The Leather Duke

“But he didn’t go home last night. I just telephoned the club and he wasn’t there.”

“No, he wouldn’t be. You see he, ah, spent the night at an apartment on, ah, Armitage...”

“What?” cried Johnny. Then he suddenly chuckled. “I’ll be damned.”

Wiggins proceeded: “As a matter of fact, he just left a half hour ago. He’s now in the factory of the Towner Leather Company and my man’s outside.”

“Okay,” said Johnny. “I’ll be there myself inside of an hour.”

“Very good. But, Mr. ah, Fletcher, I have some information for you.”

“About who?”

“The man with the Italian name, Carmella...”

“I hope it’s good,” Johnny said, grimly.

“Oh, it’s quite good. I mean bad. It seems that he wore a tan work shirt the day before yesterday, when the, ah, tragedy occurred at the leather factory. Well, my man found that shirt in the bottom of a garbage can behind Carmella’s place of residence. It contains bloodstains...”

“Human blood?” cried Johnny.

“As far as we could tell. As a matter of fact, the shirt’s in my office right now. I have some interesting information about the dead man. His salary was approximately thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents a week, yet he banked an average of one hundred dollars a week, for the past six years. I think that is very significant, Mr. Fletcher, inasmuch as there are approximately six hundred employees at the leather factory and certainly not more than five per cent would wager on horses...”

“Guess again,” said Johnny. “Fifty per cent would be nearer the truth. What else?”

“I have a rather complete thumbnail biography of Mr. Towner.”

“Give it to me — at least the salient features.”

“This is highly libelous, as a matter of fact, it was never printed in the papers, for that very reason. My man got it from the custodian of the Star morgue, an old man, who was a reporter on the Star in his younger days. It, ah, pertains to the late Mrs. Towner.”

“Number one or two?”

“Oh, two. The first was never really referred to as Mrs. Towner. In fact, as far as the public press is concerned, there has only been one Mrs. Towner.”

“All right, get to the point, man.”

“I will. As I said, this is highly libelous and at this late date would be almost impossible to verify.”

“Get to the point, Wiggins!”

“I’m trying to tell you, Fletcher. Shortly after the marriage, Mrs. Towner went away. To Europe. Her child was born there, young Elliott.”

“Well?”

“That’s it, Mr. Fletcher. She was gone a year and when she brought the child back, well, he seemed rather, shall we say, large for his age?”

Johnny looked over the phone again, at Linda Towner, who was sitting at the breakfast table, moodily poking at a half grapefruit, with a spoon. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Thank you, Wiggins. I... I’m just leaving for the plant now... with Mr. Towner.”

Wiggins’ wheeze almost blasted Johnny’s eardrum. “You mean you’re telephoning from his house?”

“Yes, good-bye.”

He started to put down the receiver, then raised it back to his ear. Wiggins’ click came over the phone, then another. Someone in the Towner residence had been listening in on an extension phone.

Johnny put down the receiver and headed for the door. Linda Towner pushed back her chair. “I’m going to the office with you.”

“It’s all right with me, Linda,” Johnny said, quietly. “If you’ll tell me why Freddie Wendland had me shadowed all day yesterday...”

“Freddie?”

“The detective who followed us to lunch and back — Wendland was paying for him.”

“That’s ridiculous!” cried Linda. “There’s no earthly reason why Freddie should—”

“Jealousy?” suggested Johnny. Linda stared at him. “You went to the Chez Hogan with him last night.”

“Yes, but...” Linda looked suspiciously at him. “How did you know?”

“The detective I was just talking to on the phone, that’s the one Wendland hired. Well, I paid him more money than Wendland did.”

“So you’ve been spying on Freddie!”

“In a small way.”

Harry Towner appeared in the doorway. “If you’re ready, Fletcher.”

“I’m ready.”

“I’ll just get my coat,” exclaimed Linda. “Take me only a second...”

She ran past her father. Towner looked after her. Johnny said: “She wants to go into town with us.”

“I’d rather she didn’t.”

“I’d just as soon she did,” Johnny said. “Fred Wendland’s mixed in this business.”

“That tired old college boy?” Towner snorted. “If he ever becomes my son-in-law, I’ll send him down to manage my Nashville Tennessee tannery. I don’t think I could stand him around here.”

He started out of the room. Johnny followed. Before they reached the front door, Linda came running up, carrying a tweed coat.

A big limousine was standing in the driveway before the house. A uniformed chauffeur stood by the tonneau door.

“Elliott leave?” Harry Towner asked.

“A moment ago,” the chauffeur said. “He took the yellow convertible.”

Towner grunted. “Fine thing to break down the morale of the hands. Come to work in a Cadillac, an hour and a half late.”

He stepped into the Lincoln Continental.

Chapter Twenty-One