The Leather Duke

Chapter Fifteen

Across the street the Wiggins man in the black Chevrolet came to attention. Johnny waved at him, then pointed in the direction of Larrabee Street.

As he reached the corner of Larrabee Street he looked over his shoulder. The Chevrolet was crawling to a halt at the curb a short distance away.

Johnny looked down Larrabee Street and saw a taxicab approaching. He stepped into the street, held up his hand and the cab screeched to a halt. Johnny got in.

“Randolph and Wells,” he said.

The cab jerked off, scooted to Chicago Avenue and turned east. At Wells it turned right and a moment later, the cab driver spoke to Johnny.

“It’s none a my business, Mister, but I think there’s a car following us. Black Chevvie.”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “Fella breaking in a set of tires for me.”

The driver thought that over for a moment, then tried again. “We ain’t got far to go, but I can lose him.”

“Don’t bother.”

The driver shrugged and pulled up at the corner of Randolph and Wells, a few minutes later. Johnny got out and giving the man a dollar looked back. The black Chevrolet was pulling into the curb.

Johnny grinned and crossing Randolph started looking at the building numbers. Halfway down the block he turned into a rickety old building, consulted the directory, then rode in the elevator to the fourth floor.

He stepped out in front of a ground glass door on which was lettered: Wiggins Detective Agency. Enter.

Johnny entered.

A grey-haired woman with horn-rim spectacles sat at a battered desk in a tiny reception room. One office door opened off the room.

“Mr. Wiggins,” Johnny said.

“You have an appointment?”

“No, but I... well, I’m looking for a good detective agency and you were highly recommended...”

“By whom?”

Johnny shook his head. “He asked me not to tell. Of course if Mr. Wiggins can’t see me...”

“What’s the nature of your trouble?”

“I’m not in trouble, but let it pass; there’s another agency in the next block and—”

“Just a moment!”

The woman got up, opened the private office door and went in. She closed the door behind her. Johnny leaned across the desk, saw a pad of paper on which there was some writing. He swung the pad around, whistled softly. The writing read: “Begley phoned. Said subject went into leather factory. Girl drove off. Begley is waiting outside factory.”

He had just flipped the pad of paper back into its former position and straightened when the inner door opened and the receptionist came out. Her eyes went from Johnny, near the desk, to the pad of paper.

“Mr. Wiggins will see you,” she said, severely.

Johnny went into the private office. An enormously fat, bald man swung a squeaking swivel chair around, but did not get up.

“I’m Ed Wiggins,” he wheezed. “Have a seat.”

Johnny sat down on a cracked straight-backed chair.

“Perhaps I made a mistake,” he began, “I was under the impression that this was a, well, large private detective agency.”

“Ain’t I big enough?” snapped Wiggins.

“Plenty,” Johnny retorted, “but the job I have in mind requires the services of a couple of operators and you apparently run this place alone...”

“I do the brain work,” said Wiggins, angrily, “I’ve got the best crew of operators working for me that you could find in the whole city...”

“They make their headquarters in the phone booth down in the lobby?”

Wiggins banged a fat fist on his desk, almost splintering it. “You come in here to make cracks or hire a detective? My men work on a fee basis. When I need them they go to work; when I haven’t got anything for them, they stay home. How many men do you need?”

“Three.”

“I got the three best men in town, Joe Carmichael, Jim White and Les Begley. Shadowing, Begley’s your man, bodyguard, Carmichael, and White’s the lad for schmoosing up to the ladies. What’s your problem?”

“A little of all three,” said Johnny. “I want to find out everything there is to know about a man — his family life, his friends, his enemies, the things he did, the places he went. Everything there is to know.”

“Cost you money.”

“I didn’t expect you to do it for fun.”

Wiggins leaned over his desk with somewhat of an effort and picked up a pencil. “What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Wiggins grunted. “Smith, huh? All right. Now, what’s the name of the party you want investigated?”

“Piper. Al Piper.”

Wiggins started to write, but hadn’t scrawled more than the initial letter when he stopped and looked up at Johnny. “What’s the gag? Piper’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I can read the newspapers, can’t I? He was murdered yesterday, in a leather factory up on the north side.”

The phone on Wiggins’ desk tinkled. He scooped it up. “Yeah? What...? All right, put him on... Hello. Yes... what’s that? I see... all right. Stay on the job.” He hung up, leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his fat hands across the wide expanse of his stomach.

“Smith, huh? Spell it F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r, huh?”

“Improved spelling,” said Johnny. He nodded to the phone. “Begley? The one who’s good at shadowing?”

“What’s the game?”

“No game, Wiggins. I want to hire a good detective agency...”

“You can’t hire this one. It’s against the rules to take two clients on the one job...” He hesitated. “That is if their interests, are, ah, inimical?”

“Well, are they?”

“Look, Fletcher, I know damn well that your being here isn’t any coincidence. You found out this noon that Begley was shadowing you and that he worked for me. That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

Johnny looked coolly at the detective, then drew his money from his pocket. He extracted a hundred dollar bill, put the rest of the money back, then smoothed out the hundred dollar bill and held it up. During the entire process Wiggins’ eyes remained glued on the bill.

“Exhibit A,” said Johnny, “a hale and hearty hundred dollar bill.”

“Very pretty.”

“Isn’t it? Now, what can I buy with it?”

“You can buy one good private detective for four days, or two men for two days.”

“What else will it buy?”

Wiggins continued to stare at the bill and began to wheeze. “Nothing.”

“You’re sure of that, Wiggins? Because in just thirty seconds I’m going to put this back into my pocket and it’ll stay there.”

“What do you want?” Wiggins cried.

“One word. Just one little word. The name of the person who hired you to shadow me.”

“I... I can’t tell you that,” groaned Wiggins. Then he reached forward, grabbed up a pencil and scrawled on a slip of paper. “I can’t tell you, but...” He deliberately swung his swivel chair around, so that his back was to Johnny.

Johnny leaned forward and glanced at the piece of paper on which was written a single word: Wendland.

“I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Johnny. “I didn’t think he had it in him.” He dropped the hundred dollar bill on the desk.

Wiggins swiveled back, passed a fat hand over his desk and the hundred dollar bill disappeared. Johnny looked at him thoughtfully, then went through the business of taking another hundred dollar bill from his pocket.

“Now, to the business we started to discuss before — Al Piper...”

“You still want that?”

“Yes. Send a man down to Piper’s neighborhood. Have him talk to Mrs. Piper, the neighbors. Find out everything there is to know about his personal life, how he got along with his wife, the neighbors. Have a second man work the neighborhood taverns, the grocers, any place he might have traded. I don’t want to know how many bottles of whiskey he bought — I’m interested in the people he might have talked to in places like that; strangers he picked arguments with, while drunk. Especially the past twelve days.”

“We can do that, all right,” said Wiggins. He looked at the hundred dollar bill in Johnny’s hands. “Two men, for two days?”

“No, they can get all that in one day — two men, for one day each. A third man to check up on one Carmella Vitali, who lives in the vicinity of Oak and Milton.”

“Check. He’s a prime suspect. Who else?”

Johnny thought a moment, then screwing up his face, said: “Harry Towner.”

“The leather man?”

“The Duke, himself.”

“It’s none of my business how you spend your money,” said Wiggins, “but I’ve been reading up on this case. I hardly think it likely that a man like Towner would have anything in common with this Piper fellow.”

“Piper worked for Towner,” Johnny said, “and so did everyone connected with this case.”

Wiggins frowned. “What do you want us to find out about Towner? It isn’t easy to check up on a man like that.”

“I know, but on the other hand, he’s practically a public figure. The newspapers undoubtedly have a great deal of information on him in their files. I’m not a Chicagoan; things you people know about him, I don’t. I’d like to get a sketch of his career — business, as well as personal.”

“Well, that we can do.”

“Good, get your men busy. Let’s see, it’s four o’clock now; I’m paying you for four good men until four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. We’ll see then about continuing.”

“You want reports before tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll call in. You have night telephone service, I suppose?”

“Oh yes. Granite 3-1127. My operators are supposed to report every hour if they can. But where can we reach you if something important develops?”

“The Lakeside Athletic Club. Leave a message if I’m not there.”

Johnny handed Wiggins the other hundred dollar bill and prepared to leave. “You’re sure now that this isn’t inimical to Fred Wendland’s interests?”

“Wendland?” asked Wiggins. “Who’s Wendland?”

“All right,” said Johnny, “you haven’t said a word to me.”

Wiggins smiled weakly and Johnny left the office. Down on the street, he walked to the black Chevrolet. Begley, the Wiggins operator, regarded him sourly. “Things have changed, Begley. Better call Wiggins for new instructions.”

Begley shrugged, but made no reply.

“I’m going to the Lakeside Athletic Club,” said Johnny. “I’ll be inside for quite awhile so you’ll have time to telephone. On second thought, why don’t you give me a lift over to Michigan Avenue?”

“Beat it,” snarled Begley.

“Unsociable guy,” said Johnny and walked off.

He went to Madison and turned east. A few minutes later, he entered the Athletic Club. “Fletcher’s the name,” he said, to the doorman. “My friend, Elliott Towner, said he was leaving a guest card here for me...”

“Oh, yes, the office phoned a few minutes ago. For Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Cragg, all the privileges of the club.”

“That’s right, Mr. Cragg will arrive about five-thirty. You can send him right up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Johnny entered the lobby of the club and saw a regular hotel desk, on the right. He stepped up to it.

“Mr. Elliott Towner’s arranged for a guest card for me,” he said, to the clerk. “John Fletcher.”

“Very happy to have you with us, Mr. Fletcher. You’d like a room?”

“A double room, with twin beds. Mr. Cragg will be joining me shortly.”

“Very good, sir. Mr. Towner also arranged for Mr. Cragg. I have a very lovely suite overlooking the boulevard. Two rooms, with connecting bath. Do you wish us to send anywhere for your luggage?”

“Why, no,” said Johnny. “I’ve already arranged for it to be sent over.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll have a boy show you up. Front!”