The Leather Duke

“We know, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said softly, “that an Italian named Carmella Vitali had a quarrel with this man who called himself Piper and we know that Carmella quit his job this morning and that” — Johnny paused significantly — “shortly afterwards Piper was found dead, his throat cut!”

Harry Towner nodded thoughtfully. “The police took this Carmella into custody this afternoon. For questioning.”

“They’ll get nothing out of him,” Johnny said promptly. “Nothing but evasions and lies. The rule of the Mafia — silence!”

“I’d make him talk,” Towner said grimly. “If the police’d give him to me for a half hour, he’d talk. I’d take him and—”

He stopped, looked past Johnny and Sam. Johnny turned. Elliott Towner was approaching the table. Behind him was a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty, wearing tweeds, and the most beautiful girl Johnny had ever seen. She was fairly tall with dark chestnut hair. But it was her face that was really beautiful. Not that she had even, classical features, no, many girls had those. This one had a sparkling vitality, a personality that jolted Johnny like a live power line.

He kicked back his chair, got to his feet.

Harry Towner also rose. “Elliott,” he said, “Linda!” He put all the emphasis upon the girl’s name. He ignored the fiancé completely.

“Dad,” said Linda Towner and kissed her father on the cheek.

“Linda, Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Cragg.”

“H’arya,” said Sam.

Johnny smiled, leaned forward and she gave him her hand. “How do you do, Miss Towner.”

She murmured an acknowledgment.

“My son, Elliott,” went on Towner. Elliott stared coolly at Johnny. “We’ve met.”

“Oh, of course, at the plant. Ah yes, I almost forgot. And, ah, Mr. Wendland, Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Cragg. We’ve been discussing business, but we’re about through for the moment. Won’t you sit down?”

A waiter brought additional chairs and everyone seated themselves. Johnny, aware that Elliott Towner was regarding him steadily, shifted his look from Linda T owner.

“You can’t pay here,” Elliott said.

Johnny looked at him blankly. “Eh?”

“Members sign.”

Harry Towner heard the last remark. “What’s that, Elliott?”

“Why, I was just saying that Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Cragg are fellow workers at the plant.”

Harry Towner laughed jovially and slapped the table with an open palm. “So they are, Elliott, so they are, and you think—”

Johnny put a warning finger to his lips. “Mr. Towner, please!”

“But this is my family, Fletcher. Freddie, too — he’s practically one of us...”

“Just the same,” began Johnny.

“Nonsense, Fletcher, nonsense, I have no secrets from my family. They’re interested in the business as much as I am.”

“A secret!” exclaimed Linda Towner. “What is it?”

“A secret,” said Johnny desperately.

Then Linda turned the full power of her hazel eyes on him. “A secret, Mr. Fletcher, connected with the business? And you’re trying to keep it from me? You haven’t got a chance. I’ll get it from you, sooner or later, so you might as well save yourself wear and tear and spill it now.”

Harry Towner sobered. “I don’t know, Linda. It’s rather unpleasant, but then you’ve probably already seen it in the papers...”

“Oh, that! Of course. As a matter of fact, Elliott was telling us about it upstairs.” She suddenly turned to Sam. “Cragg — you’re the Sam Cragg who found the body. Is it true that you lift up barrels of leather with one hand?”

“Naw,” replied Sam, “I use two hands on account of it’s too hard to get hold of a barrel with one hand. But I could lift ’em with one hand if they had handles.”

“What’s that?” asked The Leather Duke.

Elliott turned to his father. “Sam Cragg’s a strong man. He picks up two-hundred-pound barrels and raises them over his head.”

Towner regarded Sam with interest. “You’re really strong, eh?” He nodded in satisfaction. “Comes in handy with your work, I suppose.”

“Yeah, sure,” agreed Sam. “We don’t have to bother cranking up that dinky elevator.”

“Speaking of elevators,” Johnny said loudly, “remember that Senegalese in Casablanca...” Then he winced. “No, I can’t talk about that. Not yet.”

“Why not, Mr. Fletcher?” Elliott Towner demanded.

Johnny squinted and looked at Harry Towner. The leather man took it up for Johnny. “That’s the secret, Elliott. And perhaps Fletcher is right, the fewer who know the better...”

“The fewer who know what?” persisted Elliott.

Harry Towner hesitated and Johnny, with a sigh, put his napkin on the table. “What do you say, Sam, shall we get going?”

“Huh? I ain’t had my dessert yet. I was figuring on apple pie a la mode. You promised me...”

“I know, but it’s getting late and we’ve got to stake out that place...”

“Stake out!” cried Linda Towner. “I know what that means. I read it in a detective story. Who’re you going to watch, Mr. Fletcher?”

Johnny got to his feet. “I’m afraid I’ve said too much already, Miss Towner. You’ll... you’ll keep this quiet?”

“Of course, but...” She frowned in sudden thought. “I’ve half a mind to make you let us come along. Freddie, are you game?”