Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Black’s eyes turned round. “The Syndicate gun? Why is Bix being chummy with him? Bix has been bending over backward for years to keep the Syndicate out of town.”

“I know,” Ross said. “And one of his methods is to stay on as good terms with the Syndicate as possible. He doesn’t mind doing minor favors, so long as they don’t cost him anything.”

Black stared at him. “What was the minor favor? Letting Mott case the joint so the Syndicate can take it over?”

The gambler shook his head. “Bix wouldn’t help them get a toe in the door in St. Stephen. He’d rather put up with me than the Syndicate. As soon as you close, come up to the office.”

He left Black gazing after him with a puzzled expression.

Upstairs again, the gambler paused at the cloakroom counter. Stella was still a trifle pale, but she seemed to have herself under control.

“Do you think perhaps he didn’t recognize me?” she asked hopefully. “He hardly seemed to look at me. Maybe he just dropped in by accident.”

Ross doubted it, but he saw no point in not letting her hang onto that hope, at least for the present. “Could be,” he said noncommittally. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was a quarter after twelve — less than two hours until closing time. “We’ll discuss it afterhours in my office.”

He walked on into the casino.

An hour before closing time Ross rode the elevator up to his third-floor apartment and had the operator wait while he got a hat to cover the bright silver of his hair. Riding down to the main floor, he gave Sam Black a casual wave as he passed him en route to the kitchen. He let himself out the back door into the alley.

A green-shaded bulb over the rear door cast a glow of light to the edge of the Rotunda’s parking lot on the opposite side of the alley. The dim figure of a man slouched behind the wheel of a Cadillac parked directly across from the door and facing it head-on. Ross smiled grimly to himself, for the Cadillac was Sam Black’s. It seemed obvious that the shadowy stakeout had seated himself in it because of the convenient view it gave of the rear door.

Ross’ Lincoln was parked right next to Black’s car. Passing within a foot of the seated man without so much as glancing at him, the gambler climbed into the Lincoln, started the engine and drove left, down the alley to the cross street. There he turned right, then right again, and slowly cruised past the front of the club.

A second man was seated in a car parked at the curb, only two spaces back from the Rotunda’s front door. By the glow of a street lamp Ross got a glimpse of the thin, expressionless face of George Mott.

Making two more right turns, the gambler drove back down the alley from the opposite direction, braked and backed into the same spot where he had been parked before.

Again paying no attention to the man seated in Sam Black’s car, he re-entered the rear door, went back upstairs, turned left when he got off the elevator, and walked down the hall past the private gaming rooms to his office. Hanging his hat on the office clothes tree, he came out again and made for the gaming room.

From then until closing time he wandered about the casino greeting guests, pausing now and then to watch the play, occasionally smiling at a pretty woman. After one a. m. the crowd gradually began to thin out, for St. Stephen was not a city of late stayers-up.

At five of two, with only a half-dozen stragglers still trying their luck, Ross stepped to the microphone alongside one of the cashiers’ booths and announced, “That’s all for tonight, folks. One last spin of the wheel and one turn at the dice.”

Five minutes later he escorted the last of the stragglers to the elevator and wished him a pleasant good night.

Clancy Ross was seated on the edge of his desk with one leg swinging, and Stella was seated in one of the easy chairs against the wall when Sam Black entered the office. The barrel-chested man gave Ross an inquiring look.

“Sit down, Sam,” Ross said.

Black took a seat next to Stella and waited.

“All right, Stella,” Ross said. “It’s time for you to come up with the whole story.”

“What story?” Black inquired. “What’s going on anyway?”

“George Mott is waiting out front for Stella,” the gambler informed him. “Another Syndicate gun has the back door covered in case she tries to sneak out that way.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Stella said, paling.

“I was afraid you might get the customers’ hats mixed up. Now you know.”

Black stared at the girl. “The Syndicate is gunning for her?”

“Seems that way,” Ross said.

“My God, we can’t fight the Syndicate, Clancy! We don’t want any part of this.”

“Of course not, Sam,” Ross said sardonically. “We’ll just send her out to be shot down.”

The burly man flushed. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, what did you mean?”

“How the hell do I know?” Black growled. “I was just sounding off.”

“Don’t mind Sam,” Ross said to the girl. “He automatically objects to my plans even before he learns what they are. It’s just reflex action. Get on with your story.”

Stella took a deep breath. “Did you read in the paper about the murder of a Chicago lawyer named Carl Vegas a week and half ago?”

Ross nodded. “Uh-huh. As I remember, a couple of other men were gunned down the same night, but the police weren’t sure there was any connection.” Then he frowned. “Vegas’ secretary also disappeared, as I recall. The police theorize she may have been murdered, too, but I’m beginning to get another idea. You?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Stella Powers? Stella something.”

“Stella Parsons.”

“That’s it. Why did you run?”

“Because they sent that Mott man and another to kill me. There was no sense in going to the police. Witnesses against Whitey Cord don’t live until trial, even under police protection.”

Ross emitted a low whistle. “Whitey Cord’s behind this? You pick powerful enemies. He’s Chicago’s Syndicate representative. What did you and Vegas do to Whitey?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “Mr. Vegas made an affidavit accusing Cord of killing a man named Otis Taylor last October. He had it in his office safe addressed to the district attorney and had instructed me to mail it only in the event of his death. The safe was cracked and the affidavit was stolen the same night Mr. Vegas was killed. Cord had some woman call me to find out if I knew the contents of the affidavit, and then sent his killers after me and I fled town.”

Ross studied her for a moment. “Was Vegas involved in the rackets?”

“Yes. Deeply.”

“Were you, too?” he asked bluntly.

“Of course not,” she said in surprise. “I didn’t even know he was until the day before he died, when he had me type up that affidavit. I knew he had some underworld clients, of course, but I had no idea what his dealings were with them. I wanted to resign when I found out what he really was, but I was afraid to do so immediately because he’d already let me know too much.”

“You mean you were afraid he might have you killed?”

“The thought occurred to me,” Stella admitted. “I don’t suppose he was bad enough to do a thing like that. But I’d never been in such a situation before, and I imagined all sorts of things.”

“How come you knew so little about his business? You were his private secretary.”

“I’d only been with him a few weeks. I haven’t been out of secretarial school very long.”

Ross suddenly smiled at her. “Okay, Stella. Your story holds water. I guess you were just an innocent bystander.”