The Leather Duke

Chapter Five

They entered the leather factory and rode up to the fifth floor in the elevator. Wending their way back to the counter department, they discovered Lieutenant Lindstrom awaiting them at Johnny Fletcher’s bench.

“Have a good lunch?” the lieutenant asked.

“It was all right,” Johnny said, “not as good as we’re used to, of course, but it was all right.”

“Then you’re all set for a nice afternoon’s work.”

Johnny looked sharply at the lieutenant. “You the foreman here now?”

“No, I just wanted to see you work.”

“This is our lunchtime.”

Hardly had he spoken the words than the bell rang and the counter sorters began streaming back to their benches. Johnny Fletcher picked up a counter, squeezed it and looked at the lieutenant.

“All right, I’m working.”

“Go right ahead.”

Johnny picked up a second counter, found that it was slightly imperfect and reached for the leather knife. It wasn’t there.

“Looking for something?” asked the lieutenant.

“My knife.”

“Isn’t it around?”

“Cute,” said Johnny “You knew all the time it wasn’t here; that’s why you were hanging around. Well, it was here, when I went to lunch.”

“It was here at twelve o’clock? But it isn’t here now?”

“Al Piper was killed with a leather knife,” Johnny said, “you think it’s my knife. It isn’t. Al was found a little after eleven I was using my knife here until twelve o’clock. I can prove it.” He turned to the old Dane, at the adjoining bench.

“Say, Pop, you saw me using my knife.”

The old man scowled fiercely. “I didn’t see nuttin’. I mind my own business. I don t know nuttin’ ’bout nobody or nuttin’.”

Lieutenant Lindstrom smiled wolfishly, but Johnny wheeled to the man at his right, a faded, sandy-haired man of about forty.

“Neighbor, you saw me using my knife just before lunch?”

The sandy-haired counter sorter shrugged. “I was busy before lunch.”

“Sure, sorting counters. But you don’t keep your eyes on them all the time. You couldn’t help but look over here now and then I looked at you enough times.”

“So I was thinkin’.”

“I think, too,” retorted Johnny. “But I see what people are doing around me.”

“If you gotta know,” the counter sorter said, coldly, “I was running down the horses in the sixth at Arlington. That takes concentration. Try it some time; past performances, post position, jockey, weight, condition of track. Do that sometime without a Racing Form in front of you and you’ll know what I mean about concentration.”

“All right,” said Johnny, “who’s going to win the sixth?”

“Fighting Frank. He can do it in 1:10 if he has to...”

“Not with a hundred and twenty-six pounds,” cried Lieutenant Lindstrom.

“He’s done it before and he can do it again,” insisted the counter sorter. “I got money says he can.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got five on Greek Warrior in the same race.”

“Greek Warrior’s a seven-furlong runner; this race is only six furlongs. Ain’t a horse at Arlington can beat Fighting Frank at six.”

“What about Spy Song?”

“Phooey. An in and outer. All right when she was a two-year-old, but hasn’t done a thing since.”

“Good-bye, now,” Johnny Fletcher said, walking back to his bench.

Lieutenant Lindstrom winced and followed Johnny. “We didn’t settle the knife business.”

“No, but you settled the horse business. You’re interested in that, aren’t you?”

“A wise guy. We get you downtown you won’t be so smart.”

“You take me down to the station you’d better have the answers,” retorted Johnny.

“You talk pretty big for a factory hand,” sneered Lindstrom.

“I haven’t always been a factory hand,” snapped Johnny. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some counters to sort.”

Lieutenant Lindstrom gave him a wicked look, hesitated, then whirled on his heel and strode off. Johnny gave his attention to the counters on his bench. He picked them up, squeezed them, trimmed one now and then and piled them up in bunches.

From time to time Johnny sent a look off to the right where Sam Cragg was at his bench, squeezing and bunching up counters. There was a big scowl of concentration on Sam’s face, which did not lessen as the afternoon wore on. Sam was unhappy at his work.

Shortly after three Karl Kessler stopped at Johnny’s bench.

“How you coming along?” he asked.

“It’s a tough job,” Johnny said, “all these decisions.”

“Huh?”

“Every time I pick up a counter I’ve got to make a decision — is it heavy; medium or reject? Keeps your brain working.”

Kessler looked at him suspiciously. “Some fellas c’n do this in their sleep.” He picked up one of Johnny’s bunches of counters, opened it and tested each counter. “These are all right, for heavies.”

“Heavies?” exclaimed Johnny. “Those are the mediums.”

“Mediums? Where are the heavies?”

“The little pile in back.”

Karl Kessler scooped up a bunch of counters from the rear of the bench, tested them individually and scowled. “How do you figure these are different from the mediums?”

“They’re harder.”

“Ah-h,” grunted the assistant foreman in disgust. “These are all supposed to be heavies. They re seven iron, don’t come much heavier. You shouldn’t find more’n one medium out of twenty or thirty counters. Yours are running the other way.” He hesitated. “Better sort ’em all over. Here, I show you...” He scooped back an armful of Johnny’s “mediums,” began resorting them. “Don’t squeeze ’em too hard, you break down the glue. This is a heavy... and this... and this...”

“Guess I’m a little upset,” Johnny said, lamely. “I don’t usually run into a murder my first day on the job. That happen around here very often?”

Kessler shot a startled look at Johnny. “You kiddin’? Nothin’ like that never happened around here.”

“This Piper worked here a long time, didn’t he?” Johnny asked.

“Not so long, sixteen-seventeen years. Can’t figure it out, he wasn’t a bad guy, drank a little too much, bet on the horses, but outside of that, he was a good family man...”

“He was married?”

“Oh, sure, got three kids. I hear Mrs. Piper took it bad.”

“Women usually do take it pretty bad when their husbands are murdered.” Johnny paused. “Who’s your choice for who did it?”

Kessler looked carefully around and dropped his voice to a whisper. “He had a fight with the guinea, didn’t he?”

“Carmella?”

“Yeah, sure. You know these guineas, half of them belong to the Black Hand...”

“The Black Hand! I haven’t heard of them in twenty years.”

“Yah! This is Little Italy. The Death Corner’s only three-four blocks from here. Oak and Milton. They used to kill people there all the time.”

“How long ago?”

“Not so long. Twenty, twenty-five years ago.”

Johnny shook his head. The assistant foreman’s idea of time was out of this world. A man who’d worked at the factory fifteen years was a virtual beginner. He still used the pre-World War I epithet of “guinea” for an Italian and the Black Hand, which had been extinct for twenty-five years was still real in his mind.

The Towner Leather Company was Karl Kessler’s life. He had worked for the firm thirty-nine years. Two great wars had been fought in that time. The American way of life had changed. Poor boys had become millionaires in that time. Children had grown up, married and become grandfathers.

Johnny said: “Is it your idea that the Black Hand’s involved in this murder?”

“Who else? Carmella’s a Blackhander and him and Al Piper had a fight.”

“Carmella quit his job this morning; was that a result of the fight with Al Piper?”

Kessler frowned. “Well, maybe not exactly. Uh, he wasn’t much good around here. Never sorted more’n fourteen hundred pairs a day and when I told him he’d have to hustle up...” He shrugged. “He got sore and quit.”

“Fourteen hundred pairs a day,” mused Johnny. “Seems like a lot of counters.”

“Shucks, most of the fellas do two thousand pairs. Ain’t nothin’ for a man to do twenty-five, twenty-six hundred.” Kessler gestured to Cliff Goff, the horse player. “How many pairs did you sort yesterday, Cliff?”

“Twenty-three hundred,” replied Cliff Goff, “but it was a bad day. Hit some head leather seven and a half irons in the afternoon.”

“That’s bad?” Johnny asked.

“You’ll see, head stock is spongy, uneven. You get a counter made of heavy head stock and it’s like iron on one side and like mush on the other side. Here” — Kessler thrust his hand at the pile of counters — “look at this piece. Beautiful piece of leather, ain’t it? That’s shoulder stock, smooth, even.”

Johnson the foreman suddenly appeared from between two rows of barrels. He came up and halted between Johnny and Kessler. “How’s he doing?” he asked the assistant.

“Pretty good for a beginner,” replied Johnny.

“How many pairs have you sorted so far?” Johnson asked.

“About a thousand, I guess,” Johnny said. “More or less.”

“Less,” suggested Kessler. “About six hundred less.”

“That’s not very many,” Johnson said, “considering you’ve been at it since nine this morning.”

“Don’t forget we had a murder here.”

“I’m not forgetting it,” snapped Johnson. “But it’d be a good idea if you forgot it and thought more of your work. Remember, this is only your first day here.”

He stalked off. Kessler hurried after him, talking and gesticulating with both hands. Johnny looked after them and began to wonder if his career at the Towner Leather Company would be a very long one.

He slapped counters together, stood for awhile with feet planted far apart, climbed up on the high stool and took to standing again. His back ached from leaning over the bench and when he stood his feet hurt.

Four o’clock came and moved grudgingly to four-thirty. Sam Cragg deserted his bench and came over to Johnny. “We quit at five, Johnny,” he said.

“Don’t I know it? My neck’s stiff from twisting it to look at the clock.”

“Yeah, but what about some dough? We got to eat and get a place to sleep tonight. Don’t you think we ought to get a — an advance on our pay?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Sam. Wait here.”

Leaving Sam, Johnny headed out into the front part of the floor, where the row of molding machines were banging and pounding. He caught sight of the foreman just beyond, near the glue tanks.

“Mr. Johnson,” he shouted to be heard above the din. “How’s about getting a small advance on my pay?”

“Sorry, Fletcher,” Johnson replied. “That’s against the company’s rules.”

“But Sam and I are flat broke. We don’t even have money for supper.”

“You wouldn’t have had it, if I hadn’t given you this job, would you?”

“No, but we’d have taken it easy all day. We wouldn’t have been as hungry as we are now, after exerting ourselves all day.”

“You’ve got a point there,” conceded Johnson, “but it’s a rule of the company. You can’t make exceptions.”

“No, I guess you can’t,” said Johnny in disgust. He started to turn away, but Johnson called to him.

“Here, Fletcher.” He thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out a crumpled dollar bill. “Here’s a buck for you, from me, personally.”

“Thanks, Mr. Johnson, that’s mighty white of you.” Johnny cleared his throat. “Uh, you wouldn’t have another dollar, would you? Sam Cragg’s pretty hungry, too.”

Johnson swore. “Damn you, Fletcher!” But he brought out another dollar and handed it to Johnny. “Now, keep away from me so I don’t change my mind and fire you instead.”

Johnny returned to the counter department and handed Sam one of the dollar bills. “Buck apiece was all I could promote,” he^-said.

Sam was disappointed. “I had my heart set on a steak and French fry dinner.”

“So did I. Where’s Elliott?”

“He beat it a couple of minutes ago. He’s the boss’s son, he don’t have to wait for the whistle.”

“Damn,” exclaimed Johnny. “I was going to hook him for the steak dinners.”

“After the way he acted this noon? I don’t think even you could sell him on an encore.”

“No? You underestimate me, Sam, when I’m desperate.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Just a minute.”

At the end of the line of counter benches was an old-fashioned bookkeeper’s desk on which stood Johnson’s telephone. Johnny strode to it and scooped the receiver off the hook.

“Nancy girl,” he said into the mouthpiece. “This is me.”

He heard her exclaim in astonishment, “Mr. Johnson...”

“Uh-uh, not the foreman,” Johnny chuckled. “Give me a couple of weeks, will you...?”

“Fletcher!” she cried. “You want to get fired?”

“Not before I earn that twenty I need for Saturday. Look, Nancy, do me a favor...”

“I’m doing you one, now. Get off that phone! The workers aren’t allowed to use the phone.”

“Sure, sure, the regular workers, maybe. But I’m not a regular worker. But to cut a long story short, has Elliott Towner breezed through?”

“Yes, now will you—?”

“Where does he live?”

“With his father — naturally.”

“And where does the old man live?”

“Hillcrest.”

Johnny winced. “That’s way out in the country, isn’t it?”

“About forty miles.”

Johnny was about to hang up, but suddenly thought of something else. “What about Elliott’s club?”

“The Lakeside Athletic on Michigan Avenue.”

“That’s it, Baby. Thanks a million. Remember Saturday...”

He hung up, started back toward Sam, but before he reached him the five o’clock bell rang and there was a mad rush for the sinks and lockers behind the rows of barrels. Johnny and Sam joined the stampede and had to wait in line to wash up.

“Do a good job, Sam,” Johnny advised his friend.