The Leather Duke

Sam Cragg exclaimed in disgust, “Never saw a guy like that. He’s got a gold spoon in his mouth and he wouldn’t even give you a sniff of it.”

“Of course,” said Johnny, “our act was pretty crude. I wouldn’t have pulled it on him if I hadn’t been so hungry.”

“I’m still hungry,” Sam complained. “I’ve got a lot of eating to catch up on.” He screwed up his mouth. “What’re we gonna do about supper?”

“We’ll face supper when we come to it. In the meantime we’ve got a couple of jobs on our hands.”

“And a murder,” Sam declared darkly. “For all you know, we may be spending the night in jail.”

“Uh-uh,” said Johnny. “Uh-uh.”

Chapter Five

They entered the leather factory and rode up to the fifth floor in the elevator. Wending their way back to the counter department, they discovered Lieutenant Lindstrom awaiting them at Johnny Fletcher’s bench.

“Have a good lunch?” the lieutenant asked.

“It was all right,” Johnny said, “not as good as we’re used to, of course, but it was all right.”

“Then you’re all set for a nice afternoon’s work.”

Johnny looked sharply at the lieutenant. “You the foreman here now?”

“No, I just wanted to see you work.”

“This is our lunchtime.”

Hardly had he spoken the words than the bell rang and the counter sorters began streaming back to their benches. Johnny Fletcher picked up a counter, squeezed it and looked at the lieutenant.

“All right, I’m working.”

“Go right ahead.”

Johnny picked up a second counter, found that it was slightly imperfect and reached for the leather knife. It wasn’t there.

“Looking for something?” asked the lieutenant.

“My knife.”

“Isn’t it around?”

“Cute,” said Johnny “You knew all the time it wasn’t here; that’s why you were hanging around. Well, it was here, when I went to lunch.”

“It was here at twelve o’clock? But it isn’t here now?”

“Al Piper was killed with a leather knife,” Johnny said, “you think it’s my knife. It isn’t. Al was found a little after eleven I was using my knife here until twelve o’clock. I can prove it.” He turned to the old Dane, at the adjoining bench.

“Say, Pop, you saw me using my knife.”

The old man scowled fiercely. “I didn’t see nuttin’. I mind my own business. I don t know nuttin’ ’bout nobody or nuttin’.”

Lieutenant Lindstrom smiled wolfishly, but Johnny wheeled to the man at his right, a faded, sandy-haired man of about forty.

“Neighbor, you saw me using my knife just before lunch?”

The sandy-haired counter sorter shrugged. “I was busy before lunch.”

“Sure, sorting counters. But you don’t keep your eyes on them all the time. You couldn’t help but look over here now and then I looked at you enough times.”

“So I was thinkin’.”

“I think, too,” retorted Johnny. “But I see what people are doing around me.”

“If you gotta know,” the counter sorter said, coldly, “I was running down the horses in the sixth at Arlington. That takes concentration. Try it some time; past performances, post position, jockey, weight, condition of track. Do that sometime without a Racing Form in front of you and you’ll know what I mean about concentration.”

“All right,” said Johnny, “who’s going to win the sixth?”

“Fighting Frank. He can do it in 1:10 if he has to...”

“Not with a hundred and twenty-six pounds,” cried Lieutenant Lindstrom.

“He’s done it before and he can do it again,” insisted the counter sorter. “I got money says he can.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got five on Greek Warrior in the same race.”

“Greek Warrior’s a seven-furlong runner; this race is only six furlongs. Ain’t a horse at Arlington can beat Fighting Frank at six.”

“What about Spy Song?”

“Phooey. An in and outer. All right when she was a two-year-old, but hasn’t done a thing since.”

“Good-bye, now,” Johnny Fletcher said, walking back to his bench.

Lieutenant Lindstrom winced and followed Johnny. “We didn’t settle the knife business.”

“No, but you settled the horse business. You’re interested in that, aren’t you?”

“A wise guy. We get you downtown you won’t be so smart.”

“You take me down to the station you’d better have the answers,” retorted Johnny.

“You talk pretty big for a factory hand,” sneered Lindstrom.

“I haven’t always been a factory hand,” snapped Johnny. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some counters to sort.”

Lieutenant Lindstrom gave him a wicked look, hesitated, then whirled on his heel and strode off. Johnny gave his attention to the counters on his bench. He picked them up, squeezed them, trimmed one now and then and piled them up in bunches.

From time to time Johnny sent a look off to the right where Sam Cragg was at his bench, squeezing and bunching up counters. There was a big scowl of concentration on Sam’s face, which did not lessen as the afternoon wore on. Sam was unhappy at his work.

Shortly after three Karl Kessler stopped at Johnny’s bench.

“How you coming along?” he asked.

“It’s a tough job,” Johnny said, “all these decisions.”

“Huh?”

“Every time I pick up a counter I’ve got to make a decision — is it heavy; medium or reject? Keeps your brain working.”