acquainted with enough of the true facts to decide I couldn't afford the luxury of following through on the recovery of the account.”
Lonnie Turner smiled urbanely. “Here again I was guilty of a slight oversight. I had neglected to take into consideration the considerable anxieties of the-ah-beneficiaries of the account. Aware of the situation, and mistrusting my solution of it, they contacted my employee-” His sardonic glance darted off to Al Munson slumped in his chair-“and authorized him to act for them. This resulted in the visit at the hotel. Since learning of this, I believe I've restored order. The matter has been arbitrated at all levels, adjustments have been made-some expensive-and everyone is, if not satisfied, at least reconciled. The critical point was the establishment of the fact that, either through income or inheritance taxes, there wouldn't be enough left in the account to justify the danger of trying to collect it.”
Johnny sat there, turning it over in his mind. “It's a good story,” he admitted finally. “If the tax people get back to you, it won't save you any money, but it could keep you out of jail. If it's not true, you ought to pension off the guy who produced it.”
“Oh, it's true enough,” Lonnie Turner said wryly. “And I believe you realize I've told you this because it lies in your power to see that the tax people do get back to me. I would appreciate your restraint. And Miss Fontaine's.” He stood up behind the desk. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Yeah,” Johnny grunted, and got slowly to his feet. He looked long at the man behind the desk. “Who killed Gidlow?”
“I don't know, Killain,” the promoter protested wearily. “I honestly don't know.”
“Or Roketenetz, either?”
“Or Roketenetz, either.”
“Or Hendricks?”
“Hendricks? Who's Hendricks?” Johnny's eyes were upon Al Munson, who was sitting as rigidly in his chair as though an electric current had passed through it, his eyes popping. “Not Dave Hendricks who judges fights?” Lonnie Turner continued with every evidence of honest surprise. “He was killed? When, for God's sake?”
“Last night,” Johnny said shortly. He smiled at Al Munson. “Looks like someone's throwin' the excess baggage overboard.”
He left a very quiet room behind him.
CHAPTER XII
On the street Johnny headed for a drugstore and a telephone booth. It took him nearly five minutes to get Detective James Rogers on the line. “Killain, Jimmy. You get anything from your pigeons yet?”
“That was quite a hunch, little man.” The sandy-haired detective's admission was grudging. “Up to now we've found three small operators who say they were bankrolled to cover all bets on Roketenetz to go by the fourth.”
Johnny grunted with satisfaction. “Able to trace it back?”
“You know I can't answer a direct question. Seems to me I heard, though, that the money man operates a floating poker game.”
“That's lovely,” Johnny commented sourly. “In my time I've met a few warts on the arse of progress, but this Manfredi is in a class by himself. What he's got comin' to him-”
“Don't go getting ideas, now!” Detective Rogers warned him sharply. “And, before I forget it, you're overdue down here to look at mug shots to try to locate the goon who assaulted Ybarra. You'd damn well better get down here before you run into Cuneo on the street. He didn't like that mess you left in the hospital corridor, and even more he didn't like your walking out.”
“I'll be down,” Johnny said. That's not saying when, he added silently. “Jimmy? You guys took the telephone chits outta the hotel for the day Gidlow was knocked off. There was a call made to Lonnie Turner's office from Gidlow's place within an hour of the estimated time of death, and there was another call made within five minutes of the first one. Is that right?”
“Why don't you ask me to send you the flimsies?” the detective asked irritably.
“Who was the second call made to, Jimmy?”,
“You've got better sense than to ask me that!” Jimmy Rogers snapped angrily.
“Sure, Jimmy. Sure. Forget it,” Johnny said soothingly. So there'd actually been a second call. Had to be, of course. The police must be reeling in the line. Slowly. Too damn slowly. “Thanks, man,” Johnny said into the receiver, and walked rapidly from the drugstore, out to the street and the cold.
Back at the hotel he had barely cleared the foyer doors when Gus pointed imperatively to the reservation desk. Gus was the day bell captain, pale and black-haired. “Message for you, Johnny.”
Johnny veered off to the desk and picked up the proffered telephone chit. He looked at the brief message: Call Bartlett.
He stood beside the desk, crumpled the bit of paper in his hand and wondered what could have happened to Stacy. He crossed the lobby to the pay phone booths, and had seated himself in one before he realized he didn't know the number. He had a little trouble before he found it in the directory. No sleep and that whack on the ear were making him a little fuzzy.
“L. Turner Enterprises,” Stacy's pleasant contralto said when she came on the line.
“It's me, kid.”
“Oh.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “I shouldn't be telling you this, but Mr. Turner's got a man following you.”
“Following me?” Johnny asked, genuinely surprised. “What the hell for?”
“I don't know. I just know that he has. I can't talk freely.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said slowly. “Well, thanks, anyway. I'll watch for him. Damn nice of you to call me. I'll elaborate on that a little when I see you.”
“Oh,” she said at once. “About tomorrow-would you mind calling for me at my place?”
“Not even if it was at the foot of the Statue of Liberty,” he said cheerfully. “Dinner's on me this time, though.”
“I've got to hang up-there's another call. I'll be expecting you. 'By.”
Johnny jingled the change in his pocket absently as he left the booth. Lonnie Turner's putting a man on him made sense from only one point of the compass-after the full and complete detail in which Lonnie Turner had told his story, he might feel a vested interest in whether Johnny was going to pass the information on. Hardly anything else it could be, but he'd worry about it with a few hours sleep under his belt. He went by the switchboard and left a 2:00 p.m. call with Edna, the day operator. Four hours sleep was not ten, but it was a damn sight better than nothing.
In his room he shed clothing from the door to the bed, and was asleep between one long breath and another.
The jangling phone crashed into his consciousness and jarred him upright. “Yeah. Okay, Edna. Thanks,” he mumbled to the operator. “I'm up.” He gave the lie to this statement by immediately stretching out again, but after a forty-five second inspection of the ceiling he rolled over and picked up the phone again. “Edna? Get me Providence Hospital, will you?” The line rang several times before it was answered. “I'd like to speak to Manuel Ybarra,” he said.
“Mr. Ybarra is not receiving calls,” the phone informed him after a pause long enough to check the alphabetical listing.
“Look-get me his ward nurse,” Johnny said rapidly. I'm-
“I'm not allowed to do that, sir.”
“I'm a relative,” Johnny pressed on, “and I've got to find out what they want me to bring down there.”
“Oh. Just one moment, sir.” In seconds a lighter, younger voice spoke pleasantly. “Ward G, Scalley.”
“Miss Scalley, I'm a cousin of Manuel Ybarra on your ward. How's he doin'?”
“Your inquiry should be addressed to the desk,” she said doubtfully. “You say you're a cousin?” Johnny gave her the first two lines of the Star Spangled Banner in rapid-fire Spanish. “Well,” Miss Scalley said quickly, “he's
