The Leather Duke

“Randolph and Wells,” he said.

The cab jerked off, scooted to Chicago Avenue and turned east. At Wells it turned right and a moment later, the cab driver spoke to Johnny.

“It’s none a my business, Mister, but I think there’s a car following us. Black Chevvie.”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “Fella breaking in a set of tires for me.”

The driver thought that over for a moment, then tried again. “We ain’t got far to go, but I can lose him.”

“Don’t bother.”

The driver shrugged and pulled up at the corner of Randolph and Wells, a few minutes later. Johnny got out and giving the man a dollar looked back. The black Chevrolet was pulling into the curb.

Johnny grinned and crossing Randolph started looking at the building numbers. Halfway down the block he turned into a rickety old building, consulted the directory, then rode in the elevator to the fourth floor.

He stepped out in front of a ground glass door on which was lettered: Wiggins Detective Agency. Enter.

Johnny entered.

A grey-haired woman with horn-rim spectacles sat at a battered desk in a tiny reception room. One office door opened off the room.

“Mr. Wiggins,” Johnny said.

“You have an appointment?”

“No, but I... well, I’m looking for a good detective agency and you were highly recommended...”

“By whom?”

Johnny shook his head. “He asked me not to tell. Of course if Mr. Wiggins can’t see me...”

“What’s the nature of your trouble?”

“I’m not in trouble, but let it pass; there’s another agency in the next block and—”

“Just a moment!”

The woman got up, opened the private office door and went in. She closed the door behind her. Johnny leaned across the desk, saw a pad of paper on which there was some writing. He swung the pad around, whistled softly. The writing read: “Begley phoned. Said subject went into leather factory. Girl drove off. Begley is waiting outside factory.”

He had just flipped the pad of paper back into its former position and straightened when the inner door opened and the receptionist came out. Her eyes went from Johnny, near the desk, to the pad of paper.

“Mr. Wiggins will see you,” she said, severely.

Johnny went into the private office. An enormously fat, bald man swung a squeaking swivel chair around, but did not get up.

“I’m Ed Wiggins,” he wheezed. “Have a seat.”

Johnny sat down on a cracked straight-backed chair.

“Perhaps I made a mistake,” he began, “I was under the impression that this was a, well, large private detective agency.”

“Ain’t I big enough?” snapped Wiggins.

“Plenty,” Johnny retorted, “but the job I have in mind requires the services of a couple of operators and you apparently run this place alone...”

“I do the brain work,” said Wiggins, angrily, “I’ve got the best crew of operators working for me that you could find in the whole city...”

“They make their headquarters in the phone booth down in the lobby?”

Wiggins banged a fat fist on his desk, almost splintering it. “You come in here to make cracks or hire a detective? My men work on a fee basis. When I need them they go to work; when I haven’t got anything for them, they stay home. How many men do you need?”

“Three.”

“I got the three best men in town, Joe Carmichael, Jim White and Les Begley. Shadowing, Begley’s your man, bodyguard, Carmichael, and White’s the lad for schmoosing up to the ladies. What’s your problem?”

“A little of all three,” said Johnny. “I want to find out everything there is to know about a man — his family life, his friends, his enemies, the things he did, the places he went. Everything there is to know.”

“Cost you money.”

“I didn’t expect you to do it for fun.”

Wiggins leaned over his desk with somewhat of an effort and picked up a pencil. “What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Wiggins grunted. “Smith, huh? All right. Now, what’s the name of the party you want investigated?”

“Piper. Al Piper.”

Wiggins started to write, but hadn’t scrawled more than the initial letter when he stopped and looked up at Johnny. “What’s the gag? Piper’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I can read the newspapers, can’t I? He was murdered yesterday, in a leather factory up on the north side.”

The phone on Wiggins’ desk tinkled. He scooped it up. “Yeah? What...? All right, put him on... Hello. Yes... what’s that? I see... all right. Stay on the job.” He hung up, leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his fat hands across the wide expanse of his stomach.

“Smith, huh? Spell it F-l-e-t-c-h-e-r, huh?”

“Improved spelling,” said Johnny. He nodded to the phone. “Begley? The one who’s good at shadowing?”

“What’s the game?”

“No game, Wiggins. I want to hire a good detective agency...”

“You can’t hire this one. It’s against the rules to take two clients on the one job...” He hesitated. “That is if their interests, are, ah, inimical?”

“Well, are they?”

“Look, Fletcher, I know damn well that your being here isn’t any coincidence. You found out this noon that Begley was shadowing you and that he worked for me. That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”