She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Chapter X

The next day Ross couldn’t get the airline ticket out of his mind despite his rationalization of it the night before. After brooding about it for a time, he finally went down to his office about three p.m., looked up a Chicago phone number in his private address book and dialed it direct.

When a female voice said, “Herald Express,” he asked for the city room. When he got that, he asked for Jimmy Dolan.

A few moments passed before a bright, cheerful voice said, “Dolan speaking.”

“Hello, Jimmy,” the gambler said. “This is Clancy Ross.”

“Why you old son-of-a-gun!” Dolan said in a delighted voice. “When did you get in town?”

“I didn’t. I’m phoning long distance from St. Stephen.”

“Oh,” the reporter said, disappointed. “What’s up?”

“I need a favor.”

“Sure. They finally got to that honest wheel of yours, huh? How much? I haven’t a nickel myself, but my credit is unlimited.”

“Not money, you meathead. No wonder you’re always broke, if you borrow money to loan to people.”

“Not people, Clancy. Just a select few who I know would do the same for me. What is it you want?”

“Some information. You may be able to find it in your newspaper morgue, but more likely you’ll have to use contacts.”

“Shoot.”

For five minutes Ross explained exactly what he wanted.

When he finished, the reporter said, “Got it. I’ll go right to work on it and shoot you an air-mail special-delivery letter.”

When he hung up, Ross felt better. Even if it turned out that he had gone to unnecessary trouble, he liked to cover all bets.

Shortly after the club opened at four p.m. Ross took a local phone call in his office from a man who identified himself only as “Whisper.”

“I got something should be worth at least half a C,” Whisper said in a rasping voice.

“Yeah? What?”

“It’s all over the grapevine how you ran a couple of Syndicate hoods out of town for passing at some dame what works for you.”

“That isn’t worth a nickel,” Ross said. “I knew it when it happened, long before the grapevine did.”

“That ain’t the tip,” Whisper said huskily. “The word is out that the Syndicate’s pressuring Bix Lawson. He’s been told if he can’t control things in his own town, the Syndicate will move in to help him. They gave Bix till this coming weekend to come up with the girl — or else.”

“Well, well. What was Bix’s reaction?”

“He told the big boys from Chicago he’d come up with her.”

“I guess that’s worth half a C,” the gambler said. “You can pick it up any time, from either Sam Black or Oscar the headwaiter.”

Hanging up, he picked up the phone on his desk and got hold of Sam Black.

“Whisper will be in for a fifty, Sam,” he said. “Pass the word to Oscar, in case he hits him instead of you.”

“Okay,” Black said. “I was just going to phone you. Amos Morton is here to see you.”

“The cop?” Ross said, frowning.

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s he want?”

“He won’t say, but he’s got that official-business look about him and there’s some kind of legal document sticking out of his side pocket. It can’t be a search warrant, or he would have flashed it on me instead of just politely asking to see you.”

“Hmm,” Ross said. “I have an idea what it might be. Stall him for ten minutes. Keep giving the wrong signal to the elevator, so he’ll think it’s not on the main floor. As a matter of fact, it won’t be for a time.”

Hanging up, he left the office and walked down the hall to the gaming room. At that time of day there was a sprinkling of only half a dozen patrons and most of the employees were standing about idly. The two cocktail girls were chatting near the door to the small barroom. Ross crooked his finger at the smaller of the two, a pert little redhead of about twenty-five.

“Yes, Mr. Ross?” she said, coming over.

“Just follow me,” he said, returning to the foyer and motioning Stella out from behind the counter of the cloakroom.

When Stella joined them and gave Ross an inquiring look, he carefully studied the figures of both girls.

“You’re about the same size,” he decided. “Come on back to my office.”

Puzzled the girls followed him. Inside, he closed the door.

“Change clothes with each other,” he instructed.

The girls looked at him in astonishment, then at each other. Stella wore the standard uniform of the club’s cloakroom girls, a conservative cocktail dress. The cocktail waitress wore a tiny flared skirt, so short it showed all of her black sequined panties, net stockings and a black sequined halter.

“Make it fast,” Ross said crisply. “If my presence embarrasses you, you’ll have to put up with it, because I haven’t time to wait politely in the hall. I’ll have to give you instructions while you’re changing.”

The redhead moved first. Hurriedly she reached behind her to unsnap the halter, exposing firm, pointed little breasts. As she stooped to unfasten and strip off the net stockings, Stella followed her example by zipping down her cocktail dress and pulling it off over her head.

Ross said, “One of Bix Lawson’s pet cops is downstairs, Stella, and I suspect he has some kind of warrant for your arrest. Connie will take your place in the cloakroom and I want you to disappear into the ladies’ powder room and stay there until I send for you. Connie, your story is that you’re Stella’s replacement on her day off. That’s all. You don’t know anything else, and you’ve never seen Stella, because you only come in when she’s off. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the redhead said, kicking off her shoes to pull the stockings the rest of the way off, then loosening a snap and wriggling the sequined shorts with their attached skirt down over her hips.

This left the girl naked except for a pair of Bikini panties. Stella, who had cast a sharp glance at Ross to see if he was admiring the redhead’s figure, was reassured to discover his expression was merely one of impatience. Quickly she unsnapped her brassiere and tossed it to Connie, following it with her half-slip. She then pulled the sequined shorts and attached skirt up over her hips.

“If he happens to have a search warrant and decides to take a look into the powder room, we’ll try to bluff it out,” Ross said: “Even if he has a description, he’s never seen you. Just brush on by him, go into the bar and start delivering cocktails to patrons. Your name is Jane Wilson. Got it?”

Nodding, Stella snapped the sequined halter into place. The cups were too small, so that they rode forward on the tips of her breasts, but the girth of the strap was just right. The halter was a little more provocative on her than on Connie, but it looked as though that was its intention.

A half minute later both girls were dressed in each other’s clothing. Opening the office door, Ross said, “Scoot into position fast. You’ve got about thirty seconds.”

Both girls scurried up the hall, Connie ducking behind the cloakroom counter and Stella hurrying beyond that to the powder room. She had barely disappeared inside when the elevator doors opened.

The man who stepped off the elevator was wide, all the way down from his shoulders to his thighs, particularly at the waist. He had thick, unimaginative features and a flat-footed walk which branded him as a cop who had walked a beat for many years, in spite of his expensively tailored suit.

Ross left the doorway of his office and strolled at a leisurely pace toward the detective, who was making his way toward the cloakroom. They reached the counter at the same time.

“Hello, Clancy,” the detective said in a half growl. Flashing his badge at the girl behind the counter, he said, “Police officer, miss. Detective Sergeant Amos Morton.”

Ross said nothing. Connie said, “So?”

“I have a warrant for your arrest,” Morton said, producing a folded legal document from his side pocket.

The girl simulated surprise. Ross said, “May I see that, Morton?”

“Sure.” The detective thrust it at him.

Unfolding it, Ross said, “Hmm. Charge: shoplifting. Issued by Municipal Judge Blake at request of the district attorney. It all seems to be in order.” Handing it back, he added in seeming afterthought, “Except for one thing. This girl isn’t Stella Parsons, alias Stella Graves.”

“Huh? Who you trying to kid?”

“Tell the man your name, Connie,” Ross said.

“Cornelia Turner,” the redhead said promptly.

“Who you trying to kid?” Morton repeated, looking belligerently from one to the other. “Stella Parsons works in your cloakroom, and she answers this girl’s description.”

“Except that Stella’s blond,” Ross said pleasantly. “Do you have your union card with you, Connie?”

“In my bag in my locker.”

“Go get it.”

Coming from behind the counter, Connie headed for the employees’ locker room. Apparently it didn’t strike Detective Morton as strange that a cloakroom attendant would leave her bag in the locker room when she could have kept it as safely at hand in her cloakroom.

Within moments Connie returned with a small plastic card in her hand. Silently she handed it to Morton. Examining it, the detective saw that it was a membership card in the Waitress and Restaurant Workers’ Union, bearing the name Cornelia Turner. In addition to a physical description, the card contained a small photograph of the redhead. His eyes raised to stare at the girl, lowered to the picture again, then raised for still another check.

“All right,” he growled finally, handing the card back. “Where’s Stella?”

“It’s her night off,” Connie volunteered. “I fill in for her.”

Morton turned to Ross. “Where is she, Clancy?”

Ross shrugged. “I don’t keep track of employees on their nights off.”

Morton’s eyes turned crafty. “Did she work last night?”

“Sure.”

“How late?”

“Until closing. Two a.m.”

“Then she’s here in the building somewhere,” the detective said triumphantly. “This joint has been staked out since midnight last night, and she sure hasn’t come out of the building. You better get her up.”

“You must have lousy stakeouts,” Ross said. “Would you like her home address?”

“We got her home address. She ain’t been there for near a week. You been holing her up here.”

Ross gave him an infuriating smile.

Reddening, Morton stared at him for a moment, then strode down the hall toward Ross’ office and inside. Following, Ross stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him. After glancing around and even looking behind the desk, Morton turned to face the gambler.

“Is she up in your apartment?” the detective demanded.

“You’ll never know without a search warrant.”

“I can get one if I have to,” Morton snapped. “What the devil are you being so ornery for?”

Leaning his back against the door, Ross lit a cigarette. “You know why they want this girl, Amos?”

“Sure. Shoplifting.”

Ross shook his head. “That’s eyewash. Who are you instructed to deliver her to? Police headquarters or to Bix Lawson?”

Morton frowned. “What’s that to you?”

“A lot. You probably haven’t been filled in on the details, but I’d bet you that once you took this girl out of here, that warrant would be destroyed. There wouldn’t be any record of a request for it in the district attorney’s files, and, in case anybody ever asked him, Judge Blake would deny ever having issued it. If I took it away from you and tore it up, there wouldn’t be a single city official who would back up your story that you ever possessed it.”

Morton examined him doubtfully. Presently he said, “It’s legal as far as I’m concerned. My department head handed it to me and told me to serve it. It’s none of my business what kind of deal the higher ups have rigged.”

“I know. You’re just a messenger boy for Bix Lawson. But don’t forget you’re a messenger boy for me, too. If I’m not mistaken, I match what Bix pays you and never ask for odd jobs, such as the one you’re performing now. All I ask is to be let alone. So be a nice bribe-accepting cop and run along.”

Dropping all pretense of being merely a cop performing his duty, Morton said hotly, “I’ll run along when I get this dame. Yeah, I’m supposed to deliver her to Bix. So you’d better get her up. You going to buck him?”

Blowing a thin spiral of smoke at the detective, Ross said, “Maybe you’d better rephrase that to: Is he going to buck me?”

Morton frowned. “I don’t get you, Clancy. You know all it would take is an excuse for Bix to lower the boom. How you’ve got away with staying independent this long, I don’t know. Nobody else in town can.”

“I’ll give you a message for Bix,” Ross said. “Tell him if he sends any more Keystone cops after Stella, I’ll send them back horizontal.”

The detective looked incredulous. “Tell Bix that? You looking for a war?”

“Declaring it,” Ross said indifferently. “If Bix wants it that way.”

Morton emitted a sarcastic laugh. “I always thought you were too big for your boots, Clancy. You’d better pick out a casket.”

Coming away from the door, Ross pulled it open. “Good night, Sergeant,” he said politely. “It’s been a pleasant relationship, but don’t drop by for your weekly stipend unless you bring along word that Bix has lost interest in Stella.”

The detective trod heavily over to the smaller man and glowered down into his face. “You think you can tie a can to my tail, punk? This place will be knocked over so fast—”

That was as far as he got when four stiffened fingers jabbed into his stomach, causing him to gasp and involuntarily bend forward. Then the hard edge of the gambler’s palm smashed alongside his neck.

As the detective started to stumble to his knees, Ross grabbed him behind the head at the same time he brought up a knee. There was a dull crunch as the man’s nose flattened. When the smaller man released him, he sat heavily, his mouth hanging open and crimson streaming from both nostrils onto his expensive suit. When Ross carefully kicked him in the jaw, he toppled backward and lay still.