She'll Hate Me Tomorrow Page 8

  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.

  CHAPTER XI

  CROSSING TO HIS DESK, Ross picked up the house phone and told the switchboard operator to have Sam Black come up to his office. When he hung up, he leaned over the unconscious detective and drew the warrant from his side pocket. While waiting for Black, he amused himself by watching it burn in an ash tray.

  At a knock on the door, Ross opened it to admit Black, immediately closed it again. The burly man gazed down at Amos Morton with a pained expression.

  “What’d he do?” he inquired. “Forget to say sir?”

  “He called you a baboon. I don’t like my menials insulted.”

  Black sniffed. “Something been burning?”

  “A warrant for Stella’s arrest on a shoplifting charge.”

  “Oh, fine,” Black said. “You assault a cop and destroy a warrant. You ought to get off with five years easy.”

  “Nobody’s going to admit there ever was a warrant. He meant to turn her over to Bix Lawson. Heave him out in the alley.”

  “Just like that? This guy’s a pet of Lawson’s, Clancy.”

  “He was a pet of mine, too, but I just fired him. We can expect a raid when he wakes up. I want the gaming room closed down. Get the customers out gently but fast, and have the boys strip out the equipment and truck it over to the warehouse. Don’t forget to change the elevator doors.”

  “What are you going to be doing while I perform all these chores? Just sit around like an executive?”

  “I’m going to get Stella out of here. Morton said the place is staked out, so it may be a problem.”

  “You’ll solve it,” Black said gloomily. “Just shoot a few cops.”

  Pulling open the office door, Ross grinned at him. Black was gazing broodingly down at the prone detective when he drew the door closed behind him.

  Striding down the hall to the cloakroom, the gambler said to Connie. “Run in the powder room and get Stella, will you, Connie?”

  “Sure, Mr. Ross.” Coming from behind the counter, she headed for the powder room.

  Sam Black stepped from the office and closed the door behind him. Coming over to Ross, he said, “I guess I better clear out the customers before I give Morton the heave. They might think we’re not nice people if I drag a bloody cop through the crowd.”

  “He shouldn’t wake up for a while,” Ross said.

  “A few weeks, I’d say, by the way he’s breathing. What’d you hit him with?”

  “With enjoyment.”

  Emitting a disgusted snort, Black entered the gaming room. The two girls came out of the powder room together and walked toward Ross.

  The gambler said, “Better get back to the cloakroom, Connie, because all the customers will be leaving in a few minutes. Stella, you come with me.” He punched the elevator signal button.

  Connie moved toward the cloakroom. Stella asked, “What happened? Why will the customers be leaving?”

  “We’re closing down for a time.”

  The elevator doors parted, they got on and Ross said, “Up.”

  Once in the third-floor apartment, Stella asked, “Are you having to close down your whole business on account of me?”

  “Not the legitimate part of it. Periodic shutdowns are an occupational hazard in the gambling racket. So don’t worry about it. Get yourself into a street dress and pack your bag.”

  “I’m causing you too much trouble,” she said. “I wish you had let me run.”

  “Get moving,” he said patiently. “We haven’t much time.”

  “All right,” she said, moving into the bedroom and beginning to strip off the cocktail-waitress dress.

  Minutes later they stepped back onto the elevator, Ross carrying Stella’s suitcase.

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

  When they got off, Ross led the way to the kitchen and set down the suitcase. After replying to a chorus of greetings from the kitchen help, he told Stella to step into the kitchen washroom and stay there until he rapped for her to come out. She gave him a puzzled look, but she obediently entered the washroom and closed the door.

  In back of the building Ross found a tall, lanky man leaning against the wall next to the rear door.

  “Hi, Clancy,” the man drawled.

  “Hello, John. Amos wants you out front. You can go through the building.”

  The detective removed his back from the wall. “He made the arrest, huh? I didn’t think it would be that easy, you being such a bullhead.”

  “You can’t fight the law,” Ross said philosophically.

  He held the rear door open for the detective to precede him, followed him through the kitchen as far as the entrance to the dining room, then watched until he was halfway across the room.

  Turning, he re-entered the kitchen and rapped on the washroom door. Stella came out; he picked up the suitcase and held the rear door open for her to precede him. Moments later they drove out of the alley in Ross’ Lincoln, turning left at the alley mouth, in the opposite direction from the front of the club.

  “Where are we going?” Stella asked.

  “To the home of a friend of mine,” he said laconically.

  Their destination was a small chicken farm about fifteen miles south of town. As they pulled into the yard, a lean, overalled man in his fifties came from a chicken house. Simultaneously the side door of the farmhouse opened and a plump, matronly-looking woman in a gingham dress stepped out on the porch.

  With a wide grin the lean man clasped Ross’ hand and said, “How are you, Clancy? Mattie and I were talking about you just last night. You haven’t dropped by for a month.”

  “I can’t afford to eat Mattie’s cooking more than once a month,” the gambler said. “I’d get fat.” Turning to Stella, he said, “This is Jerrel Tobin, Stella. He supplies all the eggs and poultry we use at the club. Stella Parsons, Jerry.”

  Stella smiled and the farmer said, “How do you do, ma’am?”

  They moved over to the porch, where Ross introduced Stella to the plump Mattie.

  “Can you put Stella up for a while?” Ross asked.

  “Of course,” Mattie said. “We’ve got plenty of room.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t mention to any of your neighbors that you have a visitor,” the gambler said. “And if anyone drops in, keep her out of sight.”

  The couple regarded Stella curiously, but without alarm. “The law after her?” Jerrel Tobin asked interestedly.

  “She’ll tell you about it. Stella, you can trust the Tobins completely. They’re old friends.”

  “Mattie wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for Clancy,” the farmer said to Stella. “He flew in specialists from New York at his own expense after local doctors had given her up, and I’ve never even been able to get out of him how much they cost, so I could at least try to pay him back a bit at a time. You don’t have to tell us anything, if you don’t want to. Anybody Clancy brings around is automatically a member of the family.”

  For the first time since Stella had known him, Ross momentarily lost his suave poise. He actually looked embarrassed.

  “I’ve eaten up more of Mattie’s food than those doctor bills ever cost,” he growled. “I have to get back to town, so I’ll leave Stella in your care.”

  “You’re not leaving without dinner,” Mattie protested. “We’re eating in ten minutes.”

  Glancing at his watch, Ross saw that it was twenty after five. “Afraid I’ll have to pass
it this time, Mattie,” he said regretfully. “I really have to get back right away.”

  Returning to the car, he carried Stella’s suitcase to the porch and set it down. “I’ll come back and get you as soon as things quiet down,” he told the girl.

  She looked at him wistfully. “I’m an awful lot of trouble, aren’t I?”

  Cupping her chin, he gave her a light kiss on the nose. “You heard what Sam said. I enjoy trouble. Take care of yourself and don’t talk to any strange men.”

  Climbing into the car, he waved a general good-by and drove off.

  CHAPTER XII

  IT WAS JUST six p.m. when Ross got back to Club Rotunda. Sam Black hadn’t closed down the first-floor portion of the club, as this was an entirely legitimate business operation, and the dining room was well crowded with patrons.

  In addition, there were seven cops clustered in front of the mirrored elevator doors. Two of them carried fire axes. Sam Black, wearing his stupidest expression, was listening to the leader of the squad.

  Detective Lieutenant Niles Redfern was in charge of the raiding squad. He was a tall, lanky man with a lean, intelligent face and a perpetually morose expression. It was a tribute to his ability that he had ever made lieutenant in St. Stephen, for he wasn’t a part of the system. Personally incorruptible, he was also realist enough to know any attempt to reform the corrupt force for which he worked would only get him demoted, and long ago had settled for performing his job as honestly and capably as he could under the circumstances without stepping on any influential toes. Ross tended to like him.

  However, his liking didn’t show on his face when he asked mildly, “What’s up, Lieutenant?”

  “You’re just in time, Clancy,” Redfern said. “Your boy Sam insists you’re the only one with a key to the elevator, and I was just about to give the order to smash those pretty mirrored doors with an axe.”

  The gambler’s black eyebrows raised. “You’re a little free with the city’s money, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Or don’t you think I’d sue for damages?”

  Grinning sadly, the lieutenant held a search warrant under Ross’ nose. “You must have missed a pay-off to some politician,” he said cynically. “I have orders to confiscate all gambling equipment found on the premises.”

  “What makes you think there’s any here?”

  Lieutenant Redfern said in a bored tone. “You going to unlock that elevator, or you want us to use an axe for a key?”

  “Be my guest,” Ross said, walking over to the mirrored doors and unlocking them with a small silver key.

  Two of the policemen were ordered by the lieutenant to stay downstairs to make sure nothing was removed from the building. The other four, including the pair carrying axes, crowded into the elevator with Redfern and Ross. When Sam Black raised his eyebrows in mute inquiry as to whether or not Ross wanted him to come along, too, the gambler gave a slight shake to his head.

  Lieutenant Redfern looked thoughtful when the doors closed and instead of one-way view glass, he was confronted by opaque metal. His expression turned glum after they got off the car at the second floor. Stopping in the archway of what had been the gaming room, he surveyed the small orchestra stand with a piano and microphone on it, and the linen-covered tables spaced uniformly about the room.

  “We use this room for overflow from downstairs,” Ross explained blandly.

  The lieutenant snapped orders and his squad began a thorough search of the room. After ten minutes of wall tapping, they gave up.

  Grimly Lieutenant Redfern strode back into the small second-floor lobby and marched to the open door of one of the poker rooms. The round table was covered by a linen cloth and was set with silver service for eight.

  “Private dining room,” Ross offered helpfully.

  Ordering his men to stay in the lobby, the lieutenant checked the small barroom, the other poker room and Ross’ office. When he finished, he marched into the elevator cage without comment. His four men trailed after him, then Clancy Ross.

  “Up,” Redfern said sourly.

  Obediently Ross punched the button for the third floor.

  The search of Ross’ apartment proved as unproductive as the search of the second floor. The police filed silently into the elevator again. Ross asked the lieutenant, “What were you looking for?”

  “Gambling equipment,” Redfern snapped.

  “In my apartment?”

  “I’m searching the entire building.”

  “Just for gambling equipment?”

  The lieutenant looked at him suspiciously. “What else?”

  Ross shrugged as he pushed the main-floor button. “Amos Morton was around earlier inquiring about one of my employees. Something to do with a shoplifting charge. This happens to be the girl’s night off, so I couldn’t help him. I thought maybe you had some wild idea that I’d taken up harboring criminals.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you,” Redfern said. “But my orders are just to confiscate gambling equipment. Incidentally, what time was Morton here?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  “Hmm. The accident must have happened just after he left here, then.” “What accident?”

  “His driver made a sudden stop and bounced Amos’ nose into the windshield. He called in from City Hospital that he was having a busted beak taped up.”

  That was the subtle hand of Bix Lawson, Ross thought. Amos Morton wouldn’t have had brains enough to decide on his own that having Ross arrested for assault would likely result in having the whole story of Stella Parsons plastered all over the papers. But the last thing Lawson would want would be newspaper publicity. Morton must have made a phone report to the racket chief and received instructions to forget the incident.

  Thirty minutes later the lieutenant and his squad had covered the rest of the building, including the basement. They failed to turn up anything even as sinister as a pair of dice or a deck of cards.

  As Redfern gathered his squad together to leave, Ross said politely, “Better luck next time, Lieutenant.”

  The lieutenant grinned at him sourly. “You know, I like you in a begrudging sort of way, Clancy. But I’d pass up my next promotion to nail you solid on a gambling charge.”

  “I like you, too, Lieutenant,” Ross said. “I hope you make captain, so you can sit at a desk and don’t have to go out on these exhausting raids.”

  It was seven p.m. before the police finally left. Their presence had excited some curiosity among the patrons of the downstairs club, but as the raiding party hadn’t disturbed any of the customers, no one left. The place was pretty well crowded when Ross walked into the dining room and told Oscar the headwaiter that he’d like a table for dinner. Oscar placed him at one of the tables for two along the side wall.

  The gambler had finished eating and was sipping his coffee when Sam Black carried an extension phone over to his table, set it down and plugged it into a wall jack.

  “Call for you,” he said. “I think it’s Bix Lawson.”

  Lifting the phone, Ross said, “Ross speaking.”

  “I guess you think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?” Bix Lawson’s voice growled in his ear.

  “I do my best to stay a jump ahead of dummies like you,” the gambler informed him. “I take it you’ve had word of the result of the raid.”

  “That was only the beginning, Clancy. Until you put that girl in my hands, you can expect a raid every time you try to open your casino. You’re out of business unless you wise up.”

  “I think I can squeeze by on income from the downstairs club, Bix. Don’t worry about me starving.”

  “Are you going to come up with that girl?” Lawson demanded.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then maybe I’ll put you out of business downstairs, too,” Lawson said, and hung up.

  Ross didn’t understand the meaning of the racket boss’ remark until the following evening when another call came from Whisper. The call came about ten p.m., at a time when Sam Black happened to b
e conferring with Ross in the second-floor office, so that Black heard Ross’ side of the conversation.

  “Thanks for the fifty,” the informer said in his gravelly voice. “I picked it up from Oscar.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ross said.

  “I got another tip that ought to be worth a C.”

  “All right, shoot.”

  “The word is out that Bix Lawson has declared war on you.”

  “That’s no tip. I’ve been expecting it.”

  “Yeah? Well, do you know where the first hit is going to be?”

  “That information might be worth something to me,” Ross conceded.

  “Your joint is going to be messed up by a grenade after closing tonight.”

  After a moment of silence, Ross said, “That’s worth a C. Do you know exactly when?”

  “Only that it’ll be after closing. Bix don’t want no innocent bystanders hurt. He just wants to run you out of business.”

  “I see. Thanks for the word, Whisper. You can pick up your money any time.”

  When he hung up, Ross stared thoughtfully off into space for a few moments.

  Black said resignedly, “This time it’s real trouble, huh?”

  The gambler looked at him. “We have a little problem,” he admitted.

  “Little, hell. When you get that expression on your face, it’s big trouble.”

  “What expression?”

  “Like you’re considering killing somebody. You’ve already got Bix Lawson, The syndicate, and the local cops mad at us. What happened now? Has the Marine Corps declared war on us?”

  Ross gave him a humorless smile. “It’s only Bix. The downstairs club’s going to be bombed after closing tonight.”

  Black’s expression became one of outrage. Though Ross was sole owner of Club Rotunda, the downstairs manager tended to regard the legitimate night club portion of the building as his private domain.

  “Bix is going to bomb my club!” he said, coming to his feet.

  Drawing a forty-five automatic from beneath his arm, he drew back the slide far enough to inspect the shell in the chamber, let it slam home again, set the safety and reholstered it. He started for the door.