The Leather Duke

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and found Apartment 3C. Johnny leaned against the door buzzer and the door was opened in a matter of three seconds by a girl with natural auburn hair and the smoothest complexion Johnny had seen in four years. The girl was fairly tall and weighed about eighty pounds less than the two hundred mark that Sam had complained about. Johnny shot a quick look at Sam, saw that his mouth was gaping.

“Miss Ballard,” said Johnny. “May I introduce your date, my friend, Sam Cragg.”

“Right name,” said the girl, “wrong date.”

“I’m Johnny Fletcher. Let’s talk it over...”

Nancy Miller appeared behind the redheaded girl. “Johnny!” she cried. She was wearing a long evening dress that must have cost her four or five weekly paychecks.

“Your date,” said Miss Ballard. “Excuse me.” She backed into the apartment and Johnny and Sam followed. Sam’s eyes never once left the redheaded girl.

Nancy Miller looked at Sam Cragg, then at Johnny. Her head tilted to one side. Johnny grinned.

“You did say you had a girl friend for Sam, didn’t you?”

“No,” said Nancy coolly. “I didn’t.”

“You mean I forgot to tell you that Sam and I always double-date girls?”

“You didn’t mention it. And if you had, I’d have told you that I never double-date...”

Johnny nodded toward Nancy’s roommate. “I don’t think Sam would mind.”

Miss Ballard heard that. “Sorry, chum. I’ve got a date.”

“With your regular boy friend?”

“Yes.”

Johnny made a deprecating gesture. “What’s one date more or less with a steady? Sam’s new, he’s different. And he’s the strongest man in the world.”

“Oh, the strong man Nancy was telling about.”

“She’s told you about him? And me?”

“About you, plenty!”

“Shut up, Jane,” snapped Nancy Miller.

“Go ahead, Janie,” urged Johnny. “I like to hear nice things about me.”

“Johnny,” said Nancy. “I let you make this date against my better judgment. I’ve got a very dull novel here, from the rental library, but I think I’d just as soon read it as go out with you.”

“Now,” said Johnny, appeasingly. “I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs. I’m all set to show you a few very warm spots...”

“Like the Bucket of Blood, perhaps?”

“They’ve got a dance tonight.”

“They have one every Friday night.” Nancy went to a closet and got out a coat. “What about him?” she asked, nodding to Sam.

“Gordon’s been feeling his oats a little too much lately,” Jane Ballard suddenly said. “I think I’ll stand him up tonight. Do him good!”

“Atta girl!” cried Johnny.

“Oh, boy!” chortled Sam.

“Jane,” said Nancy Miller, “if you don’t mind...”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” exclaimed Jane Ballard. “I’ll come along for the laughs.”

There was a glint in Nancy’s blue eyes, but she turned away and got her purse. When she came back the glint was gone. “All right, Fletcher and Cragg, bring on your laughs.”

“The first one’s waiting downstairs,” said Johnny, “a private detective in a black Chevrolet. He’s been shadowing me all day...”

“If you think I’m going out with a detective following us, you’re crazy,” Nancy flared.

“What’s the difference?” asked Johnny. “I want him to follow me. Saves me the trouble of following him.”

Nancy stared at Johnny a moment, then she exhaled softly. “Where do you come in on all this, Johnny?”

“I’m an innocent bystander, that’s all.”

“Innocent bystanders sometimes get hurt.”

“Who’s going to hurt me? Freddie Wendland? Or— Elliott Towner?”

Nancy whirled away, walked to a wall mirror and put new lips on her mouth, with her lipstick. Jane Ballard, in the meantime, got her purse and coat.

Nancy put away her lipstick. “All right, let’s go.”

They left the apartment and crossed the sidewalk to the waiting taxicab. Johnny didn’t even bother to look for Begley, the private detective. He was parked nearby, no question of that. They all climbed into the cab.

“Somebody’s got to sit on somebody’s lap,” Johnny said, plumping down and pulling Nancy onto his lap. She was stiff and resistant for a moment, but then leaned back against him. Sam shot a disappointed look at Johnny as he took the seat on the far side. Jane seated herself between Johnny and Sam.

The cabby swiveled his head. “Where to?”

“The Bucket of Blood,” said Johnny.

“What’s that?”

Nancy exclaimed. “Another of your jokes.”

“Uh-uh, the name intrigues me. I’d like to see the place.”

“I’ve got on my new dress,” Nancy said, angrily. “I thought we were going—”

“Maybe later on. Let’s take a look at the Bucket of Blood first.”

“Mister,” said the cabby, patiently. “I know a Bucket of Blood down on Wentworth, near 22nd. There’s another out on Kedzie Boulevard...”

“The one we want is on Clybourn Avenue. The Clybourn Hall, it’s called.”

“Oh, that place!”

The driver meshed gears and the cab shot away. It roared up Armitage to Halsted, turned left and a few minutes later, diagonaled into Clybourn. The brakes squealed and the car came to a stop.