The Leather Duke

Chapter Twenty

Johnny was awake, feeling his bruises, when there was a knock on the bedroom door. “Yes?” he called.

The door opened and Elliott Towner came into the room. “We’re driving into town in a half hour,” he said, coming forward. “Dad wanted me to find out if you’re in condition to go in with us.”

“I will be, after I eat some breakfast,” exclaimed Johnny. He threw back the covers and leaped out of bed, wincing as bruised muscles protested.

Elliott looked at Johnny’s torn, soiled suit lying on the floor beside the bed. “You could wear a suit of mine. We’re about the same size.”

“Now,” cried Johnny, “that’s decent of you.”

Elliott left the room and Johnny went into the bathroom. When he came out, a suit and a clean shirt were lying on the bed. Johnny put them on and left the room.

He descended to the main floor and a maid directed him to the breakfast room, where the entire Towner clan, the Leather Duke, Linda and Elliott were all seated at a table, eating breakfast.

“Feel all right?” Harry Towner asked.

Johnny nodded. “Fine. Good morning, Miss Towner.”

“I’ve just been hearing about your latest, Johnny,” said Linda, “and I think you’re a liar. You don’t look fine and you aren’t fine. In fact you look like something the cat dragged in.”

Johnny grinned wryly, saw a phone on the sideboard and crossed to it. “Operator,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I want the Lakeside Athletic Club in Chicago.” He covered up the mouthpiece. “Excuse me, but I’m worried about my friend, Sam Cragg. We got separated last night.”

An operator said in his ear: “Lakeside Athletic Club.”

“Suite 512,” Johnny said. “Mr. Cragg.”

Thirty seconds passed and then the voice said: “I’m sorry, Mr. Cragg does not answer.”

“Try 514, the adjoining room.”

“I’ve rung both, sir. Do you wish to leave a message?”

Johnny hung up. “Something happened to Sam.”

“That’s the man who lifts two hundred pound barrels,” said the Leather Duke. “What could happen to him?”

“I don’t know, but the last time I saw him he was down on his knees and a man was hitting him with a blackjack...”

The entire Towner family stared at Johnny. He drew a deep breath. “Your switchboard operator was watching, Mr. Towner... Nancy Miller...” Johnny’s eyes shifted quickly to Elliott Towner.

Elliott’s mouth was open wide enough to swallow a duck egg.

“Fletcher,” said the Leather Duke. “Sit down and have your breakfast. Then we’ll ride into town and clear up this whole mess. I think a few people at the factory are going to find themselves without jobs.”

“Oh, I say,” protested Elliott. “You can’t just fire people like that.” He looked hard at Johnny. “On someone’s unsubstantiated accusation.”

“Accusation?” asked Johnny. “I didn’t accuse anyone.”

“You just said, at least you intimated, that this girl, what’s her name — Nancy Milton? — was involved.”

“The name is Miller,” Johnny said. “M-i-l-l-e-r, the same as the girl called you at the club night before last.”

“What?” cried Elliott Towner.

“The girl who told you she knew who killed Al Piper...”

Elliott Towner kicked back his chair, sprang to his feet. His face was a picture of utter consternation. Harry Towner banged his fist on the breakfast table.

“What’s this, Elliott?”

“He’s a liar,” Elliott cried, hoarsely. “I... I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Nancy Miller,” said Johnny, “she telephoned you eight times at the Lakeside Athletic Club in one evening. You were there, but wouldn’t take the calls. Then she tried to break into the club and go up to your room. They stopped her in the lobby. She phoned again after that and... well, the operator made a mistake and put her through...”

Elliott’s face went from consternation to abject horror, or terror.

“Fletcher,” he began thickly. “I... I’ve had about all I can take from you...”

“Elliott,” the Leather Duke said, sternly, “I want a direct answer — just a yes or no. Did this girl telephone you at the club?”

Elliott took a step away from the table, but reeled and had to reach out to the chair to support himself.

“Answer me!” snapped Harry Towner.

“Y-yes.”

Linda Towner suddenly interrupted. “Just a minute, Dad.” She turned to Elliott. “You’re in love with Nancy, aren’t you?”

“No!” exclaimed Elliott.

“But you’ve taken her out?” Linda paused a moment, waiting for a denial and when it did not come, went on: “She’s blackmailing you, isn’t she?”

With a tremendous effort Elliott pulled himself together. He gave Johnny a bitter glance and started from the room. Harry Towner pushed his chair away from the table. “Elliott,” he roared. “I want the truth of this.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” said Elliott, doggedly, “I can’t tell you...” He continued on out of the room.

Harry Towner glared at the empty doorway, then whirled and glowered at Johnny. “Do you know the truth?”

“No,” said Johnny. “Not all of it.”

“But Elliott’s really involved with that girl?”

“To a certain extent, yes.”

“You made several rather exact statements — eight phone calls in one evening. How did you get that information?”

“By using some of your money, Mr. Towner, and sticking my nose into other people’s business.”

“At that you’re very good,” snapped Towner. “Yesterday you had a mouse on your cheekbone, today your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. I’m curious as to how you’ll look tomorrow.”

“No worse,” said Johnny, “because I’m going to wind this up today.” He added drily, “I’ve got to, because I can’t take another beating. I want to make just one more phone call...”

“While you’re making it, I’ll get ready.” Harry Towner left the breakfast room and Johnny stepped again to the phone.

He gave the operator the number of the Wiggins Detective Agency, then looked over the phone at Linda Towner who had not left the room.

Wiggins came on the wire. “Wiggins Detective Agency,” he wheezed.

“I thought you had a man shadowing me last night?” Johnny snarled. “You bragged that he was the best shadower in the detective business—”

“Mr. Fletcher!” cried Wiggins. “How are you?”

“Lousy!”

“I was afraid of that, Mr. Fletcher. Uh, Begley went to telephone the police when those hoodlums assaulted you last night. When he came back you were, ah, gone... So he, ah, shadowed your friend, Sam Cragg...”

“What happened to Sam?”

“Why, ah, nothing. He was knocked out for a few minutes, but someone threw some water on him and he got up.”

“But he didn’t go home last night. I just telephoned the club and he wasn’t there.”

“No, he wouldn’t be. You see he, ah, spent the night at an apartment on, ah, Armitage...”

“What?” cried Johnny. Then he suddenly chuckled. “I’ll be damned.”

Wiggins proceeded: “As a matter of fact, he just left a half hour ago. He’s now in the factory of the Towner Leather Company and my man’s outside.”

“Okay,” said Johnny. “I’ll be there myself inside of an hour.”

“Very good. But, Mr. ah, Fletcher, I have some information for you.”

“About who?”

“The man with the Italian name, Carmella...”

“I hope it’s good,” Johnny said, grimly.

“Oh, it’s quite good. I mean bad. It seems that he wore a tan work shirt the day before yesterday, when the, ah, tragedy occurred at the leather factory. Well, my man found that shirt in the bottom of a garbage can behind Carmella’s place of residence. It contains bloodstains...”

“Human blood?” cried Johnny.

“As far as we could tell. As a matter of fact, the shirt’s in my office right now. I have some interesting information about the dead man. His salary was approximately thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents a week, yet he banked an average of one hundred dollars a week, for the past six years. I think that is very significant, Mr. Fletcher, inasmuch as there are approximately six hundred employees at the leather factory and certainly not more than five per cent would wager on horses...”

“Guess again,” said Johnny. “Fifty per cent would be nearer the truth. What else?”

“I have a rather complete thumbnail biography of Mr. Towner.”

“Give it to me — at least the salient features.”

“This is highly libelous, as a matter of fact, it was never printed in the papers, for that very reason. My man got it from the custodian of the Star morgue, an old man, who was a reporter on the Star in his younger days. It, ah, pertains to the late Mrs. Towner.”

“Number one or two?”

“Oh, two. The first was never really referred to as Mrs. Towner. In fact, as far as the public press is concerned, there has only been one Mrs. Towner.”

“All right, get to the point, man.”

“I will. As I said, this is highly libelous and at this late date would be almost impossible to verify.”

“Get to the point, Wiggins!”

“I’m trying to tell you, Fletcher. Shortly after the marriage, Mrs. Towner went away. To Europe. Her child was born there, young Elliott.”

“Well?”

“That’s it, Mr. Fletcher. She was gone a year and when she brought the child back, well, he seemed rather, shall we say, large for his age?”

Johnny looked over the phone again, at Linda Towner, who was sitting at the breakfast table, moodily poking at a half grapefruit, with a spoon. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Thank you, Wiggins. I... I’m just leaving for the plant now... with Mr. Towner.”

Wiggins’ wheeze almost blasted Johnny’s eardrum. “You mean you’re telephoning from his house?”

“Yes, good-bye.”

He started to put down the receiver, then raised it back to his ear. Wiggins’ click came over the phone, then another. Someone in the Towner residence had been listening in on an extension phone.

Johnny put down the receiver and headed for the door. Linda Towner pushed back her chair. “I’m going to the office with you.”

“It’s all right with me, Linda,” Johnny said, quietly. “If you’ll tell me why Freddie Wendland had me shadowed all day yesterday...”

“Freddie?”

“The detective who followed us to lunch and back — Wendland was paying for him.”

“That’s ridiculous!” cried Linda. “There’s no earthly reason why Freddie should—”

“Jealousy?” suggested Johnny. Linda stared at him. “You went to the Chez Hogan with him last night.”

“Yes, but...” Linda looked suspiciously at him. “How did you know?”

“The detective I was just talking to on the phone, that’s the one Wendland hired. Well, I paid him more money than Wendland did.”

“So you’ve been spying on Freddie!”

“In a small way.”

Harry Towner appeared in the doorway. “If you’re ready, Fletcher.”

“I’m ready.”

“I’ll just get my coat,” exclaimed Linda. “Take me only a second...”

She ran past her father. Towner looked after her. Johnny said: “She wants to go into town with us.”

“I’d rather she didn’t.”

“I’d just as soon she did,” Johnny said. “Fred Wendland’s mixed in this business.”

“That tired old college boy?” Towner snorted. “If he ever becomes my son-in-law, I’ll send him down to manage my Nashville Tennessee tannery. I don’t think I could stand him around here.”

He started out of the room. Johnny followed. Before they reached the front door, Linda came running up, carrying a tweed coat.

A big limousine was standing in the driveway before the house. A uniformed chauffeur stood by the tonneau door.

“Elliott leave?” Harry Towner asked.

“A moment ago,” the chauffeur said. “He took the yellow convertible.”

Towner grunted. “Fine thing to break down the morale of the hands. Come to work in a Cadillac, an hour and a half late.”

He stepped into the Lincoln Continental.