Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

When he cradled the phone, Black said, “That sounded interesting. Anyone I know?”

Ross shook his head. “A casino customer I just met the other night.”

Returning to the bar, he took a sip of his drink. Then, remembering the envelope in his pocket, he took it out and slit it with a thumbnail. He drew out a single sheet of paper.

The letterhead was that of the Chicago Herald Express , and the letter read:

Dear Clancy:

I couldn’t find a thing in our morgue about Whitey Cord’s female associates, but I dug up a little information through contacts.

Cord has the same regular turnover of flashy women that all these high-caliber hoods seem to have. Variety in women seems to be a sort of status symbol among the pimp and narcotics set. But there’s one who seems to be able to weather the rapid turnover, because she’s been around on and off for years. How she feels about the parade of other floozies, I wasn’t able to determine, but the word is that she’s always waiting when Whitey tires of a side affair and crooks his finger for her to come back.

The woman’s name is Vanita Bell. I wasn’t able to turn up a photograph of her, but here’s a description: she’s about five four or five, around a hundred twenty pounds and in her mid-twenties. She’s supposed to be quite a beauty, both above and below the neck. Rather dark comlexion and brilliant red hair which, surprisingly, is supposed to be its natural color.

Hope this is some help to you.

Best regards,

Ross was frowning when he returned the letter to its envelope and tossed it onto his desk. He had hoped for more definite evidence, either establishing that Christine Franklin was an agent of Whitey Cord’s, as he suspected, or clearing her of suspicion.

Except for the age, which in Vanita Bell’s case could be merely a flattering estimate by some informant of Jim Dolan’s who didn’t know the woman too well, and the hair color, the description of Vanita Bell fitted Christine well enough. And red hair could be dyed black.

Christine had said she was half gypsy, and he was inclined to believe her, for even if she had been lying about everything else, he could see no reason for a woman to lie about a thing like that. If only his reporter friend had mentioned that Vanita Bell had a gypsy background, he could be sure, but there was no mention of it in the letter and it seemed to Ross that Dolan would have included this information if he had been aware of it.

Vanita sounded as though it might be a gypsy name, but were gypsies ever redheaded? He decided that a half-gypsy could be, if the non-Romany parent were a redhead.

The whole thing was too indefinite to satisfy him. Then it suddenly occurred to him that there was an additional check he could make. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was two-thirty p.m.

He said to Black, “I have to go somewhere, Sam. Stick around and have whatever you want to drink.”

“Not alone,” Black said, finishing his drink. “I’ve got the creeps bad enough without staying up here in this morgue by myself. I’ll go downstairs and heckle the carpenters.”

They rode down on the elevator together. Ross left Black in the dining room and went on out the back door to his car. Driving out of the alley, he headed south.

When he pulled into the yard of the chicken farm, the side door opened at the sound of his engine and Mattie Tobin stepped out on the porch. As soon as she saw who the visitor was, she waved and re-opened the side door.

“It’s Clancy, Stella,” she called inside.

The plump Mattie beamed at him as he neared the porch, then her smile faded as he started to climb the steps. “You’re not coming to take her away already, are you, Clancy?”

“Not quite yet. Why? She growing on you?”

“She’s a doll. She just insisted on working for her keep. She collected all the eggs this morning, helped Jerrel clean the brooders and did the week’s wash. For the first time in two months we’re caught up enough to take some time off. Jerrel’s taking me into town for dinner and a show.”

Then Ross noted that in place of her usual gingham housedress, Mattie was all dolled up in her Sunday best.

“You’re a doll yourself,” he said. “Where you planning to dine?”

“Why, at the Rotunda, of course.”

He gave his head a regretful shake. “Don’t you listen to radio or TV?”

“What do you mean?” she asked with raised brows.

“Somebody bombed the club last night. It’ll be closed for a couple of weeks.”

Mattie’s gasp was echoed by one from the doorway. Glancing that way, Ross saw Stella standing there. She was dressed in a flannel shirt of Jerrel Tobin’s that was far too big for her, a pair of denim slacks which, by their fit, appeared to be her own, and flat-heeled pumps. Even in that outfit she managed to look glamorous, though, for her golden-blond hair curled about her face as delicately as ever and she gave her usual impression of sparkling cleanliness.

“Oh, Clancy!” she said. “What have I done to you?”

“Nothing I know of,” he said, grinning. “Bix Lawson did it. You look like the heroine of a horse opera.”

Taking Mattie’s elbow, he steered her into the house, Stella stepping aside to let them enter. The side door gave into the kitchen, and Mattie led the way into the front room.

“Sit down, Clancy,” she said, pointing to the worn sofa. Then she called up the stairs, “Jerrel! Clancy’s here.”

Jerrel Tobin’s voice floated down from one of the upstairs bedrooms, “Be down as soon as I finish dressing.”

Ross seated himself on the sofa and Stella sank next to him. “How did it happen?” she asked. “Was anyone hurt?”

He shook his head. “It was bombed at three-thirty in the morning, when the building was deserted. Three of Bix Lawson’s places were bombed, too.”

She looked at him without understanding. “I thought you said Lawson bombed your place.”

“He had it done.”

“Then—” She paused and comprehension grew in her eyes. “Clancy! You’re involved in a gang war because of me.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I don’t own a gang, unless you count Sam.”

“But Bix Lawson does. You can’t fight an organization the size of his.”

“I’ve been managing fairly successfully so far,” he said dryly.

Mattie, who had been listening to the entire exchange, said, “Don’t worry about Clancy, dear. He generally knows what he’s doing.” Then she said to Ross, “Stella told us the whole story about her trouble, Clancy. I think it’s terrible that an innocent person can be hunted down that way in free America. This Whitey Cord should be hanged.”

“The chances of that are unlikely,” Ross said. “But someone may put a bullet in him someday.”

Jerrel Tobin came downstairs dressed in a shiny but freshly pressed blue serge suit. As Ross rose from the sofa, the farmer pumped his hand.

“Good to see you, Clancy. You come for dinner this time?”

“Certainly not,” Ross said. “You’re taking Mattie into town.”

“We can always go to town another time,” Mattie said. “But you might not come back for a month. We’d be glad to have you stay, Clancy.”

“Shoo,” Ross said firmly, taking Mattie’s elbow in one hand and Tobin’s in the other and propelling them toward the kitchen. “I came to see Stella, not you people.”

“But I wanted to hear more about your trouble with Lawson,” Mattie protested.

“What trouble?” Tobin asked.

“Mattie can brief you on the way into town,” Ross told him. “And you can both get the rest of it from Stella when you get back.” He pushed them on through the kitchen and out the side door.