The Leather Duke

Chapter Four

His eyes were wide and staring and his throat had been cut from ear to ear. Johnny took one quick look and backed away. Johnson, the foreman, standing at the end of the aisle, peering in, cried out hoarsely, “Who is it?”

“How should I know?” snapped Johnny. He gestured. “You’re the boss here, take a look...”

A shudder ran through Johnson’s body, then he pulled himself together and crowded into the aisle past Johnny. He looked at the dead man’s face and gasped.

“Al Piper!”

“One of your boys?” Johnny asked.

“He runs a skiving machine.” Johnson swallowed hard. “He... he must have committed suicide.”

“Because he runs a... a, what did you say? skiver machine?”

“Skiving. Uh, it isn’t that, but Al, well, he just got back to work today.”

“Vacation?”

“You might call it that. Al takes one every six months.”

“That’s very nice of tire company, giving vacations twice a year.”

“The company doesn’t give them. Al takes — took — them.” Johnson inhaled deeply. “Al’s a periodic boozer. Goes along for six months, then he goes on a binge; usually lasts for a week or ten days, then he’s all right for another six months.” Johnson turned, found the eyes of Karl Kessler. “How long was Al gone this time?”

“Twelve days.”

“Little longer’n usual. How’d he look?”

“Not bad. Little shaky, but not so bad, considerin’.”

Johnson shook his head. “Guess it just got too much for him. He wasn’t a bad guy, when he was working. He ran that skiving machine... mmm, must be eighteen or twenty years.”

“Maybe that’s why he did it,” suggested Johnny.

Johnson’s sharp eyes fixed themselves upon Johnny. “The skiving machine’s the easiest job on the floor, unless it’s sorting counters. He just sat there on a stool all day long, feeding flat counters into the skiver.” He suddenly scowled. “What’s the idea, all you people gawkin’ around here? Get back to work.”

The workers, who had been blocking the aisle, scattered swiftly. Even Johnny wandered off, but Sam remained. “Me, too?” he asked. “I was just gonna pile some barrels there...”

“They can wait. Get back to the sorting bench. I’ve got to report this to Mr. Towner.”

He didn’t think of the police. Mr. Towner was the highest authority in the leather factory and when something happened, you reported to him. But Towner must have notified the police for they came within fifteen minutes; a round half dozen of them, headed by Lieutenant Lindstrom of Homicide.

They searched among the stacks of barrels, set off a few flashlight bulbs, then began going through the counter floor, looking at machines, studying workers from concealed vantage spots and making them so nervous that a molding machine operator caught his thumb in the machine and lost about a sixteenth of an inch of flesh. After he went down to the first aid station, Lieutenant Lindstrom, escorted by Johnson the foreman, entered the counter sorting department.

They bore down upon Sam Cragg and began questioning him. Johnny, seeing his friend in difficulties, eased himself along the line of benches, carrying a couple of counters. As he came up, Lieutenant Lindstrom was just saying to Sam Cragg: “That’s your story, but you can’t prove that you never met Piper before today...”

“I didn’t really meet him today,” Sam retorted. “He was already dead when I saw him.”

“Good for you, Sam,” cut in Johnny.

Lieutenant Lindstrom whirled on Johnny. “Who’re you?”

“Fletcher’s the name, Johnny Fletcher.”

“He’s a pal of this man,” explained Johnson. “I hired them together.”

“As a team?”

“No... no, I just happened to need two men.” Then Johnson suddenly grimaced. “Say, I hired this one,” indicating Johnny with his thumb, “to replace Carmella Vitali, who had just quit his job. Uh, Carmella and Piper had a fight about a month ago.”

“About what?”

Johnson shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, but Piper threw a handful of counters in Carmella’s face and then Carmella beat up Piper.”

“Beat him up, huh? And Carmella quit his job today when Piper came back after a vacation. Mmm,” the lieutenant pursed up his lips. “I suppose you’ve got this Carmella’s address?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get it for you—”

“In a minute, Mr. Johnson.” Lieutenant Lindstrom suddenly looked at Johnny. “Carmella told you he was quitting his job today, didn’t he?”

Johnny grinned lazily. “You’ll have to do better’n that to catch me, Inspector.”

“Lieutenant!” snapped Lindstrom. His eyes glowed. “Sort of a wise guy, aren’t you?”

“I get by. There was a sign outside the building, Man Wanted. Sam and I saw it and came in. Sam got hired, then Mr. Johnson heard that this Carmella chap had just quit his job and decided to hire me, too. That’s all I know about Carmella. Not one bit more, not one bit less. I never saw Al Piper. I never saw this factory before this morning.” Johnny shot his cuffs back. “I’ve got nothing up my sleeves. Nor has Sam. You’re wasting your time on us.”

Lieutenant Lindstrom bared his teeth. “Get back to work.”

But Johnny didn’t have to get back to his work, just then. A tremendously loud bell rang on the counter floor and every man at the counter benches rushed for the aisles leading to the lockers beyond. Johnny, looking at a huge clock on the wall, saw that both hands had met under the figure twelve. It was lunchtime.

The workmen returned to the benches in a moment or two, carrying lunches, wrapped in newspapers. Lieutenant Lindstrom walked off with Johnson leaving Johnny and Sam alone.

Johnny, his tongue in his cheek, stepped up to young Elliott Towner, who was taking off his work apron. “How about joining us for lunch?”

“I was only going to run across the street to the lunchroom and have a sandwich,” replied Elliott.

“A sandwich is okay with us.”

Elliott looked at Sam, frowning. “Well, all right,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I worked up a nice appetite,” said Sam, as they headed for the elevator. “Rassling them barrels. I think I’ll have maybe two sandwiches and a glass of beer.”

They rode down in the slow freight elevator. As they passed the office Johnny looked for Nancy Miller but failed to see her. He shook his head and followed Elliott Towner. Outside, they crossed the street and entered a grimy, smelly lunchroom. There were no stools at the counter, but it was lined with standing factory workers. The menu was a slate on the wall.

“Corned beef sandwich and a glass of milk,” Elliott Towner ordered.

“Two corned beef sandwiches for me,” said Johnny, “and a glass of beer.”

“Same for me, on’y two beers,” chimed in Sam.

The sandwiches were quickly prepared and Johnny and Sam began to wolf their food. They finished their double portions before Elliott Towner got through with his one sandwich.

“Piece of pie,” Sam ordered then.

Johnny nodded. “Me, too. How about you, Elliott?”

“No, this will do me.”

The waiter punched three checks, put them on the counter. Elliott sorted them out, picked up his own. A sudden chill ran through Johnny. A dollar-ten was punched on his check, the same on Sam’s.

“Uh, Mr. Towner,” he said. “I believe I’m a little short, on account of just starting work, you know. I wonder if you’d—”

Elliott Towner frowned at him. “Look here, you didn’t come out to lunch with me, just to—”

“Oh, no, not at all. Only we are short and—”

“How much are you short?”

“Well, my check’s a dollar-ten and Sam’s is, too. Two-twenty.”

“That’s the full amount. You’ve got some money...”

“Not a red cent. Uh, you could take it out of our pay.”

Young Towner exploded. “I tried to make it clear to your friend here that I didn’t own the Towner Leather Company. I’m an employee like you. I get twenty dollars a week and I have to live on it.”

“With a little help from the old man,” Johnny said sarcastically, “and the chauffeur to bring you down to work.”

“I’ve had about all I’m going to take from you two,” Elliott said angrily. He started for the door, but Johnny gave a quick signal to Sam Cragg and the latter blocked his exit.

“Just a minute, buddy,” Sam said truculently and put up a hand to stop Elliott. Elliott tried to knock the hand aside, was unable.

“Now, Elliott,” Johnny said, smoothly, “look at it this way. We’ve got a tab here for two-twenty; we can’t pay it. Are you going to let it get out that two employees of Towner and Company were unable to pay a restaurant bill and had to wash dishes all afternoon, while they were supposed to be sorting counters across the street?”

“You’re not my responsibility,” cried Elliott.

“Oh yes, we are,” Johnny said cheerfully. “Your name’s Towner...”

“All right,” snarled Elliott. “I’ll pay your damn checks!” He grabbed them from Johnny’s hand and stepped up to the cashier’s desk. Johnny and Sam waited for him at the door.

As they left the restaurant, Johnny said, “No hard feelings.”

Elliott gave him a glare and rushed across the street.

Sam Cragg exclaimed in disgust, “Never saw a guy like that. He’s got a gold spoon in his mouth and he wouldn’t even give you a sniff of it.”

“Of course,” said Johnny, “our act was pretty crude. I wouldn’t have pulled it on him if I hadn’t been so hungry.”

“I’m still hungry,” Sam complained. “I’ve got a lot of eating to catch up on.” He screwed up his mouth. “What’re we gonna do about supper?”

“We’ll face supper when we come to it. In the meantime we’ve got a couple of jobs on our hands.”

“And a murder,” Sam declared darkly. “For all you know, we may be spending the night in jail.”

“Uh-uh,” said Johnny. “Uh-uh.”