She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Chapter XVI

When Ross got back to the club, M.DuBarry had departed and Sam Black was seated disconsolately at the wrecked bar. A couple of workmen were boarding up the shattered front window.

“The mail came,” Black said, lifting a stack of envelopes from the bar and separating a single air-mail special-delivery envelope from it to hand to Ross. “This is all that’s personally addressed to you. The rest’s business correspondence and bills.”

Glancing at the envelope, Ross thrust it into his inside coat pocket. “Come on upstairs and I’ll buy you a drink in pleasanter surroundings.”

“All right,” Black accepted. “This place depresses me. Wait till I dump the mail.”

Carrying the stack of envelopes into the downstairs office next to the bar, he tossed them on his desk and rejoined Ross. They moved together toward the elevator.

Getting off at the second floor, Ross led the way to his office. The silence of the second floor seemed to depress Black further. He glanced gloomily into the empty gaming room and the two empty poker rooms as they passed them.

As Ross mixed drinks at the small office bar, Black said, “We’re really out of business, aren’t we?”

“We’ll open again.” He handed Black a bourbon highball and began making a weak Scotch and soda.

“What’d the cops have to say?” Black asked.

“Redfern thinks some out-of-town mob is trying to muscle in on both Bix and us. Neither of us gave him much help.”

“Bix was there, too?”

“Uh-huh. Surrounded by three guns, which I took as an oblique compliment. Afterward he waited for me outside and delivered an ultimatum. When I threw it back in his face, he got mad and ordered his goons to take me.”

Black choked on his drink. When he had coughed his throat clear enough for speech, he said, “Right in front of police headquarters?”

“Why not? He practically owns the joint.” Ross took a sip of his drink.

Black looked him up and down. “I don’t see any bullet holes. What happened?”

“I left the four of them lying there.”

Black closed his eyes, opened them again and drained his drink. “Dead?” he asked faintly.

“No, just resting peacefully. Funny thing, Sam. Pedestrians were all over the place, cars were passing, a traffic cop was no more than fifty feet away, and in the middle of things a cop came out of headquarters, spoke to us and walked on. And nobody at all noticed what was going on.”

Black closed his eyes again. “That’s why I won’t play you head-to-head stud. Nobody deserves your luck.” Reopening his eyes, he thrust out his glass. “A refill for my nerves, please.”

When Ross had replenished his drink, Black said, “What happens now?”

The gambler shrugged. “The next move is up to Bix.”

“Oh, fine,” Black said. “We just wait, huh? Suppose he drops an atom bomb on the club?”

“More likely he’ll just put a price on my head,” Ross said cheerfully. “I’ll have to start checking my car for bombs and taking a few other simple precautions, I guess.”

“My God, he’s going to take a few simple precautions!” Black said to no one. “He’s getting old.”

The phone rang.

Walking behind his desk, Ross picked it up and said, “Club Rotunda.”

“Clancy?” Christine Franklin’s voice said in his ear.

“Yeah. How are you?”

“I’ve finally recovered from the other night, but just barely. You leave a girl exhausted.”

“That was my intention.”

“You accomplished it. I just heard over the air about your club being bombed. I called to offer sympathy.”

“Thanks,” Ross said. “We’ll be closed down for repairs for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh? Then you’ll be free nights for a time.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shall we have a return engagement?”

“Why not? Want to drop over tonight? We’ll have the whole building to ourselves.”

“Um, that sounds interesting. But why don’t you come out here instead? You have a car and I don’t.”

“All right,” he agreed. “What time?”

“About nine all right?”

“Sure.”

“Better bring your own Scotch. I still have nothing but bourbon.”

“I’ll bring some more of that, too. But in case we have any more bombings between now and then, what’s your phone number out there?”

“Just a minute. It’s on the plate here.” There was a pause before she said, “Capitol three, two, six, oh, one.”

Jotting the number on a scratch pad, he tore off the sheet and thrust it into his side pocket. “Okay. Unless I phone back, I’ll see you at nine.”

“I’ll be waiting, wearing your favorite outfit,” she said softly, and hung up.

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:

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.”