The Leather Duke

Chapter Nine

A man came along the corridor in the morning and banged on the doors. “Rise and shine,” he roared. “Seven o’clock.”

Johnny groaned and sat up on the bed. He blinked and shook his head to clear away the sleep. Then he saw where he was and got to his feet. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, to meet Sam just coming out of his own room.

“Hey, you!” roared Sam at the man banging on the doors. “What’s the idea, waking people in the middle of the night?”

“Everybody’s got to be out by eight o’clock or pay extra,” the man retorted.

“We’ve got to be at work by eight, Sam,” exclaimed Johnny. “Come on.” They hurried to the rear of the corridor where a sign over a door, said: Lavatory.

Inside was a galvanized iron washtub and a couple of long grey towels, hanging from a nail. Being already dressed they had the edge on the other guests of the hotel and were washed before anyone else came into the room. The late risers would find the towels slightly soiled and rather wet.

They left the hotel and walked to Madison. Turning east, they found a restaurant where for fifteen cents apiece they had oatmeal, two stale rolls and coffee. That left them thirty cents, but Johnny decided that they ought to keep a small stake and they walked the two miles to the Towner leather factory, arriving there at three minutes to eight.

The office was deserted, those employees apparently not coming to work until nine o’clock. And the elevator was not running, so they were compelled to climb to the fifth floor.

They were just entering the counter department when the eight o’clock bell rang. All the counter sorters were at their benches, with one exception, Elliott Towner.

Joe Genara came up, grinning. “Hi, fellas, enjoy our neighborhood last night?”

“Where’d you disappear to?” Johnny asked suspiciously.

“I watched it from the sidelines. Wasn’t my fight. If I were you I wouldn’t go walking around Oak and Milton tonight. Carmella and his gang are ready for you.” He winked at Sam Cragg. “Nice exhibition, Sam.”

“I didn’t even get warmed up,” said Sam.

Hal Johnson came into the sorting department from between two rows of barrels. “Break it up,” he snapped. “The bell rang five minutes ago.”

Genara scurried to his bench and Sam went off, scowling. Johnny grabbed up a couple of counters but Johnson remained at his side. “You’re a disturbing influence, Fletcher,” he said. “I’m beginning to think I made the mistake of my life hiring you. Who hit you in the face?”

Johnny touched the broken skin on his cheek.

“Had a little trouble with the Black Hand last night.”

“The Black Hand! Are you crazy?”

“The Mafia...”

Johnson made an angry gesture. “Don’t tell me about the Mafia, I grew up in this neighborhood. There hasn’t been any Mafia...” He stopped, looked suspiciously at Johnny. “You been listening to Karl Kessler?”

“He did mention something about the Black Hand.” Johnson snorted in disgust. “Karl’s got the Black Hand on the brain. Every time an Italian gets into an argument or a fight, he sees the Black Hand.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re doing, working in a factory, Fletcher, but you look like a man with a fair amount of intelligence...”

“Thanks, boss!”

“Ah-h-rr!”

Johnson made an impatient brushing motion and walked off. Chuckling, Johnny began to sort counters.

Ten minutes later, Karl Kessler, his face red, came up beside Johnny and began to look over his bunched counters. “What’s the idea tellin’ Hal Johnson I said the Black Hand killed Al Piper?” he demanded.

“Johnson told you I said that?” Johnny asked in surprise.

“He said you told him I was talking about the Black Hand.”

“Well, you were, yesterday.”

“But I didn’t say the Black Hand killed Al Piper. Al wasn’t a guinea and guineas only kill guineas in the Black Hand.”

“Look, Karl,” said Johnny patiently, “Johnson came along and asked me who gave me this mouse on the face and I said the Black Hand, that’s all. It was a joke, like some fellows would say they bumped into a door when they got a black eye.”

Kessler examined Johnny’s face with interest. “Who smacked you?”

“A guy,” said Johnny. “I stuck my nose into his business.”

“Yeah, that’s what you get for sticking your nose into somebody else’s business.”

“I just said that.”

“So you did and it’s a good thing to remember.” Karl pushed back a nest of counters. “These are okay for mediums.”

Johnny was about to say that the counters were heavies, but Karl Kessler trotted off and Johnny moved the bunch of counters over to the medium side.

He sorted a few counters, then became aware that Swensen, the old Dane, was casting furtive glances his way. “Ahoy, mate,” Johnny called to him.

“No yob for a young man,” the old sea dog said, shaking his head. “Should start a business. No future workin’ with your hands. Kessler, Johnson, thirty-nine years one yob. They never see the world. Me, I have been in Rome, Cairo, Sydney, Shanghai—”

“And now you’re workin’ here.”

“I get beached. Unlucky, but I have seen the world. I got memories.”

“So have I,” said Johnny.

“What memories young fellow have?”

“I’m the world’s greatest book salesman,” said Johnny cheerfully. “I’ve made fifty thousand dollars a year. One year I made more money than the President of the United States.”

“Yah!” jeered Swensen, “and I am Lord Nelson one time.”

“Okay,” said Johnny, “you have your dreams and I’ll have mine. I don’t suppose you’d believe that I had dinner with Mr. Towner last night, yes, The Leather Duke himself.”

“Yah,” snorted Swensen. “I’m thinking you’re world’s biggest liar!”

Hal Johnson came striding from the direction of his desk, his face as dark as a thunderhead. “Fletcher,” he cried. “I just got a phone call from the office... Mr. Harry Towner wants you to come right down.”

Johnny nodded casually. “Thanks, boss.” He winked at Swensen, whose mouth had fallen open.

“What’s it all about?” cried Johnson.

“Tell you later,” said Johnny easily, “mustn’t keep Harry waiting, you know.”

Johnson struck his forehead with his open palm and leaned against Johnny’s desk for support. He watched Johnny walk off.

Johnny rode down to the first floor in the elevator and approached Nancy Miller’s desk. “ ’Morning, Taffy,” he greeted her. “Where’ll I find Harry?”

“Harry?” gasped Nancy. “Have you gone completely goofy?”

“Not at all, Taffy, Harry wants to see me.”

“Mister Towner?”

“That’s right, The Duke himself. Guess he wants to ask me a few things about the leather business. I told him last night at the club that he ought to make a few changes around here and—”

Elliott Towner came out of an office, some twenty feet away. “Fletcher!” he called. “Here.”

“Ah, the young Duke,” exclaimed Johnny. “See you later, Taffy.”

He breezed past Nancy’s desk and headed for Elliott Towner. “How’re you this morning, El?” Johnny asked as he came up.

“I’m fine,” Elliott replied grimly. “But I don’t know how you’ll feel in a few minutes.” He stepped aside so that Johnny could enter The Leather Duke’s office.

It was a big room, some twenty-four by thirty feet in size. It had a rug about three inches thick and some hand-carved teakwood furniture. Harry Towner sat behind an enormous desk, a fat cigar in his mouth. Elliott came into the office behind Johnny and closed the door.

“Mr. Fletcher,” began Harry Towner, “I see you’ve a bruise on your face this morning. Something go wrong with your little stake-out last night?”

“Oh, nothing much, Mr. Towner,” replied Johnny easily. “Hardly worth mentioning. Six or seven men attacked Cragg and me, but it didn’t amount to much.”

“No, I don’t suppose so, since there were only six or seven. But let’s get to the point, Fletcher; about this Mafia business...”

“Yes?”

Harry Towner puffed mightily on his cigar three or four times, sending out clouds of smoke that should have warned Johnny. “I want a short answer, Fletcher, a yes or a no, if it’s possible for you to use those words. Are you, or are you not, an undercover man?”

“Why, Mr. Towner,” exclaimed Johnny. “Whoever gave you the idea that I was an undercover man? I’m a counter sorter here at this factory. I’m employed up on the fifth floor—”

“Yes or no!” roared The Leather Duke.

“Yes,” said Johnny.

“Yes, what? You’re an undercover man?”

“No. Yes, I’m a counter sorter.”

Towner took the cigar from his mouth and laid it carefully on the edge of an ash tray. He placed his hands flat on his desk. “Now, answer the next question briefly, not with a yes or no, but briefly. Why did you come to see me at the club last night?”

“Why, I didn’t come to see you, sir. Sam and I went to the club to call on Mr. Elliott and the doorman happened to phone you. I had asked for Mr. Towner, and—”

“I’m trying to be patient, Fletcher,” Harry Towner said thickly. “So answer me briefly — please! Why did you want to see Elliott?”

“Because of one of your company rules, Mr. Towner.”

The Leather Duke pressed down hard on the top of his desk with his hands. “There’s a company rule about calling at the Lakeside Club...?”

“Oh, no, that isn’t what I meant. There’s a company rule about giving employees an advance on their salaries. You see, Sam and I are stony and since Mr. Elliott was kind enough to buy us our lunches yesterday, we thought, well—”

“No!” whispered Harry Towner. “No, no, no!”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “We came to the club for one reason only, to get Mr. Elliott to buy us our dinners.”

“It’s true, Dad,” exclaimed Elliott Towner. “They practically invited me to have lunch with them yesterday, then when the checks came they insisted I pay for them. Made quite a scene at the little place across the street.”

“No, no,” said Johnny, “that wasn’t a scene. I merely pointed out that it wouldn’t be good company policy to allow a couple of Towner employees to spend all afternoon washing dishes, inasmuch as—”

“Fletcher,” said The Leather Duke, “that business about the Black Hand...”

“Words, Mr. Towner. To keep your mind occupied until the dinners came. But I told you only the truth, sir. About the Black Hand and — about us. I said we were working here as laborers. We are. I gave you a history of the Black Hand, a true history. If you misunderstood...”

Harry Towner suddenly pushed back his big chair and got to his feet. “Wait, Fletcher. Be still for ten seconds. Don’t say another word.”

He turned his back to Johnny and smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. Johnny looked at Elliott Towner, smiled weakly. The Leather Duke’s son gave him a bleak look in return.