The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“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.