“I work for Towner,” Johnny persisted. “His leather factory in Chicago. He offered me the job of sales manager only yesterday.”
“Sales manager, huh? You ain’t doin’ such a good sellin’ job right now. You can’t even talk me out of a nickel. You know what I think? Your face is full of blood and your clothes is all torn; I think you got thrown off a freight train.”
“The hell with you!” snarled Johnny and started to walk off. He went twenty feet and then the man called out: “Hey, come back, here’s your nickel.”
Johnny turned and walked back. He took the nickel the man held out, started for the filling station. The attendant followed him.
“If you’re on the level, call Hillcrest 1234; that’s the local cab company. Ride out to Towner’s and get him to pay for the cab.”
Johnny took the receiver off the hook, hesitated, then dropped the nickel into the slot.
Five minutes later, a yellow taxicab pulled into the filling station and Johnny got in. He waved to the gas station attendant and leaned back against the leather cushions. “Five Knolls,” he told the driver. “Harry Towner’s place.”
The man turned completely around in his seat. “This time o’ night — the way you look?”
“I had a car accident,” Johnny said.
The driver hesitated, then muttered something to himself and turned away. The cab roared out of the gas station. It rolled through a village, headed for the country road beyond and a few minutes later drove up to an ornamental iron gate. Worked into the archway overhead were the words Five Knolls.
The driver got out, came around and opened the cab door for Johnny. “Two seventy-five,” he said.
“Pretty steep for five miles,” Johnny objected.
“Night rates — and I got to go back.”
Johnny pointed to the gates. “Ring for the bell, will you?”
“Why?”
“Well, if you must know, I haven’t got any money with me.”
The cabby stepped to the front door, opened it and reaching in brought out a big wrench. “All right,” he said, “I’ll get no money out of it, but I’ll get satisfaction. You’n me are taking a ride to the jailhouse.”
Johnny stepped around the cabby and moved backwards to the big iron gate. He found the bell at the side of it and pressed long and hard.
“Give me five minutes,” he said to the cabby, who had followed him with the wrench, held poised for striking. “If I don’t get the money for you, I’ll go with you quietly.”
He pressed the bell again. There was a cottage just inside the gate and after a moment, a light went on in it. Johnny pressed the bell a third time. A door opened, framing a man in undershirt and trousers. “Who is it?” he called.
“I want to see Mr. Harry Towner,” Johnny called back.
“What’s the name?”
“Fletcher.”
The man in the cottage doorway shook his head. “Mr. Towner didn’t tell me about any Fletcher calling in the middle of the night.”
“He didn’t expect me to call.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until morning.”
“If you make me wait until morning,” Johnny said grimly, “I can assure you you’ll lose your job. This is a matter of life and death. Phone the house and tell Mr. Towner that Johnny Fletcher is here with important information about the murder at the plant.”
“The murder!” exclaimed the gatekeeper.
“You heard me.”
The man hesitated then, leaving the door open, went back into his cottage. Johnny could see him cross to a wall phone, take down the receiver and wait a moment. Then he pressed a button. He waited for a long moment, spoke into the phone, waited and spoke again. Then he hung up and came out of the cottage.
He waddled up to the gate, shot back a bolt and pulled the gate open a foot or so. “Mr. Towner says to come up, but it better be good. That’s what he said.”
“It’ll be good,” said Johnny. “Now, give this taxi driver five dollars.”
“What for?” cried the gatekeeper.
“Look at me,” said Johnny sternly. “I was waylaid and robbed on my way out here. I haven’t got a nickel in my pocket. Give the man the five dollars; you’ll get it back from Mr. Towner in the morning.” He turned to the cabby. “Okay?”
The man lowered his wrench. “Okay, chum... Want me to wait?”
“No.” said Johnny. “I’ll be spending the night here.”
He nodded, stepped through the aperture in the gate and started up a winding drive to the huge shadow of the house, a hundred yards or more from the gate.
A light was on in an upper room and as Johnny approached lights went on downstairs. When he got to the door it was already opened and a servant in a bathrobe greeted him.
“Mr. Fletcher? Mr. Towner is in the library.”
Johnny entered and the butler led him through a wide hall to a room at the rear, an immensely large room with thousands of books on the shelves, most of them in leather bindings, most of them as untouched as the day they had been bound.
Harry Towner was pacing before a massive teakwood desk, a cold cigar champed in his mouth. He stopped when Johnny entered the room.
“What happened to you?” he cried when he noted Johnny’s physical appearance.
“I was taken for a ride,” said Johnny, “and left for dead.”
Towner’s eyes widened in shock. “Who did it?”
“A man named Carmella Vitali...”
“That Italian the police questioned?”
“Yes.”
Towner whirled to his desk, scooped up a phone.
“No,” said Johnny quickly. “Don’t call the police. I want him to think I’m dead and tomorrow I’ll nail him. Good.”
“At least, let me call a doctor. You look like hell, Fletcher.”
“I haven’t got any broken bones,” said Johnny. “I look worse than I feel.” That was a lie. “But I’d like to take a hot shower and get some sleep.”
“Cedric!” roared Towner. The butler in the bathrobe popped into the library. “Show Mr. Fletcher to a room. Run a hot bath for him and do whatever else you can.”
“Thanks,” said Johnny wryly. He followed the butler out of the room, climbed a stairs and proceeded down a wide carpeted hall.
The butler opened a door, switched on lights and Johnny entered a bedroom about half as large as the Northwestern Depot. The bathroom was as big as the average two-room apartment and had a square tub in which you could execute naval maneuvers. Johnny peeled off his clothes while the butler ran hot water into the tub.
“I can handle the rest,” Johnny said. “Thanks.”
“Very well, sir,” said the butler. “Should you want medication or, ah, bandages, you’ll find them in the medicine cabinet.”
Johnny soaked himself in the tub for fifteen minutes, then got out, dried himself and, naked, crawled into the huge bed. He didn’t bother turning out the lights.
Chapter Twenty
Johnny was awake, feeling his bruises, when there was a knock on the bedroom door. “Yes?” he called.
The door opened and Elliott Towner came into the room. “We’re driving into town in a half hour,” he said, coming forward. “Dad wanted me to find out if you’re in condition to go in with us.”
“I will be, after I eat some breakfast,” exclaimed Johnny. He threw back the covers and leaped out of bed, wincing as bruised muscles protested.
Elliott looked at Johnny’s torn, soiled suit lying on the floor beside the bed. “You could wear a suit of mine. We’re about the same size.”
“Now,” cried Johnny, “that’s decent of you.”