Harry Towner searched the faces of Johnny and Sam, then shook his head. “You say you’re from the plant? I don’t place either of you.”
“The counter department,” Johnny said.
“That’s Hal Johnson’s floor.”
“Our boss.”
“You mean you’re — you’re laborers?”
Johnny pushed out his lips in a great pout, looked down at his hands, then suddenly looked up and beamed at The Leather Duke. “Shall we say we’re working as laborers?”
Towner scowled. “What do you mean?”
“There was a murder at your plant today, wasn’t there?”
Towner stabbed a nicely manicured forefinger at Johnny. “Now, don’t tell me you’re police undercover men?”
Johnny closed one eye. You couldn’t exactly call it a wink, because he kept the lid down for a long moment. “Mr. Towner, there are some things I can’t tell you — not at this moment. Shall we just say that — that we’re working as laborers at your plant and that we, ah, have important information pertaining to what happened there this morning?”
“Now, wa-ait a minute,” cried the leather man. “That plant happens to be my personal property. If there are any shenanigans going on there, I have a right to know...”
“Exactly, sir. And that’s why we’re here.”
“Well, spill it, don’t just stand there throwing hints at me.”
“It’ll take a little while to tell. Were you, ah, about to take a plunge?”
“I just had a steam and a rubdown. I intend to have my dinner and then... say, you can tell me this over dinner. I’ll be dressed in just a minute. You’ve got the time?”
“We’ve got the time,” said Johnny.
Harry Towner hurried off to a cubicle and Johnny and Sam exchanged significant glances. The ghost of a smile played over Johnny’s lips.
“Dinner, Sam.”
“Can you bull him through to the dessert, Johnny?” Sam asked eagerly. “It must be two years since I’ve had any.”
“The desserts at the Lakeside are the finest in Chicago,” Johnny said. “I hope.”
Harry Towner came out of the little cubicle in a few minutes, knotting a Brooks Brothers tie. “All right, gentlemen,” he said, “we’ll just run down to the grill room. A little quieter there than the main dining room.”
“How’s the grub?” Sam asked.
Towner looked at him sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“The food, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, quickly. “Mr. Cragg is a bit of a gourmet, you might say.”
“Yeah, you might say,” said Sam Cragg.
“I like good food myself,” Towner rumbled. “That’s the only fault I find with the cuisine here — you can’t get a good steak.”
“You can’t?” cried Sam.
Towner shook his head sadly. “They don’t know enough to buy meat ahead. A steak’s got to hang for a couple of months or it’s no good.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Towner,” enthused Johnny. “There’s a little spot in Los Angeles, that is, in Santa Monica, down by the beach, where they really know how to cook a steak. They hang them in a cellar for three months, then scrape off the whiskers and put them on the fire...” Johnny rolled his eyes upwards. “That’s a steak for you, sir!”
By this time the trio had descended a broad flight of stairs and entered a grill room that occupied about half of the entire third floor. Soft lights lit up each table and white-jacketed waiters moved smoothly in and out among the tables. A headwaiter led them to a table on a balcony raised a few feet above the main floor and brought them large menus.
Harry Towner looked at the card and shook his head. “You’ve given me an appetite for a steak, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, sadly, “but they’re simply impossible here. I believe I’ll just have a watercress salad and a glass of skim milk.”
“Oh, no!” groaned Sam.
Johnny said: “I’m a glutton for punishment, Mr. Towner. I’ve said over and over, just how bad can a steak be? And I’ve said to myself, never again, but” — he smiled brightly — “I’ll try once more.” He looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have a filet mignon and tell the chef to do his worst. Mr. Cragg, will you have the same?”
“With French fries,” cried Sam, “and smothered in onions. And a big piece of apple pie — naw, make that apple pie a la mode. And all the trimmings with the dinner. I’m hungry.”
“Why, Sam,” Johnny chided, “you are hungry!” He laughed merrily. “So am I, for that matter. Do you know, Mr. Towner, we actually worked today. Gives you a terrible appetite when you’re not used to it.”
“Yes, I imagine so,” conceded Towner. He placed his forearms upon the table and leaned forward. “And now, sir, if you’ll tell me what’s going on in my leather factory...”
“Ah yes,” said Johnny.
“Yeah, Johnny,” agreed Sam, “go ahead, tell him.”
“Go right ahead, Mr. Fletcher. I’m not one of these men who can’t talk business while eating. You just tell me the whole story.”
“Very well, sir, a horrible crime was committed in your factory today. A murder.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. Go on, Fletcher.”
“I’ll have to bore you with a little background, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, “necessary background, so you’ll understand the complete ramifications and meaning of this crime. You’ve heard of the Mafia...?”
“The Mafia?” exclaimed Towner.
“The Black Hand, as it is commonly known in this country.”
“But that’s been dead for twenty-five years...”
“Has it, Mr. Towner? Let’s just take a look back. A quick look. The Mafia originated on the Island of Sicily, about the same time that its counterpart, the Camorra, was being born on the mainland in Southern Italy. The Mafia was an outgrowth of the Napoleonic Wars. The large landowners could not operate their farms, so they turned the work over to groups of ruffians, who by intimidations, threats and often violence, cowed other groups of ruffians, made them work the large estates. But soon the first group took things into their own hands. They rebelled against the landowners, put the squeeze on them and were soon the masters themselves. This was fine for the Mafia, but soon they were quarreling among themselves, one band of the Mafia against another. Many large bands were formed and all were at war with each other. They had only one law, in common to all of them, that was never to take their quarrels to the authorities. They were their own law, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Absolute secrecy was enforced upon all members. Terrible reprisals were executed against those who talked. As the years went by the Mafia became powerful in all classes. Politicians feared them, joined them. The Mafia spread into Italy proper, into other countries. They became powerful in the United States in the nineties and in the early part of this century they ruled the Italian colonies in all the cities of this great country. Here in Chicago—”
“I know all about them,” cut in Harry Towner. “I’ve lived in Chicago all my life.”
“Right, sir. Well, your factory happens to be located in what is definitely an Italian section of the city, Sicilian, I should say—”
“It’s called Little Italy, I know that.”
“And you employ Italians.”
“They make good factory hands, work reasonable and take orders. Much better than Germans or Irish, or even Bohemians...”
“But the Mafia, Mr. Towner, confines itself to its own kind — Italians.”
“The Mafia,” exclaimed The Leather Duke, “is extinct. It was smashed during the twenties, at the same time that it’s power was broken in Italy — yes, by Mussolini. That was the one good thing the man did...”