The Leather Duke

Chapter Eleven

It was five minutes to twelve when Johnny re-entered the offices of the Towner Leather Company. Nancy Miller gasped when she saw him.

“You came back!”

“Of course. I said I’d return, didn’t I?”

“But it’s all around the office — Mr.Towner sent you out on an impossible mission...”

“Impossible?” asked Johnny. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“But you were going to call at the John B. Croft.”

“I went,” said Johnny. “I saw Croft. I got an order.”

“No!”

“Yes! Now, stick around, Taffy, and when I come out of The Duke’s office, I’ll have some good news for you — about our date.” Johnny winked at Nancy and strode to Edgar Bracken’s office. He stuck in his head.

“Edgar!”

Bracken looked up from his work, his eyes widening in shock. Johnny crooked a finger at him. “Come, Ed!”

He strode to Harry Towner’s office and without knocking, pushed open the door. Towner was just hanging up his telephone receiver.

“Fletcher!” he exclaimed, unbelievingly. “What in the devil...?”

Bracken padded into the room behind Johnny, came to a halt, just within the door, ready for instant flight. Johnny strode across the room, drawing out the Croft order.

“Salesman Fletcher reporting, Mr. Towner!” He unfolded the order blank and held it so that Towner could look at it.

Towner kicked back his chair, sprang to his feet and tore the order from Johnny’s hand. “Twenty barrels!” he roared. “Where’d you get this?”

“From the Croft Shoe Company — naturally. That’s John B. Croft’s signature...”

“It’s a forgery!”

“Mr. Towner!” Johnny said, indignantly.

“This is another of your stunts, but you’re not going to get away with it. You think I won’t call Croft.”

“Go right ahead, sir.”

Towner regarded Johnny suspiciously. “This order is genuine?”

“Of course it is. Mr. Croft signed it himself. A little, fat, bald-headed guy.”

“That’s Croft, all right. But...” Towner’s eyes slitted. “How did you get it?”

“Why, I just went into his office and asked him for an order for counters and he gave it to me. That’s all there was to it...”

Towner grabbed up his telephone. “Get me John B. Croft,” he snarled.

Johnny strolled to one of the chairs and seated himself carelessly. Then Croft was on the wire. “Croft,” snapped Harry Towner. “I have an order here for twenty barrels of counters, signed by you... What... You did sign it?... What’s that?... I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about Croft. The same to you, in spades!” He listened for a moment, his eyes screwed up in a frown. “You signed the order? That’s all I wanted to know. You’ll get the counters and you’ll pay for them, too!” He slammed the receiver back on the prongs and looked ominously at Fletcher.

“What really happened, Fletcher?” he asked, slowly. “The truth...”

“The truth, Mr. Towner. I asked to see Mr. Croft and when I got into his office I asked him—”

“Croft mumbled something about an old pair of shoes and... blackmail.”

“Blackmail? I don’t know what he’s talking about...” Johnny suddenly grinned. “All right, Mr. Towner, the truth. I stopped in at a secondhand store on Division. I bought the worst looking pair of Croft shoes I could find. Props. They gave me the appointment business at Croft’s office. I scared the hell out of them. Not by what I said, but the way I said it. Significant pauses, emphasis upon my name. I told Croft’s secretary I’d wait three minutes, no more. Perfectly true; if he wouldn’t see me in three minutes, he wouldn’t see me at all. Croft saw me. I went into his office and sat down and let him carry the ball. He’s got a guilty conscience — most men have, you know. At one time or another they’ve taken out a little lady they oughtn’t to have taken out. Or something. So I just sat there and let Croft get himself all worked up. Then I opened the package containing the shoes and let him look at them. Then I showed him two of our counters and asked him if he wanted to buy some. I could have made out the order for a hundred barrels, but I let him off easy. Of course, if you insist I’ll go back and get the other eighty barrels...”

“No,” said Towner, thickly. “It won’t be necessary. You proved your point. You’re a salesman.”

“I told you I was.”

“So you did. You sold John Croft, but you’ve sold a tougher man than he, you sold me. You passed the test. I’m not going to say a word about your methods. I gave you an impossible assignment and you proved that it wasn’t impossible. I guess your methods were justified. Now — the reward. Name it, Fletcher...!”

Johnny looked thoughtfully at his hands, then shifted his glance to Edgar Bracken. The little sales manager cringed visibly. “How much does your job pay, Mr. Bracken?”

“S-seven thousand a year,” stammered the sales manager.

Lieutenant Lindstrom appeared in the office door behind Bracken. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he began, then saw Johnny and scowled. “You, Fletcher, just the man I want to see.”

“Here we go again!” sighed Johnny.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” demanded Harry Towner, impatiently. “More questions?”

Lieutenant Lindstrom drew a notebook from his pocket. “Last night, at eight-forty-three this man and his big friend entered a poolroom on Oak Street. They got into a quarrel with Carmella Vitali and started a riot...”

“I know about that, Lieutenant,” said the Leather Duke. “He told me.”

Lindstrom’s eyes narrowed. “I had a man shadowing Carmella. What I want to know is — why did you go there last night?”

“I wanted to pump him,” said Johnny.

“About what?”

“Now, look, Lieutenant, let’s not be cute. There was a murder here yesterday...”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” Lindstrom said, grimly. “Nor have I forgotten that your leather knife was missing. And I haven’t forgotten the coincidence of your starting to work here the morning of a murder and your poking your nose into Carmella’s business...”

“Lieutenant,” said Johnny, drawing a deep breath. “Do you know who murdered Al Piper?”

“I don’t at this minute, but—”

“Do you know why he was killed?”

“No, but—”

“You don’t know, Lieutenant,” Johnny interrupted. “And I don’t know. But I think I’ll know before you do.” He turned to Harry Towner. “Mr. Towner, this affair isn’t helping the business any, is it?”

“Our stock dropped four points this morning,” snapped Towner. “I want this mess cleaned up as quickly as possible. I mean that Lieutenant. I talked to the mayor a half hour ago...”

“I know you did, Mr. Towner. I got a call from Headquarters ten minutes ago. But you’ve got to co-operate with the police, Mr. Towner. You can’t protect your employees, just because—”

“I’m not protecting anyone,” Towner said, curtly. “You get proof that someone committed this crime and you’ll find me backing you, to the last dollar I’ve got.”

“I may hold you to that,” the lieutenant said stiffly and walked out. As he left the office he had to step aside for someone who came swinging in.

Linda Towner.

“Dad,” she said, then saw Johnny. “Mr. Fletcher, I was hoping to run into you. I thought perhaps you could talk me into buying your lunch.”

Johnny grinned. “There’s been a slight change in my situation since last night.”

“Oh, you talked Dad out of firing you? I was tempted to make a bet with Dad that you would, but then you see I know him so much better than I know you...”

“Be quiet a minute, Linda,” growled Harry Towner. “I have a discussion to conclude with Mr. Fletcher.” Towner cleared his throat noisily and glared at Edgar Bracken. “You say you want Bracken’s job, Fletcher?”

“Me? I wouldn’t touch it. A sales manager sits in his office all day. I wouldn’t like that.”

“The counter sorters sit at a bench all day,” said Towner. “Although sometimes they stand.”

Out in the factory, bells rang signaling the lunch hour.

“Excuse me a moment,” Johnny exclaimed and left the office. He strode to Nancy Miller’s desk, handed her a couple of dollars. “I’m in a big conference, Taffy,” he said, “but hand this money to my pal, Sam Cragg, as he comes out. Tell him to have a good lunch and I’ll see him afterwards...”

“Conference with the duchess?” asked Nancy.

“The Duke. I’ve already turned down the sales manager’s job.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Uh-uh, I’m going to get something bigger. Tell you about it later.”

He patted her shoulder and returned to Towner’s office. In his absence, Edgar Bracken had slipped out.

“All right, Fletcher,” said Harry Towner. “What job do you consider better than the sales manager’s?”

“Factory detective. I want to devote my full time to finding the murderer of Al Piper.”

“But the police will take care of that,” protested T owner.

“Maybe they will,” said Johnny, “and maybe they won’t. They’ve got a lot of cases to solve. Besides, they’re police and people clam up when a policeman’s around. Me, I’m one of the boys, a counter sorter like the rest of them. I’ve an unusual knack of stirring things up.”

“So I’ve noticed,” offered Linda Towner. “That’s one of the reasons I like you.”

“Linda!” exclaimed her father.

Johnny chuckled. “Why don’t we talk it over at lunch?”

“Can’t,” said Harry Towner. “I’m having lunch at the club with some of the directors of my tannery.”

“Well, I’m not,” declared Linda. “I’m having lunch at the Fluttering Duck.”

“That’s a coincidence,” exclaimed Johnny. “I was planning to have lunch at the Fluttering Duck myself. That is, I was going to have lunch there if I settled this little business with Mr. Towner.”

“It’s settled,” said Towner. “I think you’re making a mistake turning down the sales manager’s job, but perhaps we can talk about that again, after this mess is cleared up.” He grunted. “I have an idea you’ll do as well as the police.”

“I won’t do any worse.” Johnny coughed gently. “It’s customary for a detective to get a retainer. Five hundred, shall we say...?”

“Five hundred!” cried Harry Towner.

“And say, another five hundred when I hand you the murderer.”

Harry Towner opened his mouth to blast Johnny but suddenly shook his head and reached for his wallet. “All right, that order you got amounted to around three thousand. A five hundred dollar commission isn’t too much.”

“The order is for free,” said Johnny, “you’re paying me for detective work.”

“Call it anything you like. Here’s your money...”

He handed Johnny four one hundred dollar bills and two fifties.

“My car’s outside,” said Linda Towner.

Nancy Miller had apparently gone out to lunch, for her desk was vacant. Johnny was just as glad that she did not see him leaving with Linda Towner.

Parked at the curb, in the only available space — in front of a fire hydrant — stood a canary yellow convertible Cadillac.

“You drive?” Linda asked Johnny.

“Only jalopies,” replied Johnny. “Those fenders are too big for me.”

She got in behind the wheel and Johnny climbed in beside her. She started in second gear and by the time she reached the next corner was doing forty-five.

“That wild story you told Dad last night,” Linda said, “was that really just to get a free dinner?”

“Yes and no. We needed the dinner, but more than that I needed to sell myself to your father. One day of sorting counters was about enough.”

Linda laughed. “Dad didn’t want to believe it, even after Elliott told him what you had done to him at lunch. And now you talked Dad into believing you’re a detective.”

“It so happens that that’s one thing I’m good at,” Johnny declared. “For instance, did you know that the man in the black Chevvie’s having an awful time keeping up with us?”

Linda started to look over her shoulder, but Johnny exclaimed, “No — don’t. Look in the rear vision mirror.”

Linda followed his order. “There’s a black coupe behind us, all right, but what makes you think it’s following us?”

“Turn left at the next corner.”

Linda gunned the motor of the Cadillac, then made a left turn that caused the tires to screech, Johnny looking in the mirror, saw the black Chevrolet careen wildly as it almost missed the turn.

“Now make a complete turn around the block and get us back on Larrabee,” Johnny said. “If he’s still with us then, he’s following.”

Three minutes later they were back at their starting point and the black Chevrolet was seventy feet behind them. “Okay,” said Johnny, “he’s following us.”

“I can lose him,” cried Linda.

“What’s the good of that? Then I’d only worry about him. Continue on to the Fluttering Duck.”