The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

Verna was deep in her story when she heard Clyde—always a reliable watchdog—barking at the side fence and then a sharp rapping at the front door. She turned the magazine over to mark her place and went to the door. Standing on the porch was a complete stranger, a man she had never seen before. He was heavy-bodied, with a round, jovial face, small eyes, and a fleshy-lipped smile that showed off a gold tooth. He looked like a dandy in a gray woolen double-breasted suit, vest, blue silk tie, hat, and polished black shoes. When he raised his hat, she could see that he was completely bald.

“Good evenin’, ma’am,” he said in a flat, expressionless voice that carried a slight lisp and was colored by a definite Yankee accent. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m lookin’ for a lady friend who’s visitin’ in your fine little town.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and produced a small black-and-white snapshot with a white, wavy-edged border. “A real looker, she is. A blonde. I been askin’ around, tryin’ to find somebody who knows where she’s stayin’.”

It was Miss Jamison. She was turned half away from the camera, smiling coyly over her shoulder, her chin buried in the luxurious fur stole that was thrown over the shoulder of her elegant wool coat. Her pale hair, marcelled, could be seen beneath a stylish, narrow-brimmed dark felt hat with a single pheasant feather. She looked confident, sure of herself, and slyly flirtatious. In the background of the photograph was a redbrick building. It bore the street number 4823.

Verna felt a cold shiver across her shoulder blades, but something told her that it wouldn’t be smart to let on that she recognized the woman in the photograph or the street number on the building. “Pretty,” she said, pretending to study it. “Nice fur, too. What did you say her name is?”

The man’s hard gray eyes were as flat and expressionless as his voice. “Well, sometimes it’s one name, sometimes another. Could be she’s usin’ the name LaMotte. Lorelei LaMotte.”

With a shake of her head, Verna handed the photo back to the man. “Haven’t seen her. I’m sure I’d remember if I had. You say she’s a friend?”

He nodded curtly and pocketed the photograph. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out. I’ve got something to give her—a repayment on a loan. She’d sure as shootin’ hate to miss out on that, so you’ll be doing her a big favor to help me find her.”

“Sure thing,” Verna replied in a careless tone. “If I see her, I’ll let you know. Where are you staying?”

“Where else?” His harsh laugh turned into a harsher cough. “The only hotel in town. If I ain’t around, leave a message for Mr. Gold—that’s me. I’ll be here through tomorrow, at least. Maybe longer. Good evenin’, ma’am.”

He tipped his hat politely and went down the path to the street. As she watched from behind the lace curtain on the door, Verna saw a bulge under his suit coat. She had never seen one, but she had read enough descriptions of such a thing to know exactly what she was looking at. A shoulder holster.

She shivered again, watching Mr. Gold cross Larkspur Lane and walk up Robert E. Lee in the direction of the hotel. But he turned in at the first house up the block. Clearly, he was canvassing the neighborhood. Sooner or later, he was bound to run into someone who had seen the woman he was looking for. Miss LaMotte’s platinum hair was a dead giveaway, and his claim that he had money for her would encourage someone to tell him where she was staying.

Frowning, Verna dropped the curtain, turned away from the door, and crossed the living room to the bookshelf where she kept her collection of true crime magazines. She picked up one and leafed through it, then another. In the third, she found what she was looking for. She had remembered correctly, and her breath came quicker.

She went straight to the telephone on the wall, gave a short crank, and when the operator answered (it was Olive, sounding very froggy with her cold), gave Liz’s number. In a moment, Liz herself was on the line.

Mindful that someone else was probably listening—like most people in town, both she and Liz had a party line—Verna measured her words.

“You remember what I asked you this afternoon, Liz, about looking for that address in the file? Well, it turns out to be important, after all. The lady we were talking about—she definitely has a connection with that man who’s been in the news recently. The man in Cicero.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Verna replied.

There was an astonished silence as Liz processed this. “How do you know?” she asked cautiously.

“A gentleman came to my door just now. Said his name was Gold, and that he’s looking for her and her friend. He showed me a photo of her standing in front of a building with a street number on it.” Verna couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “Liz, it was the very same number as the hotel I mentioned to you!” According to the Dime Detective, 4823—the number on the wall of the building in the photo—was the address of the Western Hotel, on Twenty-second Street in Cicero. The place where Al Capone hung out.