The Leather Duke

Chapter Eighteen

In the main room, he pushed through the fringe of onlookers and got to the edge of the dance floor. He caught sight of Sam dancing painfully with Jane Ballard and moved in and out among the dancers to them.

“Sam, do me a favor. Keep an eye on the barroom, Carmella’s in there—”

“If he’s looking for trouble, Johnny...”

“He looked — and he found it. But he may wake up and want some more. Janie...”

Jane Ballard stepped out of Sam’s arms, smiled tantalizingly and moved into Johnny’s arms. Sam frowned a little, then shrugged and headed in the direction of the bar.

“I’ve been waiting for this, Johnny Fletcher,” said Jane.

“So’ve I. Where’s Nancy?”

“Dancing with the old boy. Never mind Nancy for a while. Pay attention to me. I want to find out if you’re as smart as they say.”

“They?”

“Oh, Nancy’s been talking about you, last night and again tonight, before you came.”

“You said, ‘they.’ ”

Jane nodded over Johnny’s shoulder. “Uncle Karl was up at the apartment last night.”

“Uncle Karl? Kessler’s Nancy’s uncle?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“No.” Johnny was silent for a moment. “They were talking about me?”

“And how! But then isn’t everybody at the factory? You start work one day as a laborer and the next you’re practically running the place. I suppose that’s an exaggeration, but you were given some kind of promotion, weren’t you?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“At a big salary increase?”

Johnny chuckled. “Now, don’t tell me that’s all you’re interested in — how much money I make?”

“Frankly, Johnny, I’m quite interested in what you’re earning. If you think I’m going to marry a man earning thirty-six dollars a week and do the laundry in the kitchen sink, you’ve got a good big think coming to you. I’ll marry for love, sure, but I’m only going to fall in love with A: a man who’s got plenty of money or, B: a man who’s making money. Big gobs of it.”

“I made five hundred bucks today, Janie.”

“Now,” said Jane, “the conversation is getting interesting. So what’re we doing here at this dump?”

“A dance with Nancy and we’re off — to spend money.”

The music stopped and Johnny searched the floor for Nancy and Karl Kessler. He saw them across the room and, with Jane clinging to his arm, crossed to them. Nancy watched them approach, quite aware of Jane’s clinging arm.

“Quite a long phone call you made,” Nancy said coolly.

“I got delayed,” replied Johnny. “Your b.f. Carmella wanted to talk to me. About you.”

“He’s a liar,” snapped Nancy. “Whatever he said about me—”

“He didn’t say much. He had kind of an accident. Hurt his mouth, I guess, so he had to stop talking.”

“You had a fight with him?”

“You can’t call one punch a fight. Oh-oh, he’s with us again.”

Nancy’s eyes quickly followed Johnny’s in the direction of the barroom. Carmella and his two friends were emerging. Carmella was walking stiffly. Sam Cragg emerged from a clump of dancers and confronted Carmella. Johnny, across the room, saw Carmella talk volubly for a moment then skirt Sam and head for the door. Sam stood undecided, shrugged, and turned toward the dance floor.

Johnny disengaged himself from Janie’s grip and took Nancy’s elbow. The music struck up again and he moved away with Nancy onto the dance floor.

“At last,” said Johnny, “alone.”

“Except for five hundred people,” retorted Nancy. “I saw Janie giving you the business. She’s the biggest gold digger in Chicago. I’m going to have it out with her tonight, when we get home. Either she moves or I.”

“Well,” said Johnny cheerfully, “this is the first time in quite a while that I’ve had two girls fighting over me.”

“I’m not fighting over you. The dame just can’t resist making passes at a man.”

“Or men at her.”

Nancy sniffed. “Even Carmella. He came up to the apartment exactly twice and she made a play for him. She thinks I don’t know they were out together Wednesday.” She stopped. “Did you make a date with her?”

“I’m partial to taffy-colored hair.”

She drew back from him and looked into his face. Johnny grinned. The annoyance that had been in Nancy’s face the past half hour suddenly faded. “I still don’t like double-dates,” she said.

“Okay,” said Johnny, “we’ll try it alone tomorrow night.”

“That,” said Nancy, “is a date!”

They made a half circuit of the dance floor, Nancy dancing very close to Johnny. Then she searched his face again.

“Who’d you telephone?”

“Oh, just the detective agency.”

He felt her body stiffen under his hand. “What?”

“The detective agency that’s having me shadowed. I hired them to shadow the man who’s shadowing me.”

“You know who’s having you shadowed?”

“Of course. Fellow named Wendland.”

“Linda Towner’s fiancé?” exclaimed Nancy.

He nodded. “Know him?”

“He’s come into the office a few times — with Linda. He — he’s looked me over.”

“He stopped with looking?”

“Well, he went a little further a couple of weeks ago. Asked me what I did with my evenings. I wasn’t having any of that. If he couldn’t come right out and ask for a date, I wasn’t going to help him along. I told him I went to church every evening. Then Linda came out of her father’s office and that was that.”

“Reason Number 184 why I don’t like Freddie Wendland,” Johnny said. “Mmm, you didn’t tell me that Karl Kessler was your uncle.”

“You didn’t ask me. It’s no secret. Everybody at the plant knows it. He got me my job. He’s the only family I’ve got. My mother died when I was four years old and Uncle Karl raised me... But why should Wendland be shadowing you?”

“That’s why I’m having him shadowed; I’m trying to find out why. I never saw the man before yesterday.”

“Johnny,” said Nancy, “I don’t understand you at all. You started to work at the factory yesterday, as a laborer. Today you’re up to your neck in a murder mystery, with people shadowing you and all sorts of things happening to you.”

“That’s what a fellow gets when he doesn’t mind his own business,” said Johnny wryly.

“Why don’t you... mind your own business?”

“Can’t. It’s a disease with me.” He shuddered. “Now, you take your uncle and Hal Johnson, the foreman, at the plant. They mind their own business and they’ve been working thirty-nine years in one plant.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. For them. But I’m made different, I guess. A week in one place and I can’t stand it any more.”

“You’ve been two days at the Towner Leather Company. Does that mean you’ll be leaving in another five days?”

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” said Johnny.

“This job is the first one I’ve had since I was a boy. Oh, I work, pretty hard sometimes, too. But I work for myself. I’m a book salesman, the greatest book salesman in the world.”

“Then why aren’t you selling books now?” cried Nancy.

“Because I had a little bad luck. Rather, somebody else had bad luck. The publisher who supplies me with books was locked out by the sheriff. He couldn’t send me any books—”

“Can’t you get them anywhere else?”

“If I had money to pay for them, yes.”

“But you said you were the greatest book salesman in the world. If you’re that good, why don’t you have enough money to pay for the books...?”

“That,” said Johnny, “is what’s wrong with Johnny Fletcher. When he’s got money he won’t work. Oh, I’ve tried it. One year I worked hard. I made more money than the president of the United States. And I wound up at the end of the year with what I started. Nothing. You see, there are people in this country who run night clubs, horse races and crap games. They always find the Johnny Fletchers...”

The music stopped and Johnny released Nancy. “For example, there are night clubs in Chicago. And Johnny Fletcher’s in Chicago, with a couple of hundred dollar bills in his pocket. So — let’s go...!”

Sam Cragg spied Johnny and came forward. “Johnny,” he said, “that Carmella fellow and his friends have left the dance. But they are waiting downstairs...”

“How many friends?”

“Two.”

“Suckers,” said Johnny.

Janie Ballard came strolling up with Karl Kessler.

“Got enough slumming?” she asked.

“I’ve got one more phone call to make,” said Johnny, “then I’m ready to leave. Don’t start dancing; it’ll only take me a minute.”

He smiled at Nancy, nodded to Sam and headed for the barroom.

In the phone booth, he dialed the Wiggins Detective Agency. “Wiggins,” began the detective, but Johnny cut him off.

“Where’s Wendland tonight?”

“Wendland. I don’t believe I—”

“Cut it out!” snapped Johnny. “I want to know where he is right now. Your man’s shadowing me for him, and Wendland’s calling in and asking for reports.”

“But, Mr. Fletcher,” protested Wiggins. “I never told you—”

“Where’s Wendland?” snarled Johnny.

“At the Chez Hogan,” Wiggins replied quickly. “He phoned in only a few moments ago.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Only that you were at a dance hall on Clybourn Avenue.”

“All right,” Johnny said curtly, “I’m going to the Chez Hogan myself. But first there are a couple of points I want to clear up. This first marriage of Harry Towner’s — the one his father had annulled... what was the date on that?”

“I have it right here. Just a moment. Ah yes, October 16, 1921, that’s the annulment...”

“And when did he remarry?”

“Mmm, let’s see. January 1922, but I don’t see—”

“Never mind. Just one thing more, something that’s stuck in my mind since you told me about it. You said Al Piper owned his own home and that it was worth $15,000 to $18,000.”

“Approximately. My operator’s estimate...”

“More or less is good enough. How the devil could he buy his own home — one costing that much, on his thirty-six or thirty-eight dollars weekly pay?”

“Why, I thought you knew about that, Mr. Fletcher. Piper had a sideline — he took bets for Marco Maxwell, the bookie. He got five per cent, hot or cold.”

Johnny groaned. “Why doesn’t somebody tell me these things!”

“The police knew it yesterday. I thought you’d heard by now...”

“I didn’t. Is there anything else I ought to know?”

“About Al Piper? Only that that’s what Piper and that Italian boy, what’s his name, Carmella, had their quarrel about. Carmella started taking horse bets and Piper got sore about it.”

“Oh, fine,” said Johnny. “Now you tell me. Is there any other important little trifle that I ought to know and don’t?”

“About who?”

“About anyone connected with Piper’s murder.”

“Who’s connected with it?”

“Anyone who worked at the Towner factory.”

“You only paid me to investigate—”

“Oh, hell,” broke in Johnny, “forget it. I’ll call you later.” He slammed the receiver on the hook and left the booth and the barroom.

Sam and the girls were waiting for him at the exit. Nancy regarded Johnny suspiciously as he came up but made no comment.

They started down the stairs. Halfway down Johnny said:

“This Carmella lad learns the hard way.”

Carmella stood at the bottom of the stairs with his two pin-stripe-suited friends. Sam drew a deep breath. “This is my department, Johnny.” He stepped ahead of Johnny.

“Hiya, fellas,” he greeted Carmella and his friends as he hurried down the stairs.

“Hello, Ape,” retorted Carmella, stepping back. The movement formed a V: Carmella at the point, his two friends, one on either side of the corridor, making the prongs of the V.

Sam grinned hugely and stepped into the V. The two sleek men promptly closed in, each gripping one of Sam’s arms with both hands. Sam chuckled. “You fellas kiddin’?”

“See if this is kidding,” snarled Carmella, swinging a vicious blow at Sam. The fist would have hit Sam in the face except that he suddenly ducked his head and took the blow on his skull. Carmella cried out in pain and danced back, shaking his bruised hand. Then Sam, with a sharp, sudden movement brought both of his arms out in front of his body. The two pugs were jerked forward. Sam pulled his arms free of their grips, snaked one arm about each dark head and cracked the two together. Both men cried out in agony and Sam pushed them away. One went down to his knees and gripped his head in both of his hands. The other man reeled against the wall, ricocheted from it and fell to the floor on his face.

Johnny, coming down with the girls, took their arms. “Watch your step, girls.”

Sam followed Carmella who was backing away from him. “I got a little present for you too, greaseball,” Sam said.

“Don’t!” cried Nancy Miller. “Don’t hit him.”

Sam, surprised by this appeal, half turned. And then Carmella reached to his hip pocket and brought out a leather-covered blackjack. He sprang forward, the blackjack high over his head. Johnny, seeing Sam’s peril, cried out in alarm.

“Sam — duck!”

Sam whirled back to Carmella, but was too late. The blackjack struck him on the head, just over his forehead. It made a dull, sickening thud.

Sam grunted in pain and staggered back. Carmella raised his hand again. Sam ducked, groped out for Carmella and caught him by the shirt front. But that didn’t stop the Italian. His blackjack came down again and Sam fell to his knees. He carried a piece of Carmella’s shirt front with him.

Johnny, blocked by Sam, tried hurdling his friend. He caught his foot on Sam, plunged headlong against Carmella and sent, him staggering back. He clawed at Carmella’s leg, tried to upset him and then — then lightning struck his head and shot through his entire body. It was followed by utter blackness.