The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

TWELVE

Verna had learned to be a telephone operator a few years before, when Mrs. Hooper needed extra help and she needed extra money, but she didn’t usually spend her lunch hour-or any hours-at the Darling Telephone Exchange. But being on the switchboard at noon was part of the plan she had mentioned to Liz, a plan that she had sold to Myra May the evening before.

At eight o’clock on Monday morning, as usual, Verna opened the probate office. Located on the second floor of the courthouse and to the right at the head of the stairs, the office had a reception room divided by a long wooden counter, with the public area on one side and three wooden desks and chairs on the other: one for Verna, one for Coretta Cole, and the third, behind a low partition, for Mr. Earle Scroggins, the elected probate clerk, just in case he should happen to drop in, which he didn’t, usually.

Mr. Scroggins was a fat, jovial man with a bulbous red nose and twin white mustaches that curled up on the ends. He wore red suspenders and a bow tie and owed his reelection for three consecutive six-year terms as probate clerk to the goodwill of the friends who, in their turn, called on him for important favors, usually (but not always) legal. Mr. Scroggins owned a cotton gin on the south side of town and a cottonseed oil mill over by the river, and (although he was always careful not to miss the monthly meetings of the county commissioners) did not see much point in spending a lot of time in the office, especially since Verna took such good care of everything.

Whenever he dropped in, Verna would hand him a pen and a bottle of ink and a few papers requiring his signature (she had already signed the rest), bring him up to date on anything that might present a major problem, and ask his opinion about one or two minor matters. He would smile and pat her on the shoulder and say, “Don’t reckon I could do without you, Miz Tidwell,” and go back to his cronies and his cotton gin.

To some people, Verna’s job might have seemed boring, but she enjoyed being responsible for the multitude of property transactions, tax liens, wills, probate orders, and election details that kept the machinery of Cypress County moving. She also liked her work because it gave her an inside look at what was going on at the moment. She always knew who was buying and selling property, because the office managed the property records. She knew who died or was born or got married, because the probate clerk issued marriage licenses and birth and death certificates, as well as filing wills and probate documents. The office also collected property tax payments, so Verna knew who had gotten so far behind on their taxes that the county was planning to put the property up for auction. When that happened, she was the one who recorded the sale. In fact, Verna often said that nothing of any consequence could happen in Cypress County without leaving a paper trail across her desk.

Until a few months ago, there had been two women full-time in the office, Verna and Coretta Cole. But tax revenues were down, and Mr. Scroggins had decided to save money by cutting staff hours. Now, Coretta worked only two days a week, usually Tuesdays and Thursdays. But Coretta had agreed to come in on Monday, instead. So Monday morning, when Liz Lacy phoned the probate office to give Verna the address she had found in Miss Jamison’s file, and (to Verna’s pleased surprise) a telephone number and a name as well, Verna could ask Coretta to take over for her. She could turn her attention to the plan she had concocted the evening before-the plan to deal with Mr. Gold.

It was not a plan that Verna could carry out for herself, however, which was why (after she had called Coretta on Sunday evening) she had put on a sweater and walked to the diner for a talk with Myra May. She told the whole story, from start to finish, laying all her cards on the table. But while Myra May had been intrigued by Verna’s suspicions (she read the newspapers and listened to the radio and was as interested as the next person in what those gangsters were doing up there in Chicago), she had at first said a firm “no” to Verna’s proposal, which appeared to violate certain important rules of the Darling Telephone Exchange.

But after Verna have finished explaining her plan and why she felt it was necessary, and especially after she had offered to work on the switchboard during the next day’s noon dinner hour (the diner’s busiest time), Myra May had agreed. With Lenore gone to Mobile for a few days and Violet still up in Memphis taking care of her dead sister’s new baby, Myra May was stretched as thin as a rubber band and just about as ready to snap. Most times of the day, she could handle both the diner and the switchboard if she had to, but not during the noon dinner rush, so Verna’s offer was welcome. Anyway, both Myra May and Verna were Dahlias, and Myra May knew that another Dahlia wouldn’t ask for that kind of help unless she really needed it.

Verna’s plan-she thought of it as Phase One-had two parts. The first part involved a phony telegram, which she wrote on one of the blank Western Union forms she got at the Exchange. There were three short sentences: MR C WANTS YOU CALL NOON MONDAY STOP USE PHONE BOOTH STOP NOT HOTEL PHONE STOP. It was not signed. She paid Mr. Musgrove’s boy to deliver this fake telegram to the hotel on Sunday night.

To Verna’s analytic mind, the telegram was a very simple test, with two-and only two-possible outcomes. If Mr. Gold passed the test by making the call, it was because he was a member of the Capone gang and knew who Mr. C was and how to reach him. If he didn’t make the call and therefore failed the test, it was because he had no idea who he was supposed to call, at what number. Of course, failing the test didn’t mean that the man wasn’t up to some nefarious purpose. It just meant that he wasn’t connected to those gangsters in Cicero.

The second part of Verna’s plan required Miss Jamison’s address. That’s why she was thrilled and delighted when Liz called the office on Monday morning and gave her not only an address but a telephone number and a name-two more items than she had expected. Of course, she reminded herself, as she went behind the partition and sat down at Mr. Scruggs’ desk and reached for the black candlestick telephone, this was only a fishing expedition and probably wouldn’t net much of a catch. Realistically speaking (and Verna was almost always realistic), the most she could hope for was a tiny tidbit of information that might tell her whether Miss Jamison was somehow connected to the Capone gang. She could just as easily come up empty-handed.

The circuits were busy and it took a little while for Verna to get through to UNderwood 3-4555. But when she did, she hit the jackpot, for Mrs. O’Malley proved to be an older woman with an Irish accent who had apparently been waiting on pins and needles for any word from Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake.

“Oh, dearie me, I’m so glad to know the ladies arrived safely!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I was beginnin’ to fret that something might’ve gone wrong somehow. O’ course, I know there’s no phone in her auntie’s house, but still-” She paused for breath. “Anyway, dear, it’s verra sweet of you to call for them! Was there somethin’ special they was wantin’?”

Verna, inventing on the spot, said that Miss LaMotte had asked her to telephone Mrs. O’Malley and ask if she had left her ivory-backed hairbrush and mirror set behind. Mrs. O’Malley didn’t hesitate to offer to run and look. She came back in a moment (and a bit short of breath) to say that she didn’t see it anywhere, but she would be sure to keep on looking and hoped that Miss LaMotte was getting settled and Miss Lake was feeling better.

“I’ve been worried to death about Miss Lake,” she added anxiously. “Those dreadful knife cuts on her face-so slow to heal. All the way to the verra bone, y’know.” She pulled in her breath. “Why, one of them awful slashes just missed her right eye!”

Knife cuts? Verna thought swiftly, cataloging the possibilities. “Miss Lake is better,” she said, cautiously feeling her way, “but of course she’s still suffering dreadfully. Takes her meals in her room and doesn’t come downstairs and of course you can’t blame her. Such a pretty woman, and in show business, too. I saw them once in New York, when they had their Naughty and Nice Sisters act.”

“Oh, you did?” Mrs. O’Malley exclaimed. “Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake had the lead act at the Star and Garter for the longest time, y’know. ‘The Naughty, Naughty Sisters,’ they called themselves. Real classy burlesque. That’s where Mr. Capone ran into ’em, o’ course.”

“Is that right?” Verna said in a marveling tone. “Well, gracious sakes.” The Naughty, Naughty Sisters? They had obviously changed the act.

“Yes, and after that, they was all as thick as thieves for a year or more, Mr. Capone and his friends and Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake. Which is what makes it so hard. They was friends! And then he sent one of his thugs over here to cut both of ’em up. And poor Miss Lake-” She gulped back a sniffle, then broke into sobs. “Poor Miss Lake!”

“But she’s lucky it wasn’t worse, don’t you think?” Verna said in a comforting tone. “Why, she might have been killed!”

Noisily, Mrs. O’Malley blew her nose. “Oh, aye! And her such a brave little dear, too. Why, after it happened-and after Miss LaMotte pulled out her gun and shot that brute, y’ know-she wouldn’t for the longest time let me call a doctor. All we could do was try and stop the bleeding until she finally gave in. And when he came and told her she ought to be in the hospital, she refused, o’ course, because the doctors in the hospital, just like everybody else in this town, are all in cahoots wi’ the Capone gang.”

Shot that brute? Verna was taken aback. She tried to get a word in edgewise but without success as Mrs. O’Malley took a deep breath and hurried on.

“I know those stitches all over her pretty cheeks are big and clumsy and I’m sure there’ll be terrible scars, which o’ course means that her dancin’ career is over. But I canna blame the doctor, poor young man. Miss Lake was screamin’ her lungs out and all we had to give her was whiskey, and he was in a hurry to get it over with because we all thought the thug might come back and try to finish the job while he was there, sewin’ her up, and Miss LaMotte, standin’ over ’em both with her gun, just in case.” One more breath. “Still, I think I could’ve done better with that needle m’self. Everybody says they ain’t nivver seen quilting stitches as pretty as mine.”

Finally, Verna got a chance to break in. “That was very brave of Miss LaMotte,” she said. “To shoot the fellow, I mean. It’s a good thing she had the gun handy.” What kind of gun, she wondered. Where was it now? But she couldn’t think of a way to ask those indelicate questions. Instead, she said, “Was he badly wounded, do you know?”

“Badly wounded!” Mrs. O’Malley exclaimed incredulously. “Why, gracious sakes alive, dear, dinna she tell you? That Remington pistol o’ hers ain’t verra big but it packs a wallop, it does. Sal Raggio-they call him ‘the Blade,’ he’s the man she shot-got as far as the Western Hotel. That’s where they found ’im, dead as a doornail, propped up against the brick wall out front. The papers was full of it the next mornin’.”

The Blade, dead in front of the Western Hotel. Verna was beginning to piece the details of the story together, but she needed more. “I don’t suppose the police knew that Miss LaMotte was the one who pulled the trigger,” she hazarded.

“Police?” Mrs. O’Malley cried, with a bitter gale of Irish laughter. “Police! Why, sure and begorrah, o’ course they knew who pulled that trigger! Sal Raggio was a friend of Mr. Capone, and Mr. C himself ordered ’em to come and haul Miss LaMotte off to jail. And that’s exactly what they would’ve done, too, if she’d’ve been here.”

“So Miss LaMotte is a fugitive from justice,” Verna said, half to herself.

Mrs. O’Malley gave an indignant sniff. “Well, I s’pose you could call her that-except that it ain’t ‘justice’ she’d likely get in this town. More like ‘revenge,’ is what I’d call it. But then, I guess you folks down there in Alabama dinna know that the police up here in Cicero are hand-in-glove with Mr. Capone and his mob. Not to mention the prosecutors and the judges and the juries and all the rest. If Mr. Capone’s cops get their hands on her, she’ll nivver see the light o’ day again. Nivver.”

“Of course,” Verna murmured, as the last piece fell into place. “Of course.”

“And that’s why they had to leave town so quick,” Mrs. O’Malley continued mournfully. “I miss ’em with all my heart, truly I do, but I’m glad they had a place to go, and I’ll be gladder yet when the house is sold and I can go, too. ’Twas the dear Lord’s blessin’ that Miss LaMotte was already makin’ arrangements with that old lady down there, Miss what’s-her-name. All they had to do was pack and run.”

“Miss Hamer,” Verna supplied. “Her aunt?” She let the question mark hang in the air.

“That’s right-Hamer, that’s the auntie,” Mrs. O’Malley replied. “An’ you tell Miss LaMotte that I’m verra glad that they hurried up and got on that train when they did, even though ’twas pourin’ down rain, ’cause Mr. Capone’s policemen showed up not thirty minutes after the door closed behind ’em.”

“Well, my goodness,” Verna murmured.

“Aye, indeed! If they’d waited to leave when they planned, they’d be in jail right now. Or dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.” Mrs. O’Malley’s voice became tremulous. “You tell Miss LaMotte that the verra same day, after the police came and went, that baldheaded man come lookin’ for her. Diamond, Frankie Diamond-she’ll know the one. He’s another friend of the Blade’s. He was mad as a stuck bull, he was, and he’s mean and dang’rous. Said when he caught sight of either of ’em, he’d shoot ’em.” She made a shivery sound. “Just the thought of it gives me the cold chills. I’m glad Miss LaMotte knows how to use that Remington-and that she took it with her. You tell her what I said, now. Don’t forget.”

“I sure will,” Verna said. So the baldheaded Mr. Gold was really Mr. Diamond, Frankie Diamond-and he was out to kill! It was all the confirmation she needed, and time to wind up the conversation. She looked down at the notes she had made after Liz’s call. “It’s good for them that they have you to look after the house until it’s sold.”

“I do my best,” Mrs. O’Malley said, with a note of quiet pride. “If I do say it myself, I’m a good manager, I am. When this house is sold and after Miss LaMotte’s aunt is dead and gone, she’s asked me to come and live down there, which I will cert’nly be pleased to do, and the sooner the better. Dinna know that I’ll like small-town livin’, but these northern winters are hard on my old bones. And I just hate all this gangster stuff. Why, a body canna walk safe on the streets these days!”

Verna knitted her brows together. “Dead and gone? Her aunt?”

“Oh, aye.” Mrs. O’Malley’s voice became mournful again. “Miss Hamer’s not expected to live much longer, poor old thing. The Lord could take her any day now, I reckon. The house is a nice big one, Miss LaMotte said-at least, that’s what she heard from the neighbor across the street, when she talked to her on the phone. Big enough for all three of us.” She paused and added curiously, “What did you say your name was again, dear?”

Verna shivered. Not expected to live much longer. It sounded ominous. Was Miss LaMotte expecting Miss Hamer’s speedy demise? She suddenly thought of the prescription for Veronal that Miss LaMotte had tried to get Mr. Lima to fill at the drugstore. Mr. Lima had said that it was a dangerous barbiturate. Had Miss LaMotte planned to use it to kill Miss Hamer? What Verna had learned about Miss LaMotte’s shooting of Sal Raggio made this seem altogether too plausible. A woman who had killed once could kill again. And maybe Raggio wasn’t her first victim.

Out of a sense of caution, Verna decided not to give her real name. “I’m Bessie Bloodworth,” she lied quickly. “I’m the neighbor Miss LaMotte telephoned, across the street from Miss Hamer’s.”

“Well, it’s been verra good talkin’ to you, Miz Bloodworth,” Mrs. O’Malley said cheerfully. “You give both the ladies my best love, now, will ye? And tell ’em from me to be careful. I’m sure they’re where it’s safe, but they need to keep a sharp eye out.” She sighed. “Oh, and tell Miss LaMotte that there’s been nobody looking at the house. Seems like people don’t have the money to buy property right now. Things is pretty grim here. People out of work, with nowhere to go.” She sighed. “People sleeping in the parks, even.”

“I’ll do that,” Verna said. “And if you find that hairbrush and mirror, please do send them along. Miss LaMotte is so anxious to have them.”

“Aye, I will,” Mrs. O’Malley promised. “G’bye now!”

Verna hung the earpiece on the phone and sat for a moment, thinking. The conversation with Mrs. O’Malley had given her more information than she had dared to hope for. She now knew why Miss Lake had hidden herself away in her room and wouldn’t let anybody look at her; why Miss Jamison was so frightened; and why she refused to acknowledge that she was Lorelei LaMotte. She knew that Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake had been starring in a burlesque show at the Star and Garter, where one or both of them had attracted the attention of Al Capone; that Miss LaMotte was packing a Remington pistol; and that she had been brave enough-or foolish enough-to use it on one of Capone’s friends. She also knew that the baldheaded man was another friend of her victim, a member of the Capone gang, and a very dangerous man.

But there were big gaps in her knowledge, and they made Verna nervous. She still didn’t know whether Miss LaMotte was really Miss Hamer’s niece or a clever imposter who was looking for a hideout where she and her friend could cool off while the heat was on, as The Dime Detective might put it. What’s more, she didn’t know whether Miss Hamer herself might be in danger, as Mrs. O’Malley had seemed to suggest. Filling these gaps would require an entirely different investigative strategy-exactly what that would be, she wasn’t sure.

Troubled, Verna pressed her lips together. This part of her plan had unexpectedly given her almost all the information she needed, and she was sorry now (verra sorry, as Mrs. O’Malley would say) that she had set the other part into motion. When the baldheaded man-Frankie Diamond, that is-followed the instruction contained in the telegram and telephoned Mr. Capone, he would learn that nobody there knew anything about the telegram, and figure out that it had to have come from someone in Darling. He would be on his guard. And then it would be more difficult to-

Abruptly, Verna pushed the chair back and stood up from the desk. More difficult to what? Now that she knew who Frankie Diamond was and why he was here in Darling, she ought to be getting ready to move to Phase Two of her plan. She should be shifting from speculation, investigation, and analysis to operation. To action.

But what kind of action? To tell the truth, Verna didn’t have a clue.

She sighed and looked down at her wristwatch. It was eleven, time for her shift at the Darling Telephone Exchange. And only an hour before Frankie Diamond telephoned Mr. Capone and learned that the telegram he had received was a hoax.