The Leather Duke

Chapter Seventeen

The cab rolled up Michigan, got onto Lake Shore Drive and a few minutes later seemed to be lost in the winding drives of Lincoln Park, but the driver executed a series of complicated turns and suddenly swung into Armitage. A few minutes later he pulled up in front of a dingy three-story apartment house.

He got out and opened the door for Johnny and Sam. “Fella been followin’ us ever since we left the club,” he said.

“Nothing serious,” said Johnny. “Just a private eye.”

The cabby looked at the apartment house. “Wife trying to get evidence, eh?”

“Wait’ll you see the evidence I’ve got.” Johnny took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “This is your big night. We’re going to make the rounds of some hot spots.”

“Swell,” said the driver. “I know a couple of dillies if you run out of places.”

Johnny and Sam entered the foyer of the apartment house and found the mailboxes. A card under one read: Miller-Ballard, 3C.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and found Apartment 3C. Johnny leaned against the door buzzer and the door was opened in a matter of three seconds by a girl with natural auburn hair and the smoothest complexion Johnny had seen in four years. The girl was fairly tall and weighed about eighty pounds less than the two hundred mark that Sam had complained about. Johnny shot a quick look at Sam, saw that his mouth was gaping.

“Miss Ballard,” said Johnny. “May I introduce your date, my friend, Sam Cragg.”

“Right name,” said the girl, “wrong date.”

“I’m Johnny Fletcher. Let’s talk it over...”

Nancy Miller appeared behind the redheaded girl. “Johnny!” she cried. She was wearing a long evening dress that must have cost her four or five weekly paychecks.

“Your date,” said Miss Ballard. “Excuse me.” She backed into the apartment and Johnny and Sam followed. Sam’s eyes never once left the redheaded girl.

Nancy Miller looked at Sam Cragg, then at Johnny. Her head tilted to one side. Johnny grinned.

“You did say you had a girl friend for Sam, didn’t you?”

“No,” said Nancy coolly. “I didn’t.”

“You mean I forgot to tell you that Sam and I always double-date girls?”

“You didn’t mention it. And if you had, I’d have told you that I never double-date...”

Johnny nodded toward Nancy’s roommate. “I don’t think Sam would mind.”

Miss Ballard heard that. “Sorry, chum. I’ve got a date.”

“With your regular boy friend?”

“Yes.”

Johnny made a deprecating gesture. “What’s one date more or less with a steady? Sam’s new, he’s different. And he’s the strongest man in the world.”

“Oh, the strong man Nancy was telling about.”

“She’s told you about him? And me?”

“About you, plenty!”

“Shut up, Jane,” snapped Nancy Miller.

“Go ahead, Janie,” urged Johnny. “I like to hear nice things about me.”

“Johnny,” said Nancy. “I let you make this date against my better judgment. I’ve got a very dull novel here, from the rental library, but I think I’d just as soon read it as go out with you.”

“Now,” said Johnny, appeasingly. “I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs. I’m all set to show you a few very warm spots...”

“Like the Bucket of Blood, perhaps?”

“They’ve got a dance tonight.”

“They have one every Friday night.” Nancy went to a closet and got out a coat. “What about him?” she asked, nodding to Sam.

“Gordon’s been feeling his oats a little too much lately,” Jane Ballard suddenly said. “I think I’ll stand him up tonight. Do him good!”

“Atta girl!” cried Johnny.

“Oh, boy!” chortled Sam.

“Jane,” said Nancy Miller, “if you don’t mind...”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” exclaimed Jane Ballard. “I’ll come along for the laughs.”

There was a glint in Nancy’s blue eyes, but she turned away and got her purse. When she came back the glint was gone. “All right, Fletcher and Cragg, bring on your laughs.”

“The first one’s waiting downstairs,” said Johnny, “a private detective in a black Chevrolet. He’s been shadowing me all day...”

“If you think I’m going out with a detective following us, you’re crazy,” Nancy flared.

“What’s the difference?” asked Johnny. “I want him to follow me. Saves me the trouble of following him.”

Nancy stared at Johnny a moment, then she exhaled softly. “Where do you come in on all this, Johnny?”

“I’m an innocent bystander, that’s all.”

“Innocent bystanders sometimes get hurt.”

“Who’s going to hurt me? Freddie Wendland? Or— Elliott Towner?”

Nancy whirled away, walked to a wall mirror and put new lips on her mouth, with her lipstick. Jane Ballard, in the meantime, got her purse and coat.

Nancy put away her lipstick. “All right, let’s go.”

They left the apartment and crossed the sidewalk to the waiting taxicab. Johnny didn’t even bother to look for Begley, the private detective. He was parked nearby, no question of that. They all climbed into the cab.

“Somebody’s got to sit on somebody’s lap,” Johnny said, plumping down and pulling Nancy onto his lap. She was stiff and resistant for a moment, but then leaned back against him. Sam shot a disappointed look at Johnny as he took the seat on the far side. Jane seated herself between Johnny and Sam.

The cabby swiveled his head. “Where to?”

“The Bucket of Blood,” said Johnny.

“What’s that?”

Nancy exclaimed. “Another of your jokes.”

“Uh-uh, the name intrigues me. I’d like to see the place.”

“I’ve got on my new dress,” Nancy said, angrily. “I thought we were going—”

“Maybe later on. Let’s take a look at the Bucket of Blood first.”

“Mister,” said the cabby, patiently. “I know a Bucket of Blood down on Wentworth, near 22nd. There’s another out on Kedzie Boulevard...”

“The one we want is on Clybourn Avenue. The Clybourn Hall, it’s called.”

“Oh, that place!”

The driver meshed gears and the cab shot away. It roared up Armitage to Halsted, turned left and a few minutes later, diagonaled into Clybourn. The brakes squealed and the car came to a stop.

The group got out of the taxi. The building before which they had stopped was an ancient three-story brick affair. The first floor housed a tavern. A wide door and a stairway led up to the second floor. A banner over the doorway announced: Clybourn Turnverein Dance. $1.00 Admission. Ladies Free.

“Ladies, free,” Johnny exclaimed. “That’s sure a break.”

“Ladies don’t come here,” snapped Nancy.

“Nancy, darling,” said Jane Ballard sweetly. “Your claws are showing.”

“Thank you, dear, for telling me,” retorted Nancy. “When we get home tonight, I’ll file them down.”

“Mustn’t fight, girls,” chided Johnny. “We came here for fun.” He caught Nancy’s elbow and started up the long flight of stairs.

Music pelted them as they climbed. It wasn’t good, but it was loud and that was what the patrons of the Clybourn Hall seemed to want. Although it was still early, there were already three or four hundred people in the large hall and twenty-five or thirty were crowded at the head of the stairs, either debating whether to go in or wishing they could go in if they had the admission.

Two middle-aged men stood in the doorway. White bands on their arms had the word “Committee” printed on in blue letters.

Johnny gave one of the men two dollars and received four tickets that were promptly taken up by the other committeeman. They entered the dance hall and the first person Johnny saw was Karl Kessler, dancing with a plump flaxen-haired woman of about forty.

Kessler’s eyes widened in astonishment. He stopped dancing, said something to the woman and she walked off. Kessler came over.

“Surprised seeing you two here,” he said, addressing Johnny and Sam. Then he nodded to Nancy. “Hello, Nancy.”

“Hello, Karl,” Nancy said, “meet my roommate, Jane Ballard.”

“Pleasetameetcha,” said Karl. He turned back to Johnny. “Didn’t expect you at a German-Hungarian dance...”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“It’s the Clybourn Turnverein — athletic club, you know. This is their gymnasium week days.”

“You’re a member of the club?”

Kessler grimaced. “Me? I get enough exercise at the factory.”

The music stopped and the dancers left the floor, but Johnny’s group remained in a little huddle. Sam nudged Johnny and, when he caught his eye, nodded to someone at the right of the floor.

Carmella Vitali, surrounded by several dark-complexioned young men and a couple of Italian girls, was watching Johnny with a fierce scowl on his features.

“Oh-oh, the Black Hand’s landed!”

Karl Kessler looked off. “Yah,” he snorted. “Them punks come up here sometimes. Get drunk, pick fights with decent people. That Carmella’s the worst one of the bunch.”

“Might as well be at the factory,” cut in Nancy Miller. “Who else is here we know?”

Kessler shrugged. “Three-four people. After all, there’s six hundred people at the factory and most of them live on the north side. You’re bound to meet some of them around here.”

“I had a different idea,” Nancy said, meaningly.

“In time, Taffy,” Johnny said, jovially. “Say, d’you mind? I’ve got to make an important phone call...”

“Oh, go right ahead,” said Nancy. “There’re only about fifty stags here and I’ll make out all right.”

“You always make out all right, huh, Nancy?” asked Kessler, winking jovially. “If I was three-four years younger, I make play for you myself.”

“Keep the wolves away from her, Karl,” said Johnny. “I’ll be back in time for the next dance.”

He had already spotted a sign, telephone, and headed in that direction, but when he got to the sign he saw an arrow underneath pointing into an adjoining room, a barroom. Johnny went in and found customers lined up four deep at a short bar. There was a phone booth at the side of the bar, fortunately empty, and Johnny entered.

He closed the door, drowning out most of the noise from the bar, and dropped a nickel into the slot. He dialed the night number of the Wiggins Detective Agency.

Wiggins’ wheezing voice came on: “Wiggins talking.”

“Johnny Fletcher calling. I thought you were going to pull off Begley?”

“Why, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Fletcher,” replied Wiggins. “The customer paid for a job and I’ve got to—”

“He paid until when?” Johnny cut in.

“Well, midnight.”

“All right,” snapped Johnny, “I’m glad you’re conscientious, anyway. Now, what have you got for me so far?”

“Quite a lot. Al Piper was married, three children. Owned his own home, rather nice place on West Grace Street, worth around $15,000 to $18,000. No trouble with his wife, as far as my operator could find out. Mrs. Piper has taken it badly. She insists he had no enemies...”

“He had one enemy,” Johnny interrupted. “The person who killed him.”

“You’re so right, Mr. Fletcher,” wheezed Wiggins. “And as far as that goes, a wife never knows what her husband does away from home. Mrs. Piper thought her husband the soul of propriety, but my operator got an entirely different picture of Piper, away from home. He was a boozer, a fighting boozer. Picked quarrels with strangers. There was a place on Lincoln, near Fullerton he had a fight with a man only last week...”

“Get the man’s name?”

“No. He was a stranger in the tavern. Piper they knew. The bartender thought Piper knew the man, though. Said they sat at a table for a long time, talking and bickering, then suddenly Piper hit the other man in the face with a whiskey bottle. The other man knocked Piper down, kicked him in the stomach, then ran out before anyone could stop him.”

“Get anything on Carmella Vitali?”

“He’s got a police record. Quite a record. Twenty-eight years old and has been arrested nine times, the first time when he was only thirteen years old. Did six months in the parental school, but hasn’t served any time since. Probation two different periods.”

“What’s he been arrested for mostly?”

“Hoodlumism, vagrancy. Assault and battery, five times. Got fined three times.”

“Small stuff,” said Johnny.

“Oh, don’t underestimate him, Fletcher. One of those assault charges was pretty serious. The victim pulled through, but if somebody important hadn’t put in a good word for him he’d have gone up for quite a spell.”

“Who was it put in the plea for him?”

“Alderman Jensen, of the 22nd Ward. The man whose skull Carmella fractured refused to sign a complaint. Jensen got to him.”

“Who was it?”

“Man named Havetler.”

“Don’t know him. Mmm, what about Towner?”

Wiggins was quiet for a moment. Then his voice came on, again apologetically, it seemed to Johnny. “That’s the tough one, Mr. Fletcher. My man’s still down at the Star morgue. He’s telephoned in a couple of times, but he hasn’t given me one thing about Mr. Towner, that everyone in Chicago doesn’t already know...”

“I told you I don’t know a thing about him. You and the whole city may know Towner, but I don’t. What’s the dope on him?”

“He’s a very rich man. His father started the business in 1884, first a tannery, then another, then the leather factory. Forty-nine per cent of the Algar Shoe Company, 51 per cent of the Transo Shoe Company, stuff like that. When he died, he left a net estate of around eleven million dollars.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, quite awhile ago. Nineteen thirty.”

“Harry Towner got the entire estate?”

“All except a few small bequests. But Harry Towner’s done all right on his own, don’t worry about that. They say he’s worth thirty millions today.”

“In other words, he’s lousy with money? But what about his personal life?”

“Married twice. Once to a showgirl when he was twenty. Father got it annulled. Then he married Harriet Algar of the Algar Shoe outfit. Two children, a son Elliott and a daughter, Linda.”

“Extracurricular?”

“Huh? Oh, I see what you mean. Discreet, very discreet, if any. Newspapers wouldn’t print such things, not about a man worth thirty million. Towner’s a big man in this city, a big man.”

“All right,” said Johnny, “he’s big. And I’m paying you big money. I’ll call you again in an hour. I hope you’ve got more for me then than you’ve given me now.”

“My operators are still at it, but it’s getting late...”

“Keep them at it,” snapped Johnny and hung up.

He opened the door of the phone booth and almost collided with Carmella Vitali, who moved up from the bar.

“Hi, pal,” Carmella said, baring strong, white teeth. “Shooting any pool lately?”

“Not much,” replied Johnny. He looked past Carmella at a pair of sleek, swarthy young men in pin-stripe suits who could have passed for twins. Both were chewing gum and grinning as they watched Johnny and Carmella. “Not in the mood tonight, Carmella. I’ve got a girl here—”

“Sure, I saw you come in. Nice girl, ain’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Good taste. Same as mine.”

“What?”

“My girl. She broke a date with me tonight.”

“Nancy Miller?”

“Yep. Kinda surprised you brought her up here. Nancy likes nice places. Good food. Champagne cocktails.”

“We only dropped in for a few minutes.”

“Nancy’s idea?”

“Mine.”

“Mmm, thought it mighta been hers. Grand kid, but likes to rub it in. Just a little bit, you know. I quit my job and she breaks a date. You know, keep a fella in line. Girls like fellas with steady jobs.”

“Oh, you’re so right, Carmella. Well, I guess I’d better not keep her waiting.”

Johnny tried to step past Carmella, but the two sleek, swarthy men somehow moved up beside Carmella and blocked Johnny. Carmella grinned toothily.

“What’s the hurry, pal? Nancy’s dancing now with the old strawboss...”

“Kessler?”

“Yeah, sure, the bird who kept riding me at the factory. Old enough to be her father. Harmless. There’s a little matter, I kinda hate to bring up. A buck you owe me. From last night.”

“You put soap in that chalk.”

“Naw, it was already in. We keep that piece for wise guys who come around, making bets.”

“It isn’t the money,” said Johnny, “it’s the principle.”

“Sure, sure, what’s that you said? You’re so right. It ain’t the principle, it’s the money. So shell out, huh?”

Johnny looked longingly past the three men to the door leading into the dance hall. It was a long way. With the music playing again, a shout might not even be heard in the other room.

He sighed heavily. “Suppose I gave you the dollar, what then?”

“One thing at a time. The buck first...”

Johnny shrugged and reached into his pocket. He drew out his packet of money, searched for and found a dollar bill. He creased it lengthwise and returned the rest of his money to his pocket.

“Here,” he said. He held out the folded bill and as Carmella reached for it, Johnny let it fall from his fingers. Carmella grabbed automatically downwards and Johnny straightened him up with a terrific uppercut. In fact, Carmella’s body didn’t stop when it was straightened up. It went over backwards, crashing to the floor with a dull thud.

The two sleek, swarthy men stopped chewing their gum and stared at Johnny in blank amazement. Johnny circled around them, stepped over the unconscious Carmella, and walked into the dance hall.