The Leather Duke

As Johnny seated himself, Linda leaned eagerly across the table. “What did you find out?”

“I found out that he isn’t as smart as he thinks he is,” Johnny said, grimly. He reached into his pocket and brought out his four hundreds and two fifties. He peeled off one of the fifties and caught the eye of their waiter who was hovering nearby.

“Could you get me change for this?” Johnny asked. “Say four tens and a couple of fives.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh — and by the way, your doorman checked in a black Chevrolet coupe a few minutes ago. License 7 S 57–08. Could you get me the name and address of the owner?”

“Why, yes, I believe I could,” said the waiter. He moved off swiftly with the fifty dollar bill.

Johnny looked brightly at Linda. “Now, where were we?”

“You and Freddie were exchanging insults,” said Linda, “but we decided to stop that and listen to you make like a detective.”

“That’s right,” said Johnny. “The first thing a good detective does is to check on the alibis of all persons connected with the crime. Let’s begin with you, Linda. Where were you yesterday morning?”

Linda started to laugh, then realizing that Johnny was regarding her seriously, she sobered. “Now, surely, you don’t think I had any connection with that?”

“It’s your father’s factory.”

“You mean you also suspect Dad?”

“Everyone connected with the plant is a suspect, five hundred people, more or less. There’s only one of them I don’t suspect — myself.”

“But that policeman suspects you quite strongly.”

“True. But I know I didn’t do it, so I can eliminate myself.”

“And you can eliminate me. I wasn’t anywhere near the factory yesterday.”

“Check!” Johnny shifted to Wendland. “And you?”

Wendland drew back. “Are you insane, man?” he gasped. “This... this man who was killed was a common laborer.”

“So?”

“I’m afraid I don’t move in such circles.”

Johnny’s eyes smoldered as he studied Wendland. “That’s a very good idea, Mr. Wendland. Associate with working people and you might pick up their habits, such as going to work yourself.”

“What he means, Freddie darling,” put in Linda, “is that you’re a stuffed shirt and a snob. Or to put it more succinctly, a stinker.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” said Johnny.

Fred Wendland pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Very well, Linda, if you’re going to side with him...”

“Run along, Freddie.”

“I’ll phone you tonight.”

“Do that. Perhaps I’ll be home.”

Wendland bowed to Linda, gave Johnny a frigid look and walked off.

“You know,” said Johnny, “I don’t think Freddie likes me.”

The waiter moved up to the table. “Here’s your change, sir,” he said, unctuously, counting out the bills one by one, four tens, two fives. “The party didn’t have an ownership card in the car, but the manager has a book in his office which gives the name and address of every car owner in the state—”

“And...?”

“The black Chevrolet, License 7 S 57–08 is registered in the name of Wiggins Detective Agency...”

“I’ll be damned,” exclaimed Johnny.

The waiter coughed gently. “Your change, sir. Four tens and, ah, two fives...”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Johnny picked up the bills, riffled them together and stowed them into his pocket. The waiter groaned and went off.

“He’ll probably put his thumb in the soup,” Johnny said, “so I think we’d better skip that course... Wiggins Detective Agency. Now, who the devil would be hiring a detective agency?”

“Why don’t you ask the man?”

“Linda,” said Johnny, “you ought to be a detective yourself. Excuse me a minute.”

He got up and crossed the room. The insignificant-looking private detective was taking a bite of his bacon and tomato sandwich when Johnny came up. He stopped halfway through the bite, with the sandwich in his mouth.

“Who’s paying the Wiggins Agency to have me shadowed?” Johnny demanded.

Mayonnaise dripped through the fingers of the private detective. He became aware of it after a moment and removed the sandwich from his mouth. He picked up his napkin and wiped the mayonnaise from his fingers.

“Sorry. Never heard of the Wiggins Agency.”

“Your car’s registered in the Wiggins Agency’s name.”

“How did you...?” The detective caught himself, scowled at Johnny. “Beat it, fella, you’re spoiling my lunch.”

“I hope so. Anybody who’d eat mayonnaise...” Johnny shrugged and walked back to his table. The waiter was putting out the food, setting down the plates with a little more than necessary annoyance.

“He won’t talk,” said Johnny, “but I’ve got him worried.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

“Apparently someone suspects you so strongly that they’re paying money to a private detective agency to have you shadowed.”

“Of course,” said Johnny, “we don’t know for sure that I’m the one who’s being shadowed.”

Linda inhaled sharply. “You think — me?”

“Have you been behaving yourself lately?”

Linda looked thoughtfully at Johnny. “You’re not really joking. You think I—”

“No.”

“You do!”