She'll Hate Me Tomorrow

by Deming, Richard

  “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.”

  Sam Black emitted a sorrowful sigh. “Here we go again.”

  Stella gave him a puzzled look.

  “You probably think your boss is a nice guy,” Black said sourly. “But you know what he’s been doing the past few minutes?”

  She looked even more puzzled. “What?”

  “Deciding what to do about you. Why couldn’t you have done something nasty to Cord, such as absconding with a couple of pounds of his raw heroin or murdering his poor old mother?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “What do you mean?”

  “Clancy has a heart like a stone,” Black informed her. “If he thought Whitey Cord had some justification for going after you, he’d turn you over to his guns without batting an eye.”

  The girl turned shocked eyes at Ross.

  “Fortunately, for you, he also has a head like a stone,” Black continued sardonically. “For a maiden in distress Clancy will mount his big white horse and ride right into the dragon’s mouth.”

  “She’s a little more than a maiden in distress,” Ross said reasonably. “She’s an employee of the club.”

  “I know the argument by heart,” Black told him. “The only way to stay independent is not to give an inch. If you let people start pushing your employees around, pretty soon they’ll get the idea they can push you around. Know what I think of that argument? I think you thought it up as an excuse to get in trouble.”

  Ross merely grinned at him.

  “You see, Clancy is constitutionally incapable of doing anything the easy way,” Black explained to the girl. “Now, I’d like to help you out, too, but my idea would be to sneak you out of town and maybe come up with enough money to get you to South America. Clancy won’t settle for that. He’ll want to arrange things so you can walk down the streets of this town as safely as if you were in church. He’ll end up getting himself killed, me killed, and then you.”

  “Oh, no!” she said, appalled. “I’m just going to run away again. I don’t want Clancy and you involved in this.”

  “Why don’t you shut up, Sam?” Ross said amiably. “You’re not going anywhere, Stella, except upstairs to my apartment. There’s a spare bedroom where you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  She gave her head a determined shake. “I’m not going to let you endanger yourself over me.”

  “Don’t be as idiotic as Sam,” he said a little crossly. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

  Black said, “Don’t concern yourself over him, Stella. He loves trouble. Just shed a few tears for me. He always drags me into the messes he stirs up.”

  The girl looked from one to the other, and suddenly she smiled weakly. “All right, Clancy,” she gave in, “I’ll do whatever you think best.”

  “That’s better,” Ross said. “Where have you been staying?”

  “A rooming house at one forty-four Shannon.”

  “Give Sam your key and he’ll run over to get your clothes.” He turned to Black. “Take her upstairs and show her around first, Sam. I’ll be back later. I have a little chore to perform.”

  “What kind of chore?” Black asked suspiciously.

  “I just have to see a couple of people.”

  “Yeah. One sitting out front and one out back. I’ll come along and get Stella’s clothes later.”

  “If I thought I’d need you, I’d take you along,” the gambler said with a touch of tartness. “Do what the hell you’re told.”

  Sam Black subsided. Ross rarely used any type of profanity, and even a mild hell meant he was in no mood to take any more argument.

  Lifting his hat from the clothes tree, Ross set it at a jaunty angle on his head, lifted one hand in a cheery good-bye and walked from the office.

  By now all the second-floor employees except the cashiers had left for the night. The elevator operator was still on duty to take them down when they finished balancing their accounts, but when the second floor was clear, the operator would slide thin steel panels over the two-way glass at the first floor, set the elevator on automatic so that it could be called to other floors by push button, step out and close the doors behind him, which automatically locked them. Thereafter it would take a vault cracker to get into the elevator without a key, and Ross and Sam Black held the only two keys in existence. Even alone Stella would be safe in the third-floor apartment.

  Downstairs the only employees left were the bartender and cashier, still checking out their registers. The kitchen was deserted when Ross passed through it. By the glow of the bulb over the rear door he saw that the shadowy figure still slouched behind the wheel of Sam’s car, now one of only a half dozen remaining on the lot.

  He made for his Lincoln, parked left of the Cadillac, again passing within two feet of the stakeout man without glancing at him. Pulling open the right front door of the Lincoln, he suddenly spun, his right hand flickered beneath his coat, and the man seated in the Cadillac suddenly found himself staring into the blue barrel of a thirty-eight revolver.

  “Step out easy, mister,” Ross said in a friendly voice, pulling open the door on the driver’s side.

  The man’s right hand started to drop from the wheel to his lap, froze in midair when the hammer of Ross’ revolver drew back with an ominous click. Reaching inside, Ross lifted a forty-five automatic from the seated man’s lap and tossed it into the front seat of the Lincoln.

  Slowly the gunman climbed from the Cadillac, his hands elevated to shoulder height. He was a squat, stocky man with an oblong head and a swarthy complexion.

  With his left hand Ross pushed shut the door of the Cadillac, simultaneously closing the open door of the Lincoln with the heel of one foot.

  “You know the routine,” he said. “Hands against the fender, feet well back.”

  It obviously wasn’t the first time the squat man had undergone a shakedown, for he assumed the position with the bored air of a performer going through a familiar routine. Expertly Ross checked him for additional weapons, found none and ordered him to stand erect.

  When he turned, Ross deliberately slid his gun back into the holster beneath his left arm, dropped his hands to his sides and smiled amiably. For a moment the squat man stared at him in astonishment, then his right fist lashed out.

  Ross shifted the position of his head slightly and the fist whistled harmlessly by. At the same time the gambler’s right hand flickered beneath his coat again. The squat man froze in position when he felt the gun muzzle press into his stomach, his body inclined forward, his outstretched right arm across Ross’ left shoulder.

  “I just wanted to demonstrate how fast I can get this thing out,” Ross explained. “You can straighten up now.”

  Cautiously the man stepped back a pace and dropped his hands to his sides. Ross slid the gun back into its holster.

  The gambler said, “I had to demonstrate, because we’re going to take a walk along a lighted street, and it embarrasses me to appear in public with a gun in my hand. I just wanted you to know how fast it can come out. Next time I’ll blow your h
ead off.”

  The squat man licked his lips.

  “What shall I call you?” Ross inquired.

  The man merely stared at him.

  “I’ll call you Beanhead,” the gambler decided. “It seems to fit. Let’s go, Beanhead.” He made a courteous gesture for the man to accompany him.

  Side by side they walked up the alley to the cross street, Ross to the man’s right. Beanhead kept glancing sidewise undecidedly, but the demonstration seemed to have convinced him that it would be fatal to make another break. Reaching the cross street, they turned right.

  “I’ll brief you on our plans,” Ross said. “When we reach the car where your friend George is waiting, you’re, going to open the curb-side front door and say, ‘I don’t think she’s coming out, George.’ Exactly those words. If you try to improvise, I’ll separate your head from your spine with a bullet. Understand?”

  Beanhead nodded sullenly.

  “Then get in and sit next to George. I’ll take over from there.”

  At the corner they turned right again. A dozen feet from the rear of the car Ross lagged behind a pace.

  “Okay,” he said softly. “It’s time for your dramatic line.”

  Beanhead pulled open the front door of the car and growled, “I don’t think she’s coming out, George.”

  George Mott said, “Why the devil aren’t you—?” then came to an abrupt halt because Ross had slipped into the back seat and was leveling a gun at his head. With a resigned air Beanhead settled himself next to George Mott and pulled the door closed.

  Ross reached over the front seat and lifted another forty-five automatic from the thin man’s lap. Dropping it on the rear floor, he leaned forward again to pat beneath Mott’s arms and at his side coat-pockets.

  “Rise up and lean forward over the wheel,” he ordered.

  When Mott had elevated himself awkwardly over the wheel, Ross felt his hip pockets, then told him to sit down again.

  “Know where the Park Plaza is?” the gambler asked.

  “Yeah,” Mott said morosely.

  “Then head for it.”

  George Mott started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  CHAPTER VI

  FOR THE MOST PART, St. Stephen was an early-rising town, and by two forty-five a.m., when they parked in front of the Hotel Park Plaza, the city was asleep. There wasn’t a pedestrian on the street or a moving car in sight.

  “Before we get out you’d better explain about my gun, Beanhead,” Ross suggested. “I don’t want to cross a hotel lobby with a gun in my hand.”

  The squat man said huskily. “This guy can pull a gun faster than you can blink your eyes, George. Don’t make any breaks even if it ain’t in his hand, or you’ll get us both burned.”

  “That was well put,” Ross said approvingly.

  Slipping his revolver into his holster, he slid from the back seat and waited for the others to get out. When they had climbed to the sidewalk, barely three feet from where the gambler faced them with his hands at his sides, George Mott examined him doubtfully.

  “Don’t try anything, George,” Beanhead warned. “Can’t you see he’s just looking for an excuse?”

  Ross looked disappointed. “You spoil my fun, Beanhead. It’d be a pleasure to watch your crummy friend thresh around in the gutter with blood bubbling out of his mouth.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the hotel’s front door. “After you, gentlemen.”

  Mott and his stocky partner warily circled past the gambler. Ross fell into step a pace behind.

  As they entered the lobby, Ross said, “Straight ahead to the elevators. When we get in, both of you lean against the right-hand wall.”

  Only one elevator was in operation at that time of night. Beanhead entered it first. As Mott started to get in, his muscles tensed and he glanced over his shoulder at Ross, who was a bare step behind him. But the glint of pleased anticipation in the gambler’s eyes seemed to disconcert him. Meekly he placed his back against the right wall of the car, next to Beanhead. Ross lounged against the opposite wall and regarded the pair benignly.

  “All the way up,” he said to the operator.

  When they got off the elevator, Ross directed the two men across the hall to another, smaller elevator cage. This had only a four-passenger capacity, and Ross thought it prudent to make his captives stand with their faces pressed to the rear wall while he punched the up button.

  The penthouse elevator let them out into a small foyer about six feet square. Across the foyer from the elevator door was the entrance to the penthouse.

  Ross had the two men stand side by side in front of the door while he took up a position a foot behind them.

  “Ring the bell, Beanhead,” he ordered.

  It was several minutes and two repeat rings later before a small metal panel in the door slid back and a pair of eyes peered out at them.

  “Oh, hello, George,” Vince Krzal’s voice said sleepily. “Hi, Clancy. What do you want?”

  “In,” Ross said. “Open the door.”

  “Bix is asleep,” Krzal objected. “It’s almost three a.m.”

  “We know how to tell time,” Ross said patiently. “If it wasn’t important we’d be in bed ourselves. Open the idiot door.”

  The eyes beyond the slot examined the squat man. “I don’t know this guy.”

  “Just call him Beanhead,” Ross said. “I guarantee he isn’t carrying a gun. As a matter of fact, George isn’t either. I’m the only one carrying, and while I’m a little sore at Bix, I don’t plan to shoot him tonight. Open up.”

  Grumbling to himself, Krzal unbolted the door and pulled it open. The bodyguard’s hair was tousled from sleep and he wore a robe over pajamas. Something heavy sagged in the right pocket of the robe.

  Gently Ross pushed the two men in ahead of him. They entered into a wide front room furnished with modern furniture.

  Ross pointed to a sofa against one wall and said to Mott and Beanhead, “Sit there, side by side.”

  Vince Krzal looked puzzled when the two men meekly obeyed. “What’s up?” he inquired.

  “Go get Bix out of bed,” Ross told him.

  Scratching his head, the bodyguard disappeared into the hallway leading to the other rooms of the penthouse. Ross walked over to lean his back against the fireplace mantle, his gaze remaining fixed on the men seated on the sofa.

  It was five minutes before Krzal returned, trailed by a sleepy-eyed Bix Lawson. Lawson shambled into the room wearing a purple bathrobe over violent green pajamas. Hands in robe pockets, he blinked at Ross, then at the men on the sofa. He looked a bit surprised when he saw the squat man.

  “Hi, Bull,” he said. “When did you get in town?”

  “The same time his partner did,” Ross said coldly.

  Lawson yawned. “Yeah? Well, what’s so urgent it can’t wait till morning?”

  “My temper,” Ross said. “What in hell do you mean by fingering one of my employees for these Syndicate guns?”

  The gambler’s tone brought Lawson wide awake. For the first time he seemed to realize the three visitors hadn’t arrived together in friendly companionship. He looked from Ross to them, then back again.

  In a slow voice he said, “Vince said something about you guaranteeing they weren’t carrying guns. What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t like the way they had my club staked out,” Ross said in a savage tone. “I took their guns away so they wouldn’t shoot anybody. I also told Vince I wasn’t planning to shoot you tonight, but that’s subject to change if you don’t come up with the right answers.”

  Lawson examined him doubtfully. Vince Krzal’s fingers closed over the gun in his robe pocket.

  Ross said frigidly, “Tell that trained ape you use as a bodyguard to get his hand off his gun or I’ll put a bullet through his thick head.”

  Krzal stiffened and his jaw jutted out belligerently. Ross’ indolent stance didn’t change, but suddenly such a palpable wave of impending violence emanated from him, Bi
x Lawson took an involuntary step backward.

  “Get your hands out of your pocket, Vince,” he ordered nervously.

  The bodyguard glanced sidewise at his employer. His jaw remained outthrust, but his hand reluctantly came out of his robe pocket, empty. Lawson gave Ross a strained smile.

  “I don’t know what’s eating you, Clancy. If somebody passed at one of your people tonight, it wasn’t on my order.”

  “No. You just did the fingering.”

  “I never fingered anybody in my life!”

  Ross said with bitter sarcasm, “I could have sworn it was you who brought this goon, George Mott, into my club tonight and introduced him under a fake name.”

  Lawson shrugged. “So he wanted to be shown around town. He’s an old friend. When he suggested he’d rather not have me use his real name, I just figured he was a little hot at the moment. But I didn’t finger anybody for him.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Ross said grimly. “He knew who he was looking for. I ought to flatten your pointed head.”

  Lawson licked his lips. “They kill one of your people?” he ventured.

  “No, but it’s not your fault. They just aren’t very efficient killers.”

  For the first time that night some expression appeared on George Mott’s face. It was an expression of indignation. Apparently the only emotion he was capable of was professional pride.

  With a touch of apology in his eyes Lawson looked at the men on the sofa, then looked back at Ross. “Suppose we discuss this in private, Clancy.”

  “And leave these creeps out of my sight?”

  “Well, we could at least go over in the far corner.”

  Ross glanced in the indicated direction. The room was a good thirty feet long. Straightening away from the mantel, he marched the length of the room, turned and waited for Lawson to join him. The huge racket boss shuffled his slippered feet across the rug after him, halting with his back to the sofa.

  In a low voice Lawson said, “Are you out, of your mind, Clancy? These guys are Whitey Cord’s men.”

  “I’m aware of it,” Ross retorted coldly. “It was Cord who sent them after my cloakroom girl.”