The Leather Duke

Chapter Twenty-One

It was shortly after nine-thirty when Harry Towner, his daughter Linda and Johnny entered the offices of the Towner Leather Company.

Nancy Miller was at the switchboard, her face somewhat pale and strained even under heavier than normal makeup. Harry Towner, in the lead, gave her a curt nod. Linda, coming next, smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Nancy.”

Johnny said: “Hi, Taffy, you’re looking like a million.”

Nancy only stared at Johnny.

Johnny went to the elevator, which was waiting at the first floor and rode up to the fifth floor. He stepped out and began strolling leisurely through the flat counter department, the gluing department and the molding machines until he reached the counter sorting department.

Hal Johnson was leaning against his high desk, his back to the sorters, and looking gloomily down the line of molding machines.

His eyes flickered over Johnny’s battered features. “Got a good one this time,” he commented.

“A beauty,” admitted Johnny.

“Johnny!” boomed the voice of Sam Cragg. He came pelting down the aisle. Johnny moved to meet him. Sam skidded to a halt and stared at Johnny.

“Carmella worked you over, Johnny! I’ll kill ’im.”

“I may let you do just that, Sam.” Johnny sized up Sam. “You don’t look any the worse.”

“Me? Heck, that wasn’t nothing. I hadda kind of lump on the old noggin, but Janie...” He suddenly coughed and looked past Johnny at Johnson.

“I know all about it, Sam,” said Johnny grinning. “You spent the night at the girls’ apartment.”

“Yeah, Johnny, but don’t get no wrong ideas. Janie wanted me to come up and put some cold compacts on the bean, then, well, I, uh, she thought I’d better stay there in case I needed more treatments. I... I slept on the couch.”

“Sure, Sam, it’s all right.”

“On’y I couldn’t sleep much on accounta worrying about you, Johnny.”

“I spent the night out at the Duke’s house.”

Hal Johnson heard that. “You spent the night at the Towner estate? Thirty-nine years I’ve worked for him and I’ve never even seen the layout. Forty-eight hours ago you hadn’t even met Harry Towner.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “the food’s lousy at the Towner house. I mean, they didn’t even give me any breakfast.” He grinned feebly. “Being a pal of the Duke’s has some drawbacks... about seventy-five, I’d say. All over my body. I think two of my ribs are cracked.” He nodded down the department. “I see Elliott’s on the job, this morning.”

“Came in ten minutes ago,” said Johnson.

Johnny’s eyes fell upon Cliff Goff, the horseplayer. “Just a minute,” he said to Sam and Johnson. He strode away from them, to Goff.

The horseplayer was sorting counters. He was looking at them, but he wasn’t seeing them. His mind was miles away, riding with Arcaro at Pimlico, or Skoronski at Arlington, or Longden at Santa Anita.

Johnny tapped him on the shoulder. Goff exclaimed, shook his head and looked at Johnny.

“I want to put two bucks on a horse,” Johnny said, “who’ll I give the bet to?”

“Oh, Al,” said Goff, automatically, then grimaced. “Al’s dead.”

“He owe you any money?”

“No, I owed him. Fourteen dollars.”

“Thanks,” said Johnny and walked back to Johnson and Sam.

“Al Piper was the factory bookie,” Johnny said to the foreman.

“Who says so?” Johnson demanded.

“I said so,” retorted Johnny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Not officially, no, but no employee could take horse bets around here for more than two days without the foreman knowing about it.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Johnson persisted. “But I don’t see why it should make any great difference. You can’t keep people from betting on horses. They’d sneak out or make bets, or an outside bookie’d be sneaking in all the time. Somebody on the inside books a few quarters or half dollars, what difference does it make?”

“None to me,” said Johnny. “Personally, I’ve sent a few bookies’ sons to Harvard and a few daughters to Vassar and Smith.”

“You’re going to snitch to Towner?”

“Tell me just one thing — and this I can and will prove. Was Al Piper cutting you in for a percentage, for the privilege of taking bets?”

“No,” said Johnson bluntly.

“But he was paying some one?”

Hal Johnson did not answer that. Johnny shook his head. “You knew that Carmella was trying to muscle in on the business?”

“The hell with Carmella,” snarled Johnson. “And the hell with you, Fletcher.” He started to turn away, but whirled back. “And you,” stabbing a thick forefinger at Sam Cragg. “If you’re working here, get back to your bench, or go down and draw your pay.”

“I’m fired?” Sam asked, eagerly.

“Either I’m foreman here,” Johnson said, doggedly, “or I’m not. You’re fired.”

“Great!” exulted Sam.

Johnson looked at Johnny. “Is he fired?”

“You’re the foreman, Hal,” Johnny said, quietly.

“All right, then he isn’t fired.”

“No!” howled Sam. “You can’t go back on it. You said I was fired...”

“Ah,” said Johnson in disgust and walked off.

Sam appealed to Johnny. “Let me be fired, Johnny. I feel silly sitting at a bench like this, squeezing them little hunks of leather. It ain’t no kind of a job for a grown man.”

Instead of replying Johnny stepped to Johnson’s desk and picked up the phone. “Hi, Taffy,” he said into the mouthpiece. “This is Johnny...”

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” Nancy exclaimed. “I couldn’t say anything with Mr. Towner present, but I... I’m terribly sorry about last night. What... what happened?”

“Nothing much,” said Johnny. “I only got beaten within an inch of my life. That I’m not dead isn’t your boy friend’s fault.”

“Don’t say that, Johnny. Carmella isn’t my boy friend. He never has been.”

“How about Elliott Towner?”

There was silence on the phone for a full second. Then Nancy said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Johnny...”

“A bellboy at the Lakeside Athletic Club,” Johnny said, “night before last...”

This time there were two full seconds of silence before Nancy said: “You knew that — last night?”

“I knew. Wait, Nancy, it won’t do you any good to try to leave the building. There’s someone outside...”

“I have no intentions of leaving the building.” Nancy Miller said, steadily. “I’m merely going to get back to my work...”

“Get me the police department,” Johnny said. “Homicide Squad — Lieutenant Lindstrom...”

“Lieutenant Lindstrom is in Mr. Towner’s office right now.”

“Get him for me.”

A moment later Lindstrom’s voice snapped: “Lindstrom talking.”

“Fletcher up in the counter department. Get Carmella Vitali at once.”

“Who’s this?” exclaimed Lindstrom. “Commissioner Fletcher?”

“Johnny Fletcher, not Commissioner Fletcher.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, le’me tell you something, Fletcher. I don’t take orders—”

“That isn’t an order,” cut in Johnny, “but if you don’t pick up Carmella Vitali, you’d better not read the newspapers this evening. And you’d better start looking over the vacation folders, because you’ll be going on a good long suspension.”

Johnny slammed down the receiver, then picked it up again. “Don’t bother calling Carmella, Taffy!”

“Why you...” began Nancy Miller. Johnny hung up.

Sam Cragg came forward. “What’d you wanna have the cops pick up Carmella for, Johnny? I thought you’d let me have that pleasure. I wasn’t really gonna kill him. Only halfway...”

“You may still get your chance.” Johnny looked toward the rows of barrels behind the counter department. “Sam, I want you to go back to the spot where Al Piper was found...”

Sam shuddered. “Aw, Johnny,” he protested. “It’s dark back there. I get the shivers when I even look...”

“This’ll just be for a minute.”

“What’d you want me to do?”

“Just stand there and call me — but not too loud. About like this: ‘Say, Johnny.’ ”

Sam hesitated, then shaking his head went off. Johnny followed him for part of the distance, but when Sam cut into the aisle between the barrels Johnny continued down the line to Elliott Towner’s bench.

Elliott watched him approach, his face dark and smoldering.

“Hi, Elly,” Johnny said, as he came up.

“Keep away from me, Fletcher,” Elliott snarled. “I’m in no mood for your—”

Behind the barrels, Sam Cragg called: “Hey, Johnny...!”

And then there was a tremendous crash!

Johnny gasped and started running from a standing start. He reached the aisle leading to the rear of the barrels, hurtled down it and skidded into a left turn.

In several swift bounds he reached the death aisle. Sam Cragg was climbing over a heap of wreckage in the aisle, wood and several thousand counters scattered on the floor.

“Jeez, Johnny!” he cried. “Somebody gave this pile of barrels a shove from the other side. Almost hit me with them.”

“I should have warned you, Sam,” Johnny said, through clenched teeth.

“You knew somebody was gonna do it?”

“No, I didn’t know but I should have suspected it. Here...” He leaned over the wreckage, gave Sam his hand and helped him clear. When they reached the aisle, several spectators were looking in. Hal Johnson, Karl Kessler, Elliott Towner and two or three counter sorters.

“Somebody just tried to kill Sam,” Johnny said, grimly. “They fixed up a pile of barrels so they could be pushed over easily...”

“You’ve been inviting it, Fletcher,” snapped the foreman. “You hang around here much longer and somebody else will be killed.”

“No,” said Johnny. “I’ve had enough. I’m going to spill what I know — now. Down in Harry Towner’s office. I think you ought to hear it, Hal. And you, Karl...” He nodded to Elliott. “And you, Elliott...”

“I’m not interested,” Elliott Towner said.

“You’d better be. Come on, all of you...”

“He giving the orders now, Hal?” Karl Kessler asked, quietly.

“I’m giving the orders,” cried Johnson. “And that’s one of them. Downstairs to The Duke’s — I mean, Mr. Towner’s office...”