“How come only seven hundred? You said eleven last night.”
“We’ve got around four hundred in cash.”
Sam got up from the bed and went to the chair on which lay the morning paper he had bought on the way home the night before. “Four hundred, eh? Then, relax, Johnny.”
He opened the paper. “El Lobo’s running today at Santa Anita and as usual the handicappers have got him down the line. Mmm, six furlongs and he’s listed at eight to one. Let’s see, who’s running against him...? Fighting Frank, three to one, Sir Bim, ten to one, Miss Doreen, four to one, High Resolve five to one...”
“Dogs, every one of them,” said Johnny sarcastically.
“...El Lobo’ll win by three lengths. That four hundred will bring us thirty-two hundred Johnny.”
“I don’t doubt it. By the way — what was the name of that horse that was such a sure thing a year or so ago — the one on which we sank the bankroll...?”
“I don’t remember.”
“The horse that went to the post a one to two favorite and came in eighth in an eight-horse race?”
“Gay Dalton? He died, a few months ago.”
“From sorrow?”
Sam threw down the paper. “Okay, okay, I was only trying to help.”
“I appreciate it, Sammy, old boy. Now, if you could locate a nice floating crap game somewhere I might be tempted. Or maybe a little table-stakes poker game, with a sociable bunch of second-card dealers...”
Someone knocked on the door and a voice called: “Room service.”
Sam opened the door and a waiter rolled in a cart, on which reposed a huge tray containing their breakfasts. Right behind waiter came Lieutenant Rook and Sergeant Kowal.
“For the love of Mike, Lieutenant,” cried Johnny, “are you going to spoil my breakfast?”
“I couldn’t eat my own, thinking about you,” retorted Rook. He came into the room and stood to one side while the waiter prepared the dishes. Kowal’s nose sniffed like a rabbit’s as he inhaled the odors emanating from the tray.
The waiter went out and Rook closed the door behind him. “Go ahead and eat,” he said.
Johnny looked at him sharply. “Aren’t you feeling well today?”
“Never felt better in my life.”
“Well, something’s up; you’re too pleasant.”
“Oh, I’m just going to make a pinch this morning.” He nodded toward the windows. “The man who killed the little girl over there.”
Johnny seated himself on the bed and picked up his glass of orange juice.
“Who’s the man?”
“Fella named Esbenshade...”
Johnny choked on his orange juice. “Esbenshade was in Iowa when Marjorie Fair was killed.”
“Says who?”
“Well, wasn’t he?”
“He registered at the Barbizon-Waldorf Hotel last Friday.”
Johnny put a forkful of ham into his mouth. “He couldn’t have registered on Friday and gone back to Iowa?”
“He was at the hotel Tuesday morning, the day Marjorie Fair was killed.”
Johnny pointed to the telephone. “Pick that up and call Susan Fair’s room. Ask her just one question... how she got in touch with Douglas Esbenshade, when she told him about the death of her sister...?”
“Oh, I asked her that yesterday. She says she telephoned him long distance and he flew to New York, in a chartered plane. Only she didn’t talk to him long distance and he didn’t fly here in a chartered plane. He was already here.”
“All right,” said Johnny. “So Susan Fair lied. Now, tell me why Doug Esbenshade killed the girl he loved?”
“She threw him over, didn’t she? Guys kill girls for that every day in the week. And she was two-timing him, wasn’t she? Forty-seven dames get killed by guys, every month, for two-timing.”
Sam Cragg swallowed a huge mouthful of food. “So she owed three weeks’ room rent and threw over a guy with a million bucks, huh?”
“Money isn’t everything,” Rook said sullenly.
“That’s what they told me in school,” retorted Johnny, “but I read a piece in the paper yesterday, where a school teacher was arrested over in Jersey City for shoplifting.”
“Yeah, and I know a guy worth ten million who’s got stomach ulcers from worrying.”
“And if he didn’t have the ten million he’d worry twice as much and have twice as many ulcers. But to get back to Doug Esbenshade, if you’re going to arrest him this morning why come to me...?”
“Because I don’t like it,” Rook snapped. “But I’ve got to make an arrest today. The captain’s riding the hell out of me. I’ve got to make an arrest today and I’ve got to make it stick, or I’m going to be walking a beat out on Staten Island — and I just bought me a little place out in Mount Vernon.” He added bitterly: “Do you know how long it takes to go from Mount Vernon to Staten Island — twice a day?”
“About as long as it took you to come up here and ask me for help.”
“Who’s asking you for help?”
“Then why’re you here?”
Rook scowled. “Jefferson Todd came down to Headquarters last night, about eleven o’clock.” He made an expressive gesture. “Yes, I know, he’s a pompous fourflusher, but about once every three years he gets onto something. He told me you got an awful beating yesterday.” Rook grunted. “And he didn’t lie about that.”
“Did he tell you how I got it?”
“He was up at the Harlem Station and they ran him out — that’s why he came downtown. I got it out of him that he was interested in a Harlem cop named Holtznagle who made a pinch about seven o’clock at a Hundred and Thirty-fifth and Lenox...”
“A lad named Georgie.”
“Georgie Starbuck, Holtznagle says.”
“He knows him?”
“Georgie’s got a record. Strong-arm stuff.”
“He’s got a partner, a fellow named... about five-eight or nine, thirty-five, thirty-six...”
“Sherman Hoke,” said Rook.
“All right,” said Johnny. “Get Georgie and Sherman Hoke and ask them who it was hired them to beat me up. When they tell you, forget Doug Esbenshade and grab the lad the boys name. He’s your killer.”
“The only trouble is finding Georgie and Sherman,” grunted Rook. “I put out a call for them at eleven-thirty last night. I haven’t had a nibble. They’ve gone into a hole. But look, Fletcher, why should Georgie and Hoke want to beat you up?”
“They thought I had something they wanted.”
“What?”
“A phonograph record.”
“What sort of phonograph record?”
“A master recording of the latest Con Carson yowling...”
“Put out by the Mariota Record Company?”
Johnny nodded. “And the reason the company went into bankruptcy yesterday.”
“How can a company go into bankruptcy just because of one record?”
“This company could — because that record’s worth about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Con Carson was killed a few days ago, in a plane accident. This is the last number he recorded. It’ll sell a million copies... if anyone ever puts it into production...”
“That record,” said Rook. “What made Georgie and Sherman think you had it?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. But they sure’n hell tried to make me give it to them.”
“Did you?”
Johnny grinned. “How could I? When I didn’t have it?”
“What made them think you had?”
“You asked that question before.”
“I’m asking it again.”
Johnny frowned. “Maybe it was my own fault. The night before, I crashed a directors’ meeting of the Mariota Record Company. I asked them what a Con Carson record was worth—”
“And?”
“They offered me five thousand for it.”