The Leather Duke

Chapter Six

At ten minutes after five they left the leather factory and made their way to a near-by street corner. They clambered aboard a crowded streetcar and fifteen minutes later alighted at Madison and Wells.

Johnny started to cross the street and Sam caught his arm. “Hey, you’re going east.”

“Certainly.”

“Yeah, but we want to go west.”

“West? That’s where all the flophouses are.”

“Ain’t that what we’re looking for?”

Johnny shook his head. “Sam, you’ve got ninety cents and I’ve got ninety cents. On West Madison we can find a joint where we can get a steak for that, but where’ll we sleep — and what about breakfast in the morning?”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” admitted Sam. “But east of here, everything’s more expensive.”

“We’re all washed up,” Johnny said. “A little dust on our suits, but we don’t look too bad.” He cleared his throat. “I thought maybe we might have dinner at the Lakeside Athletic Club...”

“Huh?” Sam blinked, then reacted. “Not Elliott T owner?”

“Why not?”

“The way he acted this noon...”

“That was crude. I’ve had time to think now.”

“All right, Johnny, he can’t get any madder’n he is already.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They walked swiftly down Madison and a few minutes later turned South on Michigan. The fourteen-story building housing the Lakeside Athletic Club was just ahead.

Johnny turned into the club door, Sam crowding at his heels. A uniformed doorman looked inquiringly at them.

“Yes?”

“We’re going in to join Mr. Towner,” Johnny said easily and would have gone through the inner door, except that the doorman moved a few inches and blocked his path.

“He’s expecting you?”

“I rather think so.”

The doorman reached to a high, narrow desk and scooped up a handful of slips of paper. He shuffled quickly through them. “There’s no pass here.”

“He probably forgot to leave one.”

“I’ll have to get an okay from him,” the doorman said, picking up a phone. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Cragg,” gritted Johnny through his teeth.

“Michigan door, for Mr. Towner,” the doorman said into the phone. “I believe he’s in the steam room, now.” He nodded, looked at Johnny and Sam. “Club rules, gentlemen. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, we don’t mind,” said Johnny, pretending not to see Sam’s warning signal.

The doorman turned back to his telephone. “Yes, Mr. Towner, Arthur, at the Michigan door. There’s a Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Cragg here, say you’re expecting them. No...? Just a moment, please.” He covered the mouthpiece with a big hand. “Mr. Towner says he doesn’t know anyone named Fletcher and Cragg.”

“We’re from the plant,” Johnny said. “Tell him that. It’s important that we see him. Extremely important.”

The doorman spoke into the phone. “They say it’s an extremely urgent matter, Mr. Towner... Very well, sir...” He handed the phone to Johnny.

Drawing a quick, deep breath, Johnny said: “Mr. Towner, this is Johnny Fletcher...”

“And who the devil is Johnny Fletcher?” boomed the deep voice of Harry Towner.

“I’m from the factory,” Johnny said, in desperation, “I... I have something very important to tell you about that — regarding what happened at the plant this morning.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Harry Towner grunted. “All right, give me Arthur.”

Johnny handed the phone back to the doorman.

“Yes, Mr. Towner?” said the doorman. He bobbed his head. “Very well, sir. Thank you.”

He hung up the phone, scribbled quickly on a slip of paper and banged his palm on a bell on the desk. “Front!” he called.

A bellboy appeared from the lobby behind the little reception room. The doorman handed the slip to him. “Take these gentlemen to Mr. Towner in the steam room.”

“This way,” said the bellboy.

Johnny and Sam followed him into a large lobby, fitted out much like a hotel lobby. The bellboy headed swiftly for the elevators.

“Watch my cues,” Johnny whispered to Sam Cragg as they followed the bellboy. “I asked for Towner and got the old Duke, instead of Elliott...”

“Holy cats!” exclaimed Sam.

“They can’t do more’n throw us out.”

They stepped into the elevator and were whisked up to the fourth floor where the bellboy led Johnny and Sam along a corridor and finally into a huge room containing a fifty foot swimming pool and numerous steam rooms and cubicles where masseurs and attendants gave club members treatments.

The bellboy stopped a moment, looked around and located Harry Towner. The Leather Duke was wearing a towel about his waist and nothing else. The bellboy headed for him.

“Mr. Towner, these are the gentlemen to see you,” he said and went off.

Harry Towner searched the faces of Johnny and Sam, then shook his head. “You say you’re from the plant? I don’t place either of you.”

“The counter department,” Johnny said.

“That’s Hal Johnson’s floor.”

“Our boss.”

“You mean you’re — you’re laborers?”

Johnny pushed out his lips in a great pout, looked down at his hands, then suddenly looked up and beamed at The Leather Duke. “Shall we say we’re working as laborers?”

Towner scowled. “What do you mean?”

“There was a murder at your plant today, wasn’t there?”

Towner stabbed a nicely manicured forefinger at Johnny. “Now, don’t tell me you’re police undercover men?”

Johnny closed one eye. You couldn’t exactly call it a wink, because he kept the lid down for a long moment. “Mr. Towner, there are some things I can’t tell you — not at this moment. Shall we just say that — that we’re working as laborers at your plant and that we, ah, have important information pertaining to what happened there this morning?”

“Now, wa-ait a minute,” cried the leather man. “That plant happens to be my personal property. If there are any shenanigans going on there, I have a right to know...”

“Exactly, sir. And that’s why we’re here.”

“Well, spill it, don’t just stand there throwing hints at me.”

“It’ll take a little while to tell. Were you, ah, about to take a plunge?”

“I just had a steam and a rubdown. I intend to have my dinner and then... say, you can tell me this over dinner. I’ll be dressed in just a minute. You’ve got the time?”

“We’ve got the time,” said Johnny.

Harry Towner hurried off to a cubicle and Johnny and Sam exchanged significant glances. The ghost of a smile played over Johnny’s lips.

“Dinner, Sam.”

“Can you bull him through to the dessert, Johnny?” Sam asked eagerly. “It must be two years since I’ve had any.”

“The desserts at the Lakeside are the finest in Chicago,” Johnny said. “I hope.”

Harry Towner came out of the little cubicle in a few minutes, knotting a Brooks Brothers tie. “All right, gentlemen,” he said, “we’ll just run down to the grill room. A little quieter there than the main dining room.”

“How’s the grub?” Sam asked.

Towner looked at him sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

“The food, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, quickly. “Mr. Cragg is a bit of a gourmet, you might say.”

“Yeah, you might say,” said Sam Cragg.

“I like good food myself,” Towner rumbled. “That’s the only fault I find with the cuisine here — you can’t get a good steak.”

“You can’t?” cried Sam.

Towner shook his head sadly. “They don’t know enough to buy meat ahead. A steak’s got to hang for a couple of months or it’s no good.”

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Towner,” enthused Johnny. “There’s a little spot in Los Angeles, that is, in Santa Monica, down by the beach, where they really know how to cook a steak. They hang them in a cellar for three months, then scrape off the whiskers and put them on the fire...” Johnny rolled his eyes upwards. “That’s a steak for you, sir!”

By this time the trio had descended a broad flight of stairs and entered a grill room that occupied about half of the entire third floor. Soft lights lit up each table and white-jacketed waiters moved smoothly in and out among the tables. A headwaiter led them to a table on a balcony raised a few feet above the main floor and brought them large menus.

Harry Towner looked at the card and shook his head. “You’ve given me an appetite for a steak, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, sadly, “but they’re simply impossible here. I believe I’ll just have a watercress salad and a glass of skim milk.”

“Oh, no!” groaned Sam.

Johnny said: “I’m a glutton for punishment, Mr. Towner. I’ve said over and over, just how bad can a steak be? And I’ve said to myself, never again, but” — he smiled brightly — “I’ll try once more.” He looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have a filet mignon and tell the chef to do his worst. Mr. Cragg, will you have the same?”

“With French fries,” cried Sam, “and smothered in onions. And a big piece of apple pie — naw, make that apple pie a la mode. And all the trimmings with the dinner. I’m hungry.”

“Why, Sam,” Johnny chided, “you are hungry!” He laughed merrily. “So am I, for that matter. Do you know, Mr. Towner, we actually worked today. Gives you a terrible appetite when you’re not used to it.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” conceded Towner. He placed his forearms upon the table and leaned forward. “And now, sir, if you’ll tell me what’s going on in my leather factory...”

“Ah yes,” said Johnny.

“Yeah, Johnny,” agreed Sam, “go ahead, tell him.”

“Go right ahead, Mr. Fletcher. I’m not one of these men who can’t talk business while eating. You just tell me the whole story.”

“Very well, sir, a horrible crime was committed in your factory today. A murder.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. Go on, Fletcher.”

“I’ll have to bore you with a little background, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, “necessary background, so you’ll understand the complete ramifications and meaning of this crime. You’ve heard of the Mafia...?”

“The Mafia?” exclaimed Towner.

“The Black Hand, as it is commonly known in this country.”

“But that’s been dead for twenty-five years...”

“Has it, Mr. Towner? Let’s just take a look back. A quick look. The Mafia originated on the Island of Sicily, about the same time that its counterpart, the Camorra, was being born on the mainland in Southern Italy. The Mafia was an outgrowth of the Napoleonic Wars. The large landowners could not operate their farms, so they turned the work over to groups of ruffians, who by intimidations, threats and often violence, cowed other groups of ruffians, made them work the large estates. But soon the first group took things into their own hands. They rebelled against the landowners, put the squeeze on them and were soon the masters themselves. This was fine for the Mafia, but soon they were quarreling among themselves, one band of the Mafia against another. Many large bands were formed and all were at war with each other. They had only one law, in common to all of them, that was never to take their quarrels to the authorities. They were their own law, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Absolute secrecy was enforced upon all members. Terrible reprisals were executed against those who talked. As the years went by the Mafia became powerful in all classes. Politicians feared them, joined them. The Mafia spread into Italy proper, into other countries. They became powerful in the United States in the nineties and in the early part of this century they ruled the Italian colonies in all the cities of this great country. Here in Chicago—”

“I know all about them,” cut in Harry Towner. “I’ve lived in Chicago all my life.”

“Right, sir. Well, your factory happens to be located in what is definitely an Italian section of the city, Sicilian, I should say—”

“It’s called Little Italy, I know that.”

“And you employ Italians.”

“They make good factory hands, work reasonable and take orders. Much better than Germans or Irish, or even Bohemians...”

“But the Mafia, Mr. Towner, confines itself to its own kind — Italians.”

“The Mafia,” exclaimed The Leather Duke, “is extinct. It was smashed during the twenties, at the same time that it’s power was broken in Italy — yes, by Mussolini. That was the one good thing the man did...”

“The Mafia has been extinct before,” Johnny said, somberly. “It was destroyed in 1830, or so the Sicilian authorities believed. It was wiped out in the 1860’s and again around 1892, but always it came back. More furtive, more secret, more terrible...”

Harry Towner banged his fist upon the dinner table. “Are you trying to tell me, Fletcher, that the Mafia had a hand in the... the thing that happened today?”

“Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, slowly, “I am not prepared to tell you that. It would be presumptuous of me to do so, at this stage. I’m merely telling you a little of the history of the organization, that’s all, to show how it has always sprung up when it was least expected to do so. The Mafia or Black Hand, as it is commonly called—”

He stopped. Two waiters were bearing down upon the table with huge trays of food. Harry Towner glowered at Johnny, then at Sam. He leaned back in his chair and watched while the servitors spread the plates around the table, the little plate containing his watercress salad and the large and numerous plates containing the viands ordered by Johnny and Sam.