The Leather Duke

Chapter Twelve

Ten minutes later Johnny and Linda got out on Wabash, turning the yellow Cadillac over to the doorman of the Fluttering Duck. The black Chevrolet was double-parked a short distance away.

They entered the restaurant and the headwaiter immediately escorted them to a table.

“I’ll have a dry Martini,” Linda said, as they were seated.

“Beer for me,” said Johnny.

“Beer!”

He grinned. “I’m a working man. By the way, are you sure you didn’t have a lunch date today with Freddie?”

“Why, no. And if you don’t mind I’d just as soon not talk about him.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “we don’t have to talk about him, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to him, because here he is.”

Fred Wendland, his hair nicely pomaded, was bearing down on them. His face had a sullen, unhappy expression.

“Linda,” he said, “I thought I might run into you here.”

“Oh, did you?” Linda asked coolly.

Wendland pulled out a chair. “D’you mind?”

“Yes,” said Johnny.

Wendland had not even looked at Johnny so far and if he heard him he gave no sign. He sat down. “I called your home and the butler told me you’d gone into town with your father. It’s about tomorrow night, the fraternity’s asked the alumni to a housewarming, for the new house and I thought—”

“Which team are you on?” Johnny asked. “Fraternity or Alumni?”

Wendland turned deliberately and looked at and through Johnny. “Oh, hello, Fancher, isn’t it?”

“Fletcher.”

“Ah yes, Fletcher. From the tannery, aren’t you?”

“The factory, son. And ten’ll get you twenty that you get sore before I do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“For example, what business are you going into after you get out of school?”

“Stop it, Johnny,” said Linda. “Fred’s been out eight or nine years.”

“But he was just talking about his fraternity house...”

“He’s an alumnus and you know it very well. Let’s have a more or less peaceful lunch, shall we? I’m hungry.”

“You order for me,” Johnny said, “I want to have a little chat with the man from the black Chevvie.”

“He’s come in?”

“Little table, just inside the door.”

Johnny got up and crossed the room. He pulled out a chair opposite the man who had followed them to the Fluttering Duck. He was a rather insignificant-looking man of indeterminate age, but probably in his late thirties.

“Mr. Smith, I believe,” Johnny said.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Aren’t you John Smith of Keokuk, Iowa?”

The man shook his head. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Johnny easily. “Let me see, you drive a black Chevrolet coupe, License 7 S 57–08... My name is Johnny Fletcher, I work for the Towner Leather Company, and the young lady with me is the boss’s daughter, Linda. The fellow with the shiny hair who just broke in on us is Freddie Wendland, her fiancé. Next question?”

“If you don’t mind,” the insignificant-looking man said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just stopped in here to have my lunch...”

“Who put you on my tail?”

“Tail? I don’t think—”

“You don’t think you know what I’m talking about. Never heard of Al Piper either, did you?”

“Wasn’t a man by that name, ah, murdered yesterday?”

“Right!” cried Johnny, “and for that you win the jackpot, and the mink coat, and the furnished house and lot and the table model electric refrigerator, plus a ten year’s supply of Royal Snus snuff. And would you like to try now for the sixty-four dollar question?”

“Got a big mouth, haven’t you?” the man across the table asked, “and I see somebody bopped you one recently...”

“Last night, on Oak near Milton. Didn’t happen to see it?”

“No, but if you play a return engagement, let me know and I’ll make it a point to be there.”

“Oh, you’ll be there, all right. That’s your job, isn’t it? To follow me.”

“You’re doing all the talking.”

“You’ve done a little yourself.”

The man signaled a waiter. When the latter came over, he said: “I’d like a bacon and tomato sandwich on toast. Plenty of mayonnaise...”

“Mayonnaise,” said Johnny in disgust, and getting up returned to his own table.

As Johnny seated himself, Linda leaned eagerly across the table. “What did you find out?”

“I found out that he isn’t as smart as he thinks he is,” Johnny said, grimly. He reached into his pocket and brought out his four hundreds and two fifties. He peeled off one of the fifties and caught the eye of their waiter who was hovering nearby.

“Could you get me change for this?” Johnny asked. “Say four tens and a couple of fives.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh — and by the way, your doorman checked in a black Chevrolet coupe a few minutes ago. License 7 S 57–08. Could you get me the name and address of the owner?”

“Why, yes, I believe I could,” said the waiter. He moved off swiftly with the fifty dollar bill.

Johnny looked brightly at Linda. “Now, where were we?”

“You and Freddie were exchanging insults,” said Linda, “but we decided to stop that and listen to you make like a detective.”

“That’s right,” said Johnny. “The first thing a good detective does is to check on the alibis of all persons connected with the crime. Let’s begin with you, Linda. Where were you yesterday morning?”

Linda started to laugh, then realizing that Johnny was regarding her seriously, she sobered. “Now, surely, you don’t think I had any connection with that?”

“It’s your father’s factory.”

“You mean you also suspect Dad?”

“Everyone connected with the plant is a suspect, five hundred people, more or less. There’s only one of them I don’t suspect — myself.”

“But that policeman suspects you quite strongly.”

“True. But I know I didn’t do it, so I can eliminate myself.”

“And you can eliminate me. I wasn’t anywhere near the factory yesterday.”

“Check!” Johnny shifted to Wendland. “And you?”

Wendland drew back. “Are you insane, man?” he gasped. “This... this man who was killed was a common laborer.”

“So?”

“I’m afraid I don’t move in such circles.”

Johnny’s eyes smoldered as he studied Wendland. “That’s a very good idea, Mr. Wendland. Associate with working people and you might pick up their habits, such as going to work yourself.”

“What he means, Freddie darling,” put in Linda, “is that you’re a stuffed shirt and a snob. Or to put it more succinctly, a stinker.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” said Johnny.

Fred Wendland pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Very well, Linda, if you’re going to side with him...”

“Run along, Freddie.”

“I’ll phone you tonight.”

“Do that. Perhaps I’ll be home.”

Wendland bowed to Linda, gave Johnny a frigid look and walked off.

“You know,” said Johnny, “I don’t think Freddie likes me.”

The waiter moved up to the table. “Here’s your change, sir,” he said, unctuously, counting out the bills one by one, four tens, two fives. “The party didn’t have an ownership card in the car, but the manager has a book in his office which gives the name and address of every car owner in the state—”

“And...?”

“The black Chevrolet, License 7 S 57–08 is registered in the name of Wiggins Detective Agency...”

“I’ll be damned,” exclaimed Johnny.

The waiter coughed gently. “Your change, sir. Four tens and, ah, two fives...”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Johnny picked up the bills, riffled them together and stowed them into his pocket. The waiter groaned and went off.

“He’ll probably put his thumb in the soup,” Johnny said, “so I think we’d better skip that course... Wiggins Detective Agency. Now, who the devil would be hiring a detective agency?”

“Why don’t you ask the man?”

“Linda,” said Johnny, “you ought to be a detective yourself. Excuse me a minute.”

He got up and crossed the room. The insignificant-looking private detective was taking a bite of his bacon and tomato sandwich when Johnny came up. He stopped halfway through the bite, with the sandwich in his mouth.

“Who’s paying the Wiggins Agency to have me shadowed?” Johnny demanded.

Mayonnaise dripped through the fingers of the private detective. He became aware of it after a moment and removed the sandwich from his mouth. He picked up his napkin and wiped the mayonnaise from his fingers.

“Sorry. Never heard of the Wiggins Agency.”

“Your car’s registered in the Wiggins Agency’s name.”

“How did you...?” The detective caught himself, scowled at Johnny. “Beat it, fella, you’re spoiling my lunch.”

“I hope so. Anybody who’d eat mayonnaise...” Johnny shrugged and walked back to his table. The waiter was putting out the food, setting down the plates with a little more than necessary annoyance.

“He won’t talk,” said Johnny, “but I’ve got him worried.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

“Apparently someone suspects you so strongly that they’re paying money to a private detective agency to have you shadowed.”

“Of course,” said Johnny, “we don’t know for sure that I’m the one who’s being shadowed.”

Linda inhaled sharply. “You think — me?”

“Have you been behaving yourself lately?”

Linda looked thoughtfully at Johnny. “You’re not really joking. You think I—”

“No.”

“You do!”

Johnny sighed lightly. “At this stage of the game, I suspect everybody. You say you weren’t at the plant yesterday, but your father owns the place, your brother works there and you’ve probably been in and out of it a thousand times. You may or may not be aware of people in the factory. Let’s say you’re not, but there isn’t one of those five hundred odd workers, male and female, who doesn’t know about you. It’s an old company. I know of two employees who have been with the company for thirty-nine years. They know the day you were born; you may never have talked to them but they know you and everything about you...”

“But I don’t see how that could involve me in a brutal murder.”

“You know about your father being called The Duke?”

She nodded. “Yes. The newspapers have always called him The Leather Duke.”

“And the employees, in talking about him, refer to him as The Duke. They speak of you as The Duchess. The Towner Leather Company is an island in the city, an independent principality. The workers are its citizens. Some of them love the rulers, some of them hate them. But all fear them...”

“Why should they fear us?”

“Everybody fears his employer. Any workman can be fired, lose his security. A word of praise for one of the rulers, or a word of hate, can be resented by another employee. The reason for a quarrel does not determine the degree of hate that is engendered. A blow is struck and...” Johnny shrugged.

“You make it sound very devious,” Linda said soberly.

“The reasons for murder are usually devious. You take Al Piper; from all I’ve heard about him he was a pretty decent sort, a married man with two children. A pretty steady worker, as witness his long employment at the Towner factory. He had only one really bad habit; he was a periodic drinker. Twice a year he went on binges...”

“But you don’t know what he did during those drinking periods? I understand he had just come off one a couple of days ago.”

“True, but I want to call attention to the fact that he wasn’t killed while he was on one of those binges. It was only after he had sobered up and returned to work. I think therefore that his death can be traced to something that happened at the plant. It points the finger at a Towner man — or woman.”

“Of whom there are five hundred.”

“My job is to eliminate and keep on eliminating until only one person is left — the murderer.”