“But he was killed right behind you, not more than thirty feet away. Uh, you didn’t hear anything?”
“I heard nothing. With those machines out in the other room, you can’t hear yourself think most of the time. Then they were piling up barrels back here...”
“I didn’t start piling ’em up until ten o’clock,” Sam cut in. “Hey!” He suddenly whirled and headed for Joe Genara. “Hey, Joe, you were piling up barrels yesterday when I came to help you...”
Joe Genara grinned, showing even white teeth. “I was gettin’ the barrels ready for piling, big boy. I’m not as strong as you are. I gotta use the elevator and with it, it takes two men to pile up the barrels. One to put them on the elevator and ride up with the barrel and the other to crank the thing. That’s what Carmella was doing when he got sore and quit.”
Johnny moved up quickly beside Sam. “Carmella was helping you back there, yesterday morning?”
“Sure, him and me usually did the piling when there was piling to do.”
“You started at eight o’clock yesterday morning?”
“Five-ten minutes after eight.”
“And he worked with you until he got fired?”
“Who says he got fired?”
“Didn’t he?”
“Nah, he quit. Kessler came back and started jawing at him and Carmella got sore and walked off the job.”
“What was Kessler complaining about?”
“Well, Carmella wasn’t the fastest worker in the world.”
“ ‘Small pay, small work,’ ” quoted Sam.
“Sure, he was always saying that.”
“You said it to me yesterday.”
“I got it from Carmella. He never hurt himself working. Count twelve-thirteen hundred pairs of counters a day. Take all morning to pile up a dozen barrels.”
“With you helping him,” suggested Johnny.
Joe shrugged. “Takes two people to pile up barrels. I still had to wait for him to do the cranking.”
Johnny nodded. “While you were piling up barrels yesterday, or with Carmella, did Al Piper happen to come along?”
“No,” said Joe quickly.
“What time did Carmella quit the job?”
“We’d only been working about a half hour or so when Kessler came up and started squawking. They went at it for a few minutes, then Carmella said the hell with it... about quarter to nine, I’d say.”
“You stayed back with the barrels, after Carmella walked off the job?”
“No, I came back here, for ten-fifteen minutes. Then Kessler told me to go back and get the barrels ready and he’d have someone else help me in a little while.” Joe nodded to Sam. “I was only back there a little while when you came along.”
“I think,” said Johnny slowly, “that you’ve set the time of the murder pretty accurately — between a quarter to nine when Carmella got sore and quit his job, and nine o’clock when you came back here to get more barrels ready for further stacking.”
“Could be,” said Joe Genara.
Johnny caught Sam’s eye and walked off a few feet. “Sam, I’ve got to run out for an hour or two. Maybe longer. You stick around here and keep on talking to people.”
“You’ll be back by five?”
“I hope so, but if I should happen to get tied up, go down to the Lakeside Athletic Club. Elliott’s fixing us up with guest cards. Get a good double room and wait for me.”
“All right, Johnny, but try to get back here by five o’clock, will you?”
“I will.”
Johnny started down the aisle, past Johnson’s desk, then whirled back and scooped up the telephone directory. He found a number, nodded and left.
Down in the office Nancy Miller looked at Johnny in surprise.
“Knocking off for the day?”
“Nope, Taffy, believe it or not, I’m working. In case I don’t get back before five, remember eight o’clock.”
He winked at her and left the building.
Chapter Fifteen
Across the street the Wiggins man in the black Chevrolet came to attention. Johnny waved at him, then pointed in the direction of Larrabee Street.
As he reached the corner of Larrabee Street he looked over his shoulder. The Chevrolet was crawling to a halt at the curb a short distance away.
Johnny looked down Larrabee Street and saw a taxicab approaching. He stepped into the street, held up his hand and the cab screeched to a halt. Johnny got in.
“Randolph and Wells,” he said.
The cab jerked off, scooted to Chicago Avenue and turned east. At Wells it turned right and a moment later, the cab driver spoke to Johnny.
“It’s none a my business, Mister, but I think there’s a car following us. Black Chevvie.”
“Yes,” said Johnny. “Fella breaking in a set of tires for me.”
The driver thought that over for a moment, then tried again. “We ain’t got far to go, but I can lose him.”
“Don’t bother.”
The driver shrugged and pulled up at the corner of Randolph and Wells, a few minutes later. Johnny got out and giving the man a dollar looked back. The black Chevrolet was pulling into the curb.
Johnny grinned and crossing Randolph started looking at the building numbers. Halfway down the block he turned into a rickety old building, consulted the directory, then rode in the elevator to the fourth floor.
He stepped out in front of a ground glass door on which was lettered: Wiggins Detective Agency. Enter.
Johnny entered.
A grey-haired woman with horn-rim spectacles sat at a battered desk in a tiny reception room. One office door opened off the room.
“Mr. Wiggins,” Johnny said.
“You have an appointment?”
“No, but I... well, I’m looking for a good detective agency and you were highly recommended...”
“By whom?”
Johnny shook his head. “He asked me not to tell. Of course if Mr. Wiggins can’t see me...”
“What’s the nature of your trouble?”
“I’m not in trouble, but let it pass; there’s another agency in the next block and—”
“Just a moment!”
The woman got up, opened the private office door and went in. She closed the door behind her. Johnny leaned across the desk, saw a pad of paper on which there was some writing. He swung the pad around, whistled softly. The writing read: “Begley phoned. Said subject went into leather factory. Girl drove off. Begley is waiting outside factory.”
He had just flipped the pad of paper back into its former position and straightened when the inner door opened and the receptionist came out. Her eyes went from Johnny, near the desk, to the pad of paper.
“Mr. Wiggins will see you,” she said, severely.
Johnny went into the private office. An enormously fat, bald man swung a squeaking swivel chair around, but did not get up.
“I’m Ed Wiggins,” he wheezed. “Have a seat.”
Johnny sat down on a cracked straight-backed chair.
“Perhaps I made a mistake,” he began, “I was under the impression that this was a, well, large private detective agency.”
“Ain’t I big enough?” snapped Wiggins.
“Plenty,” Johnny retorted, “but the job I have in mind requires the services of a couple of operators and you apparently run this place alone...”
“I do the brain work,” said Wiggins, angrily, “I’ve got the best crew of operators working for me that you could find in the whole city...”
“They make their headquarters in the phone booth down in the lobby?”
Wiggins banged a fat fist on his desk, almost splintering it. “You come in here to make cracks or hire a detective? My men work on a fee basis. When I need them they go to work; when I haven’t got anything for them, they stay home. How many men do you need?”