Frank Gruber - The limping goose (Bantam mystery)

The Limping Goose

To look at Johnny Fletcher, sprawled on the bed, with his hands under his head, you would have thought that he was doing a spot of plain ordinary loafing. But no, Johnny was really working. He was Thinking.

In the bathroom, Sam Cragg splashed away as he washed out their socks and underwear. His stomach was growling, but he was reasonably happy. They'd missed breakfast and dinner the night before, but there'd be something to eat today. Johnny was thinking. He'd come up with something; he always did.

And then the man banged on the door.

Sam came out of the bathroom, holding a pair of dripping socks. He looked at Johnny, whose face was screwed up in thought as he stared at the dingy ceiling.

"Somebody's at the door, Johnny," he announced. "Shall I see who it is?"

"Yes," replied Johnny vacantly.

Sam stepped to the door and opened it a few inches. A large, truculent-looking man pushed the door all the way open. "I'm looking for Sam Cragg," he announced.

"You don't have to go lookin' no more," Sam replied cheerfully. "That's me."

"Good for me," the large man said. He took a card from his pocket and glanced at it. "Three years ago you bought a mandolin from the Ajax Mandolin Company."

"That's right," conceded Sam. "An' I got a beef against that Ajax Mandolin Company. They said a child could learn to play their music maker in two weeks. Well, I'm smarter than any child and I banged away at that dingus every day for three months and I couldn't get nothing but noise out of it."

"The hell with that crap," the large, truculent man snapped. "The point is, you paid three dollars down on that mandolin and you were supposed to pay fifty cents a week on it. Only you didn't. So you owe forty-six fifty, plus interest, or a grand total of sixty-seven seventy-five. That's all I want from you, brother, sixty-seven seventy-five."

Johnny Fletcher exclaimed petulantly, "For the love of Mike, Sam, can't you entertain your friends a little more quietly? I'm trying to think."

Sam tossed the wet socks into the bathroom and wiped his lands on his trousers. "This ain't no friend, Johnny. He's tryin' to collect on that mandolin "

"What mandolin?"

"The one I bought three years ago, Johnny. You know we hocked it in Duluth "

"So!" roared the bill collector. "You pawned an article that you did not legally own. Mister, that's a penitentiary offense. Yes sir, you certainly made a mistake that time!"

Johnny Fletcher sprang to his feet. "What the hell is this ill about?" He stabbed a lean forefinger at the man in the ioorway. "Don't tell me you're a bill collector?"

"That's all I am, brother, just a plain ordinary bill collector. From the Acme Adjustment Agency, A.A.A., that's who. And, brother, have I got you fellows over a barrel. You just confessed that you committed a crime. So pay upor go up!"

Johnny rubbed his hands together. A smile played over his lips, but his eyes gleamed metallically. "Brother, a bill collector, lying to collect money from Johnny Fletcher. Ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha to you. Funny, ain't it?"

"No funnier'n a little woolly lamb trying to take away a nean wolf's dinner. Brother, as you say, you'd have better luck squeezing milk out of stones than you'll have trying to collect noney from Johnny Fletcher."

The big bill collector leaned against the wall and showed ?ig teeth. "Well, now, you talk mighty pretty. Johnny Fletcher, tiuh? Supposed to be somebody, huh? Well, meet J. J. Kilkenny, i meaner man than a barrel of cats by that name. Kilkenny, he Killer, they call me. Just the roughest, toughest bill col-ector in the business, that's all. When I find them, they pay."

"Now you're talkin' in my department," Sam Cragg declared. "Okay, Johnny? Or do you want to make some more chitchat first?"

"Oh, let's not be hasty, Sam. The man just made a mistake, hat's all. We'll talk to him a little and we'll listen to him a Little."

"The talkin'll be short and the listen'll be shorter," said J. J. Kilkenny. "In fact, it's over." He straightened, hitched up his rousers belt and took a step forward. "Sixty-seven seventy-Live or the party gets rough."

He reached out a big hand. Sam took the hand lightly in

lis own. Kilkenny smiled pleasantly, whisked his hand out of

5am's, grabbed Sam's wrist and stepping quickly around behind

Sam, attempted to pull the hand and arm around with him,

to clamp on a hammerlock. That was what he intended to do. But Sam's hand and arm didn't follow Kilkenny. Instead, Sam stiffened his arm, gave a slight forward jerk and broke Kilkenny's hold. Then he turned, grabbed two handsful of Kilkenny's coat and shook the big bill collector.

Kilkenny's hands flailed out, found Sam's head. Muscular arms went around Sam and tightened in a headlock. Sam turned easily in the headlock, reached over his left shoulder with both hands and, catching hold of Kilkenny's head, stooped suddenly.

Kilkenny sailed smoothly over Sam's shoulders and hit the floor on his back, with a crash that probably broke a few electric light bulbs in the room below.

When Kilkenny climbed shakily to his feet, Sam was leaning easily against the wall. "You want to make it two falls out of three?"

Kilkenny shook his head groggily. "Let me think it over a minute. You're a ten-dollar skip. That's okay, I can exert myself for ten bucks. On the other hand, I might tear my suit throwing you and it might cost ten bucks to get it sewed up. There wouldn't be any profit left, would there?"

"There wouldn't," interposed Johnny. "And there might even be a loss, if you had to have a doctor patch up a broken leg or two."

"No chance of that. I can throw him, all right. That snap mare was just luck, because I wasn't expectin' it."

"I've got news for you," said Johnny. "Sam can throw you all day long. And two more guys like you. Sure, you're big and tough. But not tough enough for Sam. He's the strongest man in the world."

"Huh?"

"Sam Cragg, alias Young Samson, the strongest man in the world. He breaks iron chains merely by expanding his chest. If we had a chain here, Sam would tie it around his chest and when I'd give him the word he'd draw a deep breath and slowly let it out and his chest would swell and swell until the chain would snap as if it were mere twine. And me, if I had any copies of Every Man a Samson, I'd be passing 'em out to the crowd and collecting two dollars and ninety-five cents for each and every copy."

Johnny paused, sighed heavily. "That's what we'd do if we had a chain and if we had any books. But we ain't got a chain and we ain't got any books. That's why we're holed up at the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel until I can figure out an angle for making some dough, without any investment. And then youa bill collectorcome in here and try to collect money from us!"

The bill collector nodded thoughtfully. "So you're broke. That's fine. You can't count it against me if the customer really ain't got the dough."

"No," said Johnny, "but even if we had the money you couldn't get it from us. You're not a good enough man."

"The hell I ain't. If you had the money I'd get it out of you."