On a sudden impulse he went to the battery of telephone books in the basement of the Times Building and looked up the address of the Mariota Record Company.
He climbed to the street and walked briskly through the traffic of Forty-second Street to Lexington Avenue.
The offices of the Mariota Record Company were on the twenty-second floor of a tall building. Johnny rode up in the elevator and entered a reception room all furnished in soft leather and mahogany paneling.
A receptionist who should have been in a Sam Goldwyn line-up looked through a little glass window.
“Like to see the boss,” Johnny said, cheerfully.
“Who?”
“The boss, the head man — the king bee.”
“What’s his name?”
Johnny grinned. “That was supposed to be my question.”
The girl looked at him with some disdain. “You expect to see the boss, just like that, and you don’t even know his name. Did you ever hear of an appointment?”
“Yes, it’s what you have to have to get a haircut these days.”
“It’s also what you need to see anyone around here.”
“Okay,” said Johnny. “Give me one of them — now.”
“A character, aren’t you?”
“Baby,” Johnny said, “did anyone ever tell you ought to be in the movies?”
“Oh, my God,” exclaimed the receptionist. “What a corny line! The answer is no — no, you don’t get an appointment, no, I’m not interested in having lunch with you — no, right down the line.”
“I’ll start over,” said Johnny. “Marjorie Fair sent me. Does that get me in?”
The girl looked at him steadily, closed the window and made a connection on her switchboard. She spoke into the mouthpiece, broke the connection and opened the window.
“Mr. Armstrong will see you.” She pressed a buzzer that unlocked the door leading into the inner offices. Johnny went through and found himself behind the receptionist. “Last door on the left.”
There was a large general office, containing eight or ten desks and beyond, a row of offices. Johnny found Mr. Armstrong’s office had gold lettering on a paneled door. It read: Mr. Charles Armstrong, Vice-President. Which meant nothing; anybody could be a vice-president.
The door was closed and Johnny pushed it open without knocking. A sandy-haired man who looked like a fugitive from a T.B. sanitarium got up from behind a huge mahogany desk. He looked inquiringly at Johnny.
Johnny smiled and seated himself in an armchair near the desk.
Armstrong frowned. “You said Miss Marjorie Fair sent you.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I know her. She used to work here.”
“Doing what?”
Armstrong exclaimed. “See here, what’s this all about?”
“She’s dead.”
For a moment Armstrong’s jaw went slack; then he seated himself slowly in his huge swivel chair.
“Murdered,” Johnny added.
Armstrong flinched. “W-when...?”
“This morning. She was... strangled.”
“Good Lord,” cried Armstrong. Then he shot a sudden look at Johnny. “Did the police get the... the...?”
“The man who did the choking?” Johnny grunted. “Why do you think I’m here...?”
“Marj — Miss Fair left our employment six months ago,” Armstrong said, then did a sudden ‘take.’ “I say, you don’t think I, uh, know anything about...?”
“Do you?”
Before Armstrong could reply the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up automatically. “Yes...” He shot a quick look at Johnny, then said into the phone. “Send him in.” He hung up and looked sharply at Johnny.
“Are you a policeman?” he demanded.
“Would I be here asking questions if I weren’t?”
There was a knock on the door. Armstrong called, “Come in,” and a man who was either a detective or a bookie entered the office.
Armstrong got to his feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name...?”
“Kowal,” said the newcomer. “Sergeant Kowal.”
“With Rook?” Johnny asked.
“Why, yes.”
Johnny clapped the detective’s shoulder, the patronizing pat of the superior officer. “Good man, Rook...”
“I don’t think I know—” Sergeant Kowal began.
“Carry on,” Johnny said. Then, to Armstrong: “I’ll let the sergeant get the details, Mr. Armstrong. I’d appreciate your co-operating with him.”
He patted Kowal’s shoulder again and left the office. After he had closed the door, he began walking very fast to the exit.
But as he started to open the door leading to the reception room, he stopped by the receptionist. “Something I forgot to ask Armstrong,” he said, “is he the employment manager here...?”
“Oh, no, he’s one of our vice-presidents.”
“That’s what I thought. Then, why — when I said that Miss Fair sent me here, did you refer me to Mr. Armstrong... instead of one of the other vice-presidents...?”
“Why, because—” The receptionist caught herself. “There was no reason.”
“No?” Johnny asked insinuatingly.
“No — positively!”
Johnny stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. Outside the offices he hurried down to the nineteenth floor by the staircase, then caught an elevator which deposited him swiftly in the building lobby.
Chapter Five
He walked west on Forty-second Street, jingling the forty cents in his pocket, thinking: I’ve got to make a stake.
He walked past a phonograph record shop, then turned and went back. He entered the store. “What’s the latest Con Carson record?” he asked a clerk.
“Chapel in the Subway, and a pip!”
“Oh, I’ve got Chapel in the Subway and a Pip,” Johnny said, carelessly and wondered why the clerk gave him a dirty look. “There’s a later one than that... Moon on the Desert, or something like that.”
“No such record.”
“Mariota Records,” Johnny said positively. “Look and see, will you?”
The clerk did not budge. “Wrong, buddy. Con Carson was with Continental. We got ’em all — forty-some pieces. I know...”
“So you know. Well, I know Carson recorded a number called Moon on the Desert, for Mariota...”
“Five’ll get you ten you don’t know what you’re talking about...”
“Twenty’ll get you ten I’m right!”
The clerk signaled to one of his colleagues. “Sid, this guy says Con Carson waxed a ditty called Moon on the Desert for Mariota Records...”
The number two boy smirked, “What’s the bet?”
“He’s laying me twenty to ten,” Johnny said.
“You lose,” said the second clerk.
Johnny pointed to a phone. “Call Mariota Records...”
The first clerk hesitated. “Is that a bet?”
“You’re laying me twenty to ten—”
“I said ten to five...”
Johnny pointed at the second clerk. “You want the same?”
“It’s a sucker’s bet,” exclaimed the second clerk. “But if you insist on giving me the money... call Mariota, Joe...”
Joe turned to a typed sheet pasted on the wall behind the telephone, ran his finger down to the m’s and made his call. “To settle an argument,” he said into the phone, “did Con Carson ever make a recording for Mariota Records? What...?” His face fell. “Okay, thanks.”
He hung up and looked at his fellow worker. “He made a record for them just before he died...”
The second clerk recoiled. “W-what was the name?”
“Moon on the Desert,” said Johnny. The first clerk nodded a glum confirmation. “All right, sports,” Johnny went on, “dig down...”