“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
It was shortly after nine-thirty when Harry Towner, his daughter Linda and Johnny entered the offices of the Towner Leather Company.
Nancy Miller was at the switchboard, her face somewhat pale and strained even under heavier than normal makeup. Harry Towner, in the lead, gave her a curt nod. Linda, coming next, smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Nancy.”
Johnny said: “Hi, Taffy, you’re looking like a million.”
Nancy only stared at Johnny.
Johnny went to the elevator, which was waiting at the first floor and rode up to the fifth floor. He stepped out and began strolling leisurely through the flat counter department, the gluing department and the molding machines until he reached the counter sorting department.
Hal Johnson was leaning against his high desk, his back to the sorters, and looking gloomily down the line of molding machines.
His eyes flickered over Johnny’s battered features. “Got a good one this time,” he commented.
“A beauty,” admitted Johnny.
“Johnny!” boomed the voice of Sam Cragg. He came pelting down the aisle. Johnny moved to meet him. Sam skidded to a halt and stared at Johnny.
“Carmella worked you over, Johnny! I’ll kill ’im.”
“I may let you do just that, Sam.” Johnny sized up Sam. “You don’t look any the worse.”
“Me? Heck, that wasn’t nothing. I hadda kind of lump on the old noggin, but Janie...” He suddenly coughed and looked past Johnny at Johnson.
“I know all about it, Sam,” said Johnny grinning. “You spent the night at the girls’ apartment.”
“Yeah, Johnny, but don’t get no wrong ideas. Janie wanted me to come up and put some cold compacts on the bean, then, well, I, uh, she thought I’d better stay there in case I needed more treatments. I... I slept on the couch.”
“Sure, Sam, it’s all right.”
“On’y I couldn’t sleep much on accounta worrying about you, Johnny.”
“I spent the night out at the Duke’s house.”
Hal Johnson heard that. “You spent the night at the Towner estate? Thirty-nine years I’ve worked for him and I’ve never even seen the layout. Forty-eight hours ago you hadn’t even met Harry Towner.”
“Well,” said Johnny, “the food’s lousy at the Towner house. I mean, they didn’t even give me any breakfast.” He grinned feebly. “Being a pal of the Duke’s has some drawbacks... about seventy-five, I’d say. All over my body. I think two of my ribs are cracked.” He nodded down the department. “I see Elliott’s on the job, this morning.”
“Came in ten minutes ago,” said Johnson.
Johnny’s eyes fell upon Cliff Goff, the horseplayer. “Just a minute,” he said to Sam and Johnson. He strode away from them, to Goff.
The horseplayer was sorting counters. He was looking at them, but he wasn’t seeing them. His mind was miles away, riding with Arcaro at Pimlico, or Skoronski at Arlington, or Longden at Santa Anita.
Johnny tapped him on the shoulder. Goff exclaimed, shook his head and looked at Johnny.
“I want to put two bucks on a horse,” Johnny said, “who’ll I give the bet to?”
“Oh, Al,” said Goff, automatically, then grimaced. “Al’s dead.”
“He owe you any money?”
“No, I owed him. Fourteen dollars.”
“Thanks,” said Johnny and walked back to Johnson and Sam.
“Al Piper was the factory bookie,” Johnny said to the foreman.
“Who says so?” Johnson demanded.
“I said so,” retorted Johnny.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not officially, no, but no employee could take horse bets around here for more than two days without the foreman knowing about it.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Johnson persisted. “But I don’t see why it should make any great difference. You can’t keep people from betting on horses. They’d sneak out or make bets, or an outside bookie’d be sneaking in all the time. Somebody on the inside books a few quarters or half dollars, what difference does it make?”