The Leather Duke

But out on the street, some of his confidence ebbed from him. He walked north to Division Street and turned east. At the corner of Larrabee, he stopped for five minutes and had almost decided to give it up when his eye caught a sign over a store on the other side of the street. ASSISTANCE LEAGUE.

On a sudden impulse he crossed the street and entered the store. On the inside it looked like an orderly junk shop. Secondhand clothing in all stages of wear and tear hung from racks. Rusted tools and hardware were spread out on counters. Near the rear of the shop was a counter piled high with old shoes. In front of the counter stood four wooden barrels, all filled with old shoes.

A thin, pale man who looked like a reformed boozer blocked Johnny’s path. “Something for you?”

“Shoes,” Johnny said. “Size nine and a half.”

The clerk pointed at one of the counters. “Here you are, but we don’t guarantee the sizes.”

“Good enough, I’ll guess.”

Ten minutes later Johnny showed the attendant two objects that had once been shoes. The uppers were cracked and worn, the toe of one shoe had a half inch split and the soles of both had become loosened. In one there was a hole clear through.

“How much?” Johnny asked.

The attendant had the grace to blush. “Why, ah, where did you find those?”

“In the barrel. Not very good, are they?”

“We’re supposed to sort them out before we put them on sale,” said the clerk. “We make it a rule to sell only wearable merchandise.”

“Do you think these are wearable?”

“Well, I suppose there’s some wear in them...”

“Look,” said Johnny. He took hold of the sole of one of the shoes, yanked suddenly and ripped it halfway down. “Is it wearable now?”

“No, but you—”

“I know,” cut in Johnny. “But what would you say they were worth before I did?”

“I’m supposed to get fifty cents a pair, but—”

“That’s a deal,” said Johnny, “if you’ll wrap them up-in a newspaper.”

The clerk wrapped them and then there was some difficulty about making change for the ten dollar bill, but it was finally managed by going next door to the drugstore. At length, Johnny was back on Division Street, with a newspaper-wrapped parcel under his arm.

He crossed Milton and looked apprehensively off to the right in the direction of Oak Street a couple of blocks away, but continued on up Division. A few minutes later he came to the plant of the John B. Croft Shoe Company, a modern six-story brick building. He entered.

The reception room was lined with pine paneling and had a nice pine desk in one corner behind which sat an attractive redheaded girl. Two men were seated in leather armchairs, apparently awaiting the pleasure of Croft executives.

“Mr. Croft,” Johnny said to the receptionist. “John B.”

“You have an appointment?”

“No,” said Johnny. “I have no appointment.”

“Mr. Croft never sees anyone without an appointment.”

“Tell him that Mr. Fletcher is calling.”

“You’re a personal friend?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid it wouldn’t be of any use for me to tell him. Mr. Croft never sees anyone without an appointment.”

“Tell him that Mr. Fletcher wants to see him.”

“If you could tell me the nature of your business...”

“Personal.”

“But you just said that you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t, but my business is personal. Tell him...”

The redhead winced and picked up her phone. “Just a moment, I’ll see if his secretary will see you...” She spoke into her phone. “Miss Williams, there’s a man here insists on seeing Mr. Croft. He says it’s personal and... yes, I know, but could you come out?” She hung up. “Miss Williams will be out.”

Miss Williams came presently. She was short and stout and wore a pince-nez. “You want to see Mr. Croft?” she asked loftily. “What is it about?”

“I told this beautiful redheaded young lady that my business with Mr. Croft was personal.”

“I’m Mr. Croft’s confidential secretary. I can’t interrupt him unless you tell me the nature of your business.”

Johnny said, firmly: “You know all about Mr. Croft’s affairs, eh? Well, just go in and tell him that Mr. Fletcher is here and wants to see him. Fletcher. F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r. Just tell him Fletcher and tell him to think hard. And tell him I’ll wait three minutes. No more. Got that, girlie? The name is Fletcher and I’ll wait three minutes.”

The confidential secretary looked at Johnny startled, then realized that she was wasting precious seconds and hurried off. She returned in two minutes and forty-five seconds. She held open the door.

“Will you come in, please?”

Johnny went down a wide hall, into a reception room at the end. The stout secretary hurried up from behind him and opened a paneled door.

Johnny went in.

John B. Croft’s office was as large as Harry Towner’s, but instead of teakwood, he favored dark mahogany. He was a little man — little, fat and balding. He was perspiring lightly.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Fletcher?” he asked, a bit nervously.

Johnny nodded, crossed the room and sat down in a leather-covered chair some five feet from the shoe manufacturer. He placed the newspaper parcel carefully on his lap and looked at John B. Croft.