The two record clerks exchanged glances. Then the one called Sid exclaimed, “It ain’t been released yet, has it?”
Joe shook his head. “No, but...” Then he got his colleague’s drift and, brightening, whirled on Johnny. “Wise guy, huh, you come in here with advance information—”
“Advance information, hell,” Johnny snapped. “Con Carson was killed two days ago. You boys are in the business — if you don’t know about Carson making a record for Mariota, who should know? Me? I don’t even know how a record’s made...”
“Scram, buddy,” Joe snarled. “Get...!”
Johnny placed both of his palms on the glass counter. “Ten bucks apiece, boys.”
“You hear what he said,” Sid cut in. “Beat it, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Twenty bucks is good for me,” Johnny said. “Twenty bucks or this counter gets busted...”
An older man came mooching along behind the counter. “Here, what’s going on...?”
“A con game, Mr. Bezzerides,” Joe whined. “This slicker comes into the store and tries to get me and Sid—”
“I came in to buy a record,” Johnny said coldly, “and this... this clerk” — pointing at Joe — “started making cracks about how bright I wasn’t. He insisted on betting me that Con Carson never made a record for Mariota Records—”
“He didn’t,” said Mr. Bezzerides. The two clerks winced.
“That’s what they said. They insisted on betting me ten to five that I was wrong and then...” He stopped and looked at the two clerks. They were on the verge of letting Mr. Bezzerides walk into the trap. But Johnny needed an ally. He said:
“He made one just before he was killed. They telephoned the Mariota people—”
Bezzerides scowled. “So you got took, eh?”
“It’s a game,” Sid cried. “He tricked us — like he almost did you.”
“I?” Bezzerides was indignant. “You never saw me fall for any stunt like that. Teach you boys a lesson — you made a bet, pay the man...”
“I’ll settle for ten bucks cash,” said Johnny.
It was a mistake. Joe took three dollars out of his pocket.
“That’s all the dough I got in the world... I haven’t even got lunch money left over...”
“I only got two bucks,” Sid chimed in. He turned sidewards and took some money surreptitiously out of the far pocket.
“Ten bucks,” Johnny snapped.
“Let them off for the five,” Mr. Bezzerides said, relenting.
Johnny hesitated, then accepted the money. He winked at the trio of music shop men and walked out.
“A guy could make a living doing that,” Johnny thought jubilantly as he continued his promenade down Forty-second Street.
He tried it again near Sixth Avenue. It didn’t work. The clerk was indifferent to Con Carson. One on Seventh Avenue and Forty-third Street was a Con Carson fan and gave Johnny a bit of an argument, but wouldn’t go for the bet. So Johnny gave it up. It’s hard to repeat a good thing.
But he had $5.40 now — only $6.80 short of retrieving Sam’s suit, including the interest.
Chapter Six
The maid had knocked three times and had been told each time that Sam was still abed. The fourth time around she didn’t bother to knock. She just let herself in with her passkey. Sam pulled the bedcovers up to his chin.
“I’m still in bed!”
“I got eyes, ain’t I?” the maid retorted. “But I cleaned every room on this floor and now I’m gonna clean this one, or else...”
“Just leave some towels,” Sam said.
“I ain’t comin’ back later,” the maid warned.
“It’s all right,” Sam said. “You c’n pass up the cleanin’ this time. I’m not feeling so well and my roommate told me to stay in bed.”
The maid sniffed, but left the towels and went off. Sam got out of bed and went to the window. Someone was taking flashlight pictures in the room across the air shaft.
The door resounded to a heavy fist. Sam bounded back into bed. “What is it?”
A man opened the door. “This is the day we disinfect,” he said.
“Go ’way,” Sam cried. “Can’t you see I’m still in bed?”
“I know, but we on’y do this once a month and if we pass up one time the bugs get too thick. I gotta do it today, or else...”
“Get outta here!” Sam snarled.
The disinfectant man stood his ground until Sam threw back the bedcovers and got to his feet. The disinfectant man took one look at Sam’s size and beat it, slamming the door urgently.
Two minutes later the waiter came to retrieve the breakfast dishes and banged the dirty dishes around when he failed to find a tip on the tray.
Five minutes later the houseman knocked; he wanted to do the bi-weekly vacuuming. Sam sent him off mumbling to himself. He had been gone about four minutes, when somebody knocked again. Sam swore a mighty oath and heedless of consequences, strode trouserless to the door. He whipped it opened.
“What the hell’s going on here today?” he roared.
Eddie Miller looked up at him. “Hello, Mr. Cragg,” he said, easily.
“You, Eddie,” Sam snapped. “Is this the Grand Central Depot, or something? Everybody and his uncle and aunt have been banging on this door today.”
“Well, the people have to do their work...”
“Even when a guest don’t want them in his room?”
“This is a dump, Mr. Cragg. It ain’t like one of the big hotels where they have their own staff. We get the disinfectant people in from outside. They only come once a month and give the joint a quick once-over. This hotel don’t encourage guests to stay in their rooms all day. Uses up electricity and such...”
“But I’m sick today. Can’t a sick man stay in his bed if he wants to?”
“You don’t look sick.”
Sam returned to the bed and sat down on it. He forced a hollow cough. “I may have to stay in bed all day.”
Eddie came into the room, glancing into the bathroom as he passed. He even tried a peek into the closet, but the door was closed to within an inch or so. Eddie leaned against the wall near the closet.
“Look, Mr. Cragg, my job ain’t a lot of fun. It’s scheming all day long to squeeze a dime or a quarter out of some tightwad guest. You got to work just as hard around here for a thin dime as you’d have to in a big hotel for a buck. The only fun is when you and Mr. Fletcher are here and you’re broke, which is the only time you’re here. It’s fun when Mr. Fletcher works over Peabody, damn his guts. I’m on your side, you know, but I like to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“A guest was murdered here today and you’re in on it.”
“We are not!”
“Then why’d Mr. Fletcher try to pump me when he left the hotel?”
Sam leaped to his feet. “He promised me he wasn’t going to get mixed in anything.”
Eddie Miller reached out his left hand, slipped the fingers into the crack of the closet door and eased the door open.
“Also, how come you aren’t dressed yet today? It’s twelve o’clock and—” Eddie peered into the empty closet.
“I told you I’m sick.”
“You’ve never been sick a day in your life.” Boldly Eddie Miller swung open the closet door. “Where’s your suit?”
“It’s down at the tailor’s... getting pressed...”
“That’s a helluva note,” said Eddie. “Keeping a guest waiting like this.” He started across the room. “I’ll call ’em and tell ’em what’s what.”
Sam Cragg snatched the phone away from Eddie’s reaching hand. “I just called them a minute ago.”