the lobby, were compelled to sign the register again. Fortunately, the names Johnny had written were on the same page and he merely copied them. The night watchman wrote 1:45 OUT after the signatures.
Outside, they walked to the Grand Central Terminal where Johnny saw Violet into a taxicab. Then he and Sam went down into the subway and took the shuttle train across to Times Square.
Chapter Twenty-one
Despite the fact that it had been after two o’clock when he went to bed, Johnny was up and dressed at eight in the morning. He had not slept well. Murderers had stalked through his dreams, murderers and policemen and bank tellers.
As he came out of the bathroom he looked at Sam Cragg, snoring blissfully. Sure, Sam could sleep. He let Johnny do the worrying and the conniving. And Johnny had never failed him.
Although how he would manage today, Johnny hadn’t the slightest idea. He had stretched himself out too far the day before. It was a physical impossibility for one — or two — men to scurry about and make purchases and pawn the merchandise and make bank deposits and withdrawals; enough of them to keep solvent. Eleven hundred dollars, deposited in eight banks, would save him. But Johnny was short about seven hundred of those eleven hundred dollars.
Well, tomorrow fifty-four merchants would be after him; fifty-four merchants whose checks had bounced for lack of funds. Fifty-four merchants would notify four or five bonding companies, all of which would promptly begin hounding the authorities to apprehend a large-scale check passer.
Johnny picked up the phone. “Room service, please,” then, “Room service? Johnny Fletcher, Room eight twenty-one. I’d like some orange juice, and an order of ham and eggs, a dish of oatmeal and a stack of flannel cakes, with a side order of sausage. And some home-fried potatoes and a pot of coffee...”
Sam Cragg sat up in bed. “Make that two!”
“Make that two orders of everything,” Johnny said into the phone and hung up.
Sam yawned prodigiously. “What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“What’re you doing up so early?”
“Big day ahead of us, Sam. Or have you forgotten?”
Sam winced. “Ouch!” He swung his feet to the floor. “Why don’t we buy a car and light out for Canada? Wouldn’t it be the easiest thing to do?”
“Probably — if they didn’t extradite crooks from Canada.”
“Isn’t there some country from where they can’t extradite people?”
“There’s one in Central America, but I forget which it is. Guatemala or British Honduras. But I don’t like the food in those countries. They used too much pepper.”
“We could do our own cooking.”
“We tried that the winter we were snowbound for four weeks in that shack up in Minnesota. Remember? You made a dried apple pie.”
“The apples were no good.”
“Neither was the crust — and the cooking wouldn’t have been appreciated by a starving Hungarian. Uh-uh, we’ve got to face it here, Sam. Seven hundred bucks today or some tall running tomorrow.”