“I worked up a nice appetite,” said Sam, as they headed for the elevator. “Rassling them barrels. I think I’ll have maybe two sandwiches and a glass of beer.”
They rode down in the slow freight elevator. As they passed the office Johnny looked for Nancy Miller but failed to see her. He shook his head and followed Elliott Towner. Outside, they crossed the street and entered a grimy, smelly lunchroom. There were no stools at the counter, but it was lined with standing factory workers. The menu was a slate on the wall.
“Corned beef sandwich and a glass of milk,” Elliott Towner ordered.
“Two corned beef sandwiches for me,” said Johnny, “and a glass of beer.”
“Same for me, on’y two beers,” chimed in Sam.
The sandwiches were quickly prepared and Johnny and Sam began to wolf their food. They finished their double portions before Elliott Towner got through with his one sandwich.
“Piece of pie,” Sam ordered then.
Johnny nodded. “Me, too. How about you, Elliott?”
“No, this will do me.”
The waiter punched three checks, put them on the counter. Elliott sorted them out, picked up his own. A sudden chill ran through Johnny. A dollar-ten was punched on his check, the same on Sam’s.
“Uh, Mr. Towner,” he said. “I believe I’m a little short, on account of just starting work, you know. I wonder if you’d—”
Elliott Towner frowned at him. “Look here, you didn’t come out to lunch with me, just to—”
“Oh, no, not at all. Only we are short and—”
“How much are you short?”
“Well, my check’s a dollar-ten and Sam’s is, too. Two-twenty.”
“That’s the full amount. You’ve got some money...”
“Not a red cent. Uh, you could take it out of our pay.”
Young Towner exploded. “I tried to make it clear to your friend here that I didn’t own the Towner Leather Company. I’m an employee like you. I get twenty dollars a week and I have to live on it.”
“With a little help from the old man,” Johnny said sarcastically, “and the chauffeur to bring you down to work.”
“I’ve had about all I’m going to take from you two,” Elliott said angrily. He started for the door, but Johnny gave a quick signal to Sam Cragg and the latter blocked his exit.
“Just a minute, buddy,” Sam said truculently and put up a hand to stop Elliott. Elliott tried to knock the hand aside, was unable.
“Now, Elliott,” Johnny said, smoothly, “look at it this way. We’ve got a tab here for two-twenty; we can’t pay it. Are you going to let it get out that two employees of Towner and Company were unable to pay a restaurant bill and had to wash dishes all afternoon, while they were supposed to be sorting counters across the street?”
“You’re not my responsibility,” cried Elliott.
“Oh yes, we are,” Johnny said cheerfully. “Your name’s Towner...”
“All right,” snarled Elliott. “I’ll pay your damn checks!” He grabbed them from Johnny’s hand and stepped up to the cashier’s desk. Johnny and Sam waited for him at the door.
As they left the restaurant, Johnny said, “No hard feelings.”
Elliott gave him a glare and rushed across the street.
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.