The Leather Duke

Chapter Ten

For thirty seconds the only sound in the room was the heavy breathing of The Leather Duke. Then he turned.

“That story you just told me about how you got that bruise, Fletcher...”

“The truth, sir. After we left you last night, Sam and I rode up to little Italy; we went into a poolroom and I got into an argument with Carmella. He and four or five of his friends attacked us. As a matter of fact, I can prove that. There was a witness, a man who works up in the counter department...”

“His name?”

“Joe Genara.”

Harry Towner stabbed at his son with a forefinger. “Go upstairs, Elliott. Ask this Genara man—”

“All right, Dad,” said Elliott. He started for the door, but as he opened it, Towner called, “Wait!”

He turned back to Johnny. “You’d let him go up and ask?”

“Of course, sir.”

“All right, Elliott,” Towner said, “never mind.” He drew a deep breath. “All right, Fletcher, let’s have it. Why are you here?”

“Why, you asked me to come down and—”

“There you go with your words again,” Towner snapped. “You know very well that wasn’t what I meant. Why are you working here at this factory?”

“Because I’m broke. Actually, I’m a book salesman...”

“A salesman!”

“The world’s greatest and I’m not bragging when I say that, Mr. Towner.”

“No, I don’t think you are. You certainly sold me last night.” Towner picked up his cigar and puffed on it. “A salesman, eh?” He suddenly flicked a switch on an interoffice communication system and leaning over his desk, barked out: “Come in here, Edgar!” He shut off the intercom and looked thoughtfully at Johnny.

“I’ve always prided myself upon being a judge of character,” he said to Johnny. “I thought I had you sized up last night, but if I’ve made a mistake...”

He stopped as the door opened and a completely bald man came into the room.

“Mr. Bracken, our sales manager. Edgar, this is Mr. Fletcher, one of our counter sorters.”

At the beginning of Towner’s introduction, Mr. Bracken came forward, hand out, a smile on his face, but at the final announcement of Johnny’s status the smile disappeared from his face, the hand fell and Mr. Bracken came to a halt.

“Yes, Mr. Towner,” he said, puzzled.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Towner went on, “tells me he’s a salesman. I’m going to give him a tryout. I want you to give him some counter samples and an order blank. He’s going to call on the John B. Croft Shoe Company and get an order for some counters...”

“The John B. Croft Company!” exclaimed Mr. Bracken. “But, Mr. Towner, you know—”

“Yes, I know,” cut in Towner, “they buy lots of counters. They make a poor grade of shoes, but still they use counters in them and we sell counters. All grades and all prices. Well, Fletcher, do you think you can get an order of counters?”

“And if I sell them?”

Harry Towner shrugged. “You won’t be working upstairs.”

Johnny grimaced. “Has this company ever sold the John B. Croft Shoe Company any counters?”

“Oh, yes!”

“How long ago?”

“How long is it, Mr. Bracken?”

The sales manager gulped. “Uh, twelve years.”

“I see,” said Johnny. He drew a deep breath. “Give me the samples.”

Mr. Bracken looked at Harry Towner. The Leather Duke nodded grimly. “Give him the samples, Mr. Bracken. And the order blanks.”

“And a small expense account, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said. “I haven’t even got carfare.”

“Oh, you won’t need carfare, Fletcher. They’re only a few blocks from here. But you’re right, a little expense money is only fair. Bracken, give him ten dollars... You’re going to call on them now, Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting here to find out how you made out.”

Bracken started to leave the office and Johnny followed. As he passed Elliott he heard a distinct snicker.

Bracken led Johnny into a small office near Towner’s. When Johnny had entered the sales manager closed the door.

“I don’t know what this is all about, Fletcher,” he said, “but I feel that I should tell you that there is great enmity between the John B. Croft Company and this firm...”

“Oh, sure, I gathered that.”

“John B. Croft has a standing order in his place that anyone from the Towner Company should be thrown out the moment they set foot in their factory. You’d only be wasting time calling there. If you’re wise you’ll take the ten dollars in lieu of your salary here—”

“I’ll take the samples, too. And the order blanks.”

Bracken looked at Johnny a moment, then shaking his head, went to a long table and picked up a leather salesman’s kit. He handed it to Johnny.

“It’s your funeral.”

Johnny opened the kit, took out two leather counters and stuffed them into his pocket. He picked up an order pad and tore off two sheets, which he folded and put into his breast pocket. “Now if you’ll give me the expense money...”

Mr. Bracken took out his wallet and extracted a ten dollar bill. “Good-bye, Fletcher,” he said.

“See you in a little while,” Johnny said. He gave the sales manager a half salute and left the office.

He stopped at Nancy Miller’s desk.

“Fired?” she asked.

“Promoted. I’m now a salesman. I’m going over to get an order from the John B. Croft Company.”

She gasped. “Somebody’s ribbing you.”

“The Duke. He says if I get an order from Croft I can have any job in the place.” -

“But that’s it, Johnny,” Nancy said, tautly. “You can’t get an order from the Croft Company. Harry Towner and John B. Croft are deadly enemies.”

“I’m doing it because of you, Taffy,” Johnny said dramatically. “You said you wouldn’t go out with a laborer, so I’m trying to become a white collar man, a salesman, just so you—”

“You’re crazy, Johnny,” Nancy said softly. “Crazy, but I like you. Only—”

“I shall return,” said Johnny, and walked out of the office.

But out on the street, some of his confidence ebbed from him. He walked north to Division Street and turned east. At the corner of Larrabee, he stopped for five minutes and had almost decided to give it up when his eye caught a sign over a store on the other side of the street. ASSISTANCE LEAGUE.

On a sudden impulse he crossed the street and entered the store. On the inside it looked like an orderly junk shop. Secondhand clothing in all stages of wear and tear hung from racks. Rusted tools and hardware were spread out on counters. Near the rear of the shop was a counter piled high with old shoes. In front of the counter stood four wooden barrels, all filled with old shoes.

A thin, pale man who looked like a reformed boozer blocked Johnny’s path. “Something for you?”

“Shoes,” Johnny said. “Size nine and a half.”

The clerk pointed at one of the counters. “Here you are, but we don’t guarantee the sizes.”

“Good enough, I’ll guess.”

Ten minutes later Johnny showed the attendant two objects that had once been shoes. The uppers were cracked and worn, the toe of one shoe had a half inch split and the soles of both had become loosened. In one there was a hole clear through.

“How much?” Johnny asked.

The attendant had the grace to blush. “Why, ah, where did you find those?”

“In the barrel. Not very good, are they?”

“We’re supposed to sort them out before we put them on sale,” said the clerk. “We make it a rule to sell only wearable merchandise.”

“Do you think these are wearable?”

“Well, I suppose there’s some wear in them...”

“Look,” said Johnny. He took hold of the sole of one of the shoes, yanked suddenly and ripped it halfway down. “Is it wearable now?”

“No, but you—”

“I know,” cut in Johnny. “But what would you say they were worth before I did?”

“I’m supposed to get fifty cents a pair, but—”

“That’s a deal,” said Johnny, “if you’ll wrap them up-in a newspaper.”

The clerk wrapped them and then there was some difficulty about making change for the ten dollar bill, but it was finally managed by going next door to the drugstore. At length, Johnny was back on Division Street, with a newspaper-wrapped parcel under his arm.

He crossed Milton and looked apprehensively off to the right in the direction of Oak Street a couple of blocks away, but continued on up Division. A few minutes later he came to the plant of the John B. Croft Shoe Company, a modern six-story brick building. He entered.

The reception room was lined with pine paneling and had a nice pine desk in one corner behind which sat an attractive redheaded girl. Two men were seated in leather armchairs, apparently awaiting the pleasure of Croft executives.

“Mr. Croft,” Johnny said to the receptionist. “John B.”

“You have an appointment?”

“No,” said Johnny. “I have no appointment.”

“Mr. Croft never sees anyone without an appointment.”

“Tell him that Mr. Fletcher is calling.”

“You’re a personal friend?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of any use for me to tell him. Mr. Croft never sees anyone without an appointment.”

“Tell him that Mr. Fletcher wants to see him.”

“If you could tell me the nature of your business...”

“Personal.”

“But you just said that you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t, but my business is personal. Tell him...”

The redhead winced and picked up her phone. “Just a moment, I’ll see if his secretary will see you...” She spoke into her phone. “Miss Williams, there’s a man here insists on seeing Mr. Croft. He says it’s personal and... yes, I know, but could you come out?” She hung up. “Miss Williams will be out.”

Miss Williams came presently. She was short and stout and wore a pince-nez. “You want to see Mr. Croft?” she asked loftily. “What is it about?”

“I told this beautiful redheaded young lady that my business with Mr. Croft was personal.”

“I’m Mr. Croft’s confidential secretary. I can’t interrupt him unless you tell me the nature of your business.”

Johnny said, firmly: “You know all about Mr. Croft’s affairs, eh? Well, just go in and tell him that Mr. Fletcher is here and wants to see him. Fletcher. F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r. Just tell him Fletcher and tell him to think hard. And tell him I’ll wait three minutes. No more. Got that, girlie? The name is Fletcher and I’ll wait three minutes.”

The confidential secretary looked at Johnny startled, then realized that she was wasting precious seconds and hurried off. She returned in two minutes and forty-five seconds. She held open the door.

“Will you come in, please?”

Johnny went down a wide hall, into a reception room at the end. The stout secretary hurried up from behind him and opened a paneled door.

Johnny went in.

John B. Croft’s office was as large as Harry Towner’s, but instead of teakwood, he favored dark mahogany. He was a little man — little, fat and balding. He was perspiring lightly.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Fletcher?” he asked, a bit nervously.

Johnny nodded, crossed the room and sat down in a leather-covered chair some five feet from the shoe manufacturer. He placed the newspaper parcel carefully on his lap and looked at John B. Croft.

John B. Croft cleared his throat, coughed and cleared his throat a second time. “I, ah, I’m afraid I can’t place you, Mr. ah, Fletcher, isn’t it?”

“Fletcher,” said Johnny.

Mr. Croft concentrated hard and his face showed a little more perspiration. “What is, ah, the nature — I mean, what did you want to see me about?”

Johnny waited about thirty seconds, then said quietly: “You’ve got a very nice business here, Mr. Croft.”

Mr. Croft wiped his forehead with the back of a pudgy hand. “Shall we, ah, uh, come to the point, Mr. Fletcher? I don’t imagine you came here to talk about the shoe business.”

Johnny pursed up his lips into a great pout and held it a moment. Then he carefully picked up the parcel from his lap and broke the string. He folded the string and put it in his pocket. Mr. Croft’s eyes were glued upon the package.

Johnny opened the paper cautiously, picked up one of the ancient battered shoes, then the other. He rose from his chair, stepped to Mr. Croft’s desk and placed the shoes carefully upon it. The shoe manufacturer stared at the shoes a long moment, looked at Johnny, then back at the shoes and finally again at Johnny. There was an inquiry in his eyes.

“Shoes,” said Johnny.

Croft ran the tip of his tongue about his lips. “I... I don’t understand.”

“Look at them.”

Croft reached out a hand, hesitated, then touched one of the shoes gingerly. Since it didn’t explode in his face, he picked up the shoe and stared at it. He shot a look at Johnny, then looked back at the shoe. He touched the sole that was pulled away from the uppers and then suddenly switched the shoe around and looked at the inside of the heel.

“A Croft,” he said tentatively.

“A Croft shoe,” agreed Johnny.

A drop of perspiration fell from Mr. Croft’s face to the back of his hand, causing him to twitch.

“Feel the counters,” suggested Johnny.

Mr. Croft felt them. “Broken down.”

“Pretty badly,” agreed Johnny.

“I... I don’t get the point,” said Croft, nervously.

Johnny reached into his side pocket and bringing out his two sample counters, placed them carefully beside the battered wrecks of Croft shoes.

“Counters,” he said.

Mr. Croft put down the shoe, picked up the counters. He felt them, looked questioningly at Johnny. Johnny pursed up his lips again.

“You never heard my name, Mr. Croft?” he asked, quietly.

“N-no, no, I don’t think so. At least I can’t remember. I... I have a bad memory for names and faces.”

“I guess you have, Mr. Croft.” Johnny took the order blanks from his pocket, unfolded them and carefully removed the creases. Then he spread the blanks out on Mr. Croft’s desk. Mr. Croft took one startled look at them and returned his gaze to Johnny’s face.

Johnny nodded slowly. “I’d like to sell you some counters, Mr. Croft.”

“Harry Towner,” Croft whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How many?” exclaimed Croft, flicking sweat from his face, with a shaking hand.

“Oh, about ten barrels of 2 MOXO and...” Johnny hesitated, “say, ten barrels of 2 MOXOO... Could I use your pen?”

“S-sure...”

Johnny got up, took Mr. Croft’s ball pen from the desk set and wrote out the order. He handed the pen to Croft. “Now, if you’ll just sign.”

Croft signed his name eagerly and handed the pen back to Johnny. Johnny returned it to the pen stand. He folded up the order blank.

“Thank you, Mr. Croft.”

“Uh, th-thank you, Mr. Fletcher.” Then, as Johnny started for the door. “What about these shoes?”

Johnny looked back and smiled faintly. “Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Croft. There won’t be any trouble... now...” He smiled again and opened the door.

In the outer office, he nodded gravely to Miss Williams and walked through.

When he reached the sidewalk it was Johnny’s turn to perspire.