The Leather Duke

The group got out of the taxi. The building before which they had stopped was an ancient three-story brick affair. The first floor housed a tavern. A wide door and a stairway led up to the second floor. A banner over the doorway announced: Clybourn Turnverein Dance. $1.00 Admission. Ladies Free.

“Ladies, free,” Johnny exclaimed. “That’s sure a break.”

“Ladies don’t come here,” snapped Nancy.

“Nancy, darling,” said Jane Ballard sweetly. “Your claws are showing.”

“Thank you, dear, for telling me,” retorted Nancy. “When we get home tonight, I’ll file them down.”

“Mustn’t fight, girls,” chided Johnny. “We came here for fun.” He caught Nancy’s elbow and started up the long flight of stairs.

Music pelted them as they climbed. It wasn’t good, but it was loud and that was what the patrons of the Clybourn Hall seemed to want. Although it was still early, there were already three or four hundred people in the large hall and twenty-five or thirty were crowded at the head of the stairs, either debating whether to go in or wishing they could go in if they had the admission.

Two middle-aged men stood in the doorway. White bands on their arms had the word “Committee” printed on in blue letters.

Johnny gave one of the men two dollars and received four tickets that were promptly taken up by the other committeeman. They entered the dance hall and the first person Johnny saw was Karl Kessler, dancing with a plump flaxen-haired woman of about forty.

Kessler’s eyes widened in astonishment. He stopped dancing, said something to the woman and she walked off. Kessler came over.

“Surprised seeing you two here,” he said, addressing Johnny and Sam. Then he nodded to Nancy. “Hello, Nancy.”

“Hello, Karl,” Nancy said, “meet my roommate, Jane Ballard.”

“Pleasetameetcha,” said Karl. He turned back to Johnny. “Didn’t expect you at a German-Hungarian dance...”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“It’s the Clybourn Turnverein — athletic club, you know. This is their gymnasium week days.”

“You’re a member of the club?”

Kessler grimaced. “Me? I get enough exercise at the factory.”

The music stopped and the dancers left the floor, but Johnny’s group remained in a little huddle. Sam nudged Johnny and, when he caught his eye, nodded to someone at the right of the floor.

Carmella Vitali, surrounded by several dark-complexioned young men and a couple of Italian girls, was watching Johnny with a fierce scowl on his features.

“Oh-oh, the Black Hand’s landed!”

Karl Kessler looked off. “Yah,” he snorted. “Them punks come up here sometimes. Get drunk, pick fights with decent people. That Carmella’s the worst one of the bunch.”

“Might as well be at the factory,” cut in Nancy Miller. “Who else is here we know?”

Kessler shrugged. “Three-four people. After all, there’s six hundred people at the factory and most of them live on the north side. You’re bound to meet some of them around here.”

“I had a different idea,” Nancy said, meaningly.

“In time, Taffy,” Johnny said, jovially. “Say, d’you mind? I’ve got to make an important phone call...”

“Oh, go right ahead,” said Nancy. “There’re only about fifty stags here and I’ll make out all right.”

“You always make out all right, huh, Nancy?” asked Kessler, winking jovially. “If I was three-four years younger, I make play for you myself.”

“Keep the wolves away from her, Karl,” said Johnny. “I’ll be back in time for the next dance.”

He had already spotted a sign, telephone, and headed in that direction, but when he got to the sign he saw an arrow underneath pointing into an adjoining room, a barroom. Johnny went in and found customers lined up four deep at a short bar. There was a phone booth at the side of the bar, fortunately empty, and Johnny entered.

He closed the door, drowning out most of the noise from the bar, and dropped a nickel into the slot. He dialed the night number of the Wiggins Detective Agency.

Wiggins’ wheezing voice came on: “Wiggins talking.”

“Johnny Fletcher calling. I thought you were going to pull off Begley?”

“Why, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Fletcher,” replied Wiggins. “The customer paid for a job and I’ve got to—”

“He paid until when?” Johnny cut in.

“Well, midnight.”

“All right,” snapped Johnny, “I’m glad you’re conscientious, anyway. Now, what have you got for me so far?”

“Quite a lot. Al Piper was married, three children. Owned his own home, rather nice place on West Grace Street, worth around $15,000 to $18,000. No trouble with his wife, as far as my operator could find out. Mrs. Piper has taken it badly. She insists he had no enemies...”

“He had one enemy,” Johnny interrupted. “The person who killed him.”