The Leather Duke

Johnny grinned wryly, saw a phone on the sideboard and crossed to it. “Operator,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I want the Lakeside Athletic Club in Chicago.” He covered up the mouthpiece. “Excuse me, but I’m worried about my friend, Sam Cragg. We got separated last night.”

An operator said in his ear: “Lakeside Athletic Club.”

“Suite 512,” Johnny said. “Mr. Cragg.”

Thirty seconds passed and then the voice said: “I’m sorry, Mr. Cragg does not answer.”

“Try 514, the adjoining room.”

“I’ve rung both, sir. Do you wish to leave a message?”

Johnny hung up. “Something happened to Sam.”

“That’s the man who lifts two hundred pound barrels,” said the Leather Duke. “What could happen to him?”

“I don’t know, but the last time I saw him he was down on his knees and a man was hitting him with a blackjack...”

The entire Towner family stared at Johnny. He drew a deep breath. “Your switchboard operator was watching, Mr. Towner... Nancy Miller...” Johnny’s eyes shifted quickly to Elliott Towner.

Elliott’s mouth was open wide enough to swallow a duck egg.

“Fletcher,” said the Leather Duke. “Sit down and have your breakfast. Then we’ll ride into town and clear up this whole mess. I think a few people at the factory are going to find themselves without jobs.”

“Oh, I say,” protested Elliott. “You can’t just fire people like that.” He looked hard at Johnny. “On someone’s unsubstantiated accusation.”

“Accusation?” asked Johnny. “I didn’t accuse anyone.”

“You just said, at least you intimated, that this girl, what’s her name — Nancy Milton? — was involved.”

“The name is Miller,” Johnny said. “M-i-l-l-e-r, the same as the girl called you at the club night before last.”

“What?” cried Elliott Towner.

“The girl who told you she knew who killed Al Piper...”

Elliott Towner kicked back his chair, sprang to his feet. His face was a picture of utter consternation. Harry Towner banged his fist on the breakfast table.

“What’s this, Elliott?”

“He’s a liar,” Elliott cried, hoarsely. “I... I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Nancy Miller,” said Johnny, “she telephoned you eight times at the Lakeside Athletic Club in one evening. You were there, but wouldn’t take the calls. Then she tried to break into the club and go up to your room. They stopped her in the lobby. She phoned again after that and... well, the operator made a mistake and put her through...”

Elliott’s face went from consternation to abject horror, or terror.

“Fletcher,” he began thickly. “I... I’ve had about all I can take from you...”

“Elliott,” the Leather Duke said, sternly, “I want a direct answer — just a yes or no. Did this girl telephone you at the club?”

Elliott took a step away from the table, but reeled and had to reach out to the chair to support himself.

“Answer me!” snapped Harry Towner.

“Y-yes.”

Linda Towner suddenly interrupted. “Just a minute, Dad.” She turned to Elliott. “You’re in love with Nancy, aren’t you?”

“No!” exclaimed Elliott.

“But you’ve taken her out?” Linda paused a moment, waiting for a denial and when it did not come, went on: “She’s blackmailing you, isn’t she?”

With a tremendous effort Elliott pulled himself together. He gave Johnny a bitter glance and started from the room. Harry Towner pushed his chair away from the table. “Elliott,” he roared. “I want the truth of this.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” said Elliott, doggedly, “I can’t tell you...” He continued on out of the room.

Harry Towner glared at the empty doorway, then whirled and glowered at Johnny. “Do you know the truth?”

“No,” said Johnny. “Not all of it.”

“But Elliott’s really involved with that girl?”

“To a certain extent, yes.”

“You made several rather exact statements — eight phone calls in one evening. How did you get that information?”

“By using some of your money, Mr. Towner, and sticking my nose into other people’s business.”

“At that you’re very good,” snapped Towner. “Yesterday you had a mouse on your cheekbone, today your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. I’m curious as to how you’ll look tomorrow.”

“No worse,” said Johnny, “because I’m going to wind this up today.” He added drily, “I’ve got to, because I can’t take another beating. I want to make just one more phone call...”

“While you’re making it, I’ll get ready.” Harry Towner left the breakfast room and Johnny stepped again to the phone.

He gave the operator the number of the Wiggins Detective Agency, then looked over the phone at Linda Towner who had not left the room.

Wiggins came on the wire. “Wiggins Detective Agency,” he wheezed.

“I thought you had a man shadowing me last night?” Johnny snarled. “You bragged that he was the best shadower in the detective business—”

“Mr. Fletcher!” cried Wiggins. “How are you?”

“Lousy!”

“I was afraid of that, Mr. Fletcher. Uh, Begley went to telephone the police when those hoodlums assaulted you last night. When he came back you were, ah, gone... So he, ah, shadowed your friend, Sam Cragg...”

“What happened to Sam?”

“Why, ah, nothing. He was knocked out for a few minutes, but someone threw some water on him and he got up.”