The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies

“I’m afraid you’re right.” Verna sighed. “I’m also afraid I’ve outfoxed myself, Liz. And I’m not happy about it.” She told Liz about the telegram she had faked, with its instruction to call “Mr. C” at noon from the phone booth.

“I was thinking of it as a kind of test,” she added. “I thought if that fellow made the call, it would prove definitively that he was connected to the Capone gang. But Mrs. O’Malley has already given us all the evidence we need. And now Diamond is going to call that number and find out that it wasn’t his pals up there in Cicero who sent him that telegram. He’ll know that somebody here in Darling has figured out who he is. I wish I hadn’t done it.”

“Well, for pity’s sake, Verna,” Liz said, with a wave of her hand. “That’s an easy problem to solve. Just don’t connect him.”

Verna frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Think about it, Verna,” Liz replied patiently. “You’re the telephone operator. You can pretend to be putting him through all the long-distance offices, but you really won’t. You can make him wait for fifteen or twenty minutes and then tell him that all the circuits are busy and he needs to try again later.” She grinned crookedly. “Happens to me about half the time when I want to make a long-distance call. Doesn’t it happen to you?”

Verna rolled her eyes, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this splendid subterfuge. “Oh, you bet. What a grand idea, Liz. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

“Swell,” Liz said. She hesitated, frowning. “You know, Verna, if this guy really is dangerous, somebody ought to keep an eye on him.”

“Shadow him, you mean?” Verna suggested helpfully. “Maybe that’s something you could do, Liz. If you don’t have to get back to the office right away.” Liz was right that somebody ought to watch the fellow.

“I’m available,” Liz said. “Mr. Moseley left for Montgomery and gave me the afternoon off. I was planning to go over to the Savings and Trust and talk to Mr. Johnson about Mama’s situation, but that can wait. How about you? Can you help to . . .” She frowned. “To shadow him?”

“I promised Myra May I’d work on the switchboard until one or one thirty,” Verna replied. “But if you and Bessie could keep an eye on him for an hour, I could relieve you after that.”

“How will you know where to find us?” Liz asked.

Verna frowned. “He’s not likely to go very far, I wouldn’t think. He might just walk around the square, stopping in businesses, flashing that photograph, and asking for information. All you have to do is hang around behind him. Don’t let him see you, of course. And in an hour, grab the nearest phone and call me here at the board and let me know where you are.”

“We’ll try,” Liz said. She turned to go. “Say, Euphoria’s fried chicken looks really good. Want me to have her make up a plate for you?”

“Sure thing,” Verna said. The light blinked over Doc Roberts’ socket. She turned back to the switchboard, plugged in a jack, and chirped, “Number, please.” When she noticed that Mildred Kilgore was finished talking to Kilgore Motors, she rang up Mildred and asked her if she wouldn’t mind volunteering to help Myra May out behind the counter on Tuesday. And when Mildred said yes, she asked if Mildred would be willing to round up three or four other Dahlias to help on Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and Saturday—just until Violet got back from Memphis. Mildred said she would do her best, and they hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, as Verna dawdled over a plateful of Euphoria’s delicious fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans, she was doing exactly what Liz had suggested. On the other side of the diner wall, in the phone booth, Mr. Frankie Diamond (aka Mr. Gold) was waiting—and waiting, and waiting, and waiting—to be connected to the number he had given her, which should be taking the usual long-distance route from Darling through Montgomery, Nashville, Memphis, and Chicago to its final destination, but was of course going nowhere at all.

Finally, Verna finished eating a leisurely meal, wiped her fingers and her mouth, and set her plate aside. Then she opened the line to the telephone booth and said, in a pleasantly lilting voice, “I’m sorry, sir. All the circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later.”

She pulled the plug before she could hear her victim’s sputtered curse. She waited five minutes, then put through the call to the number Frankie Diamond had given her. It zipped right through, smooth as silk and without a single delay, to Montgomery, Nashville, Memphis, Chicago, and Cicero.

“Western Hotel,” said a brusque male voice on the other end of the line. “Who’re you callin’?”

“Is Mr. Capone available?” Verna asked.

“Who is it wants to talk to him?” the man demanded roughly.

Quietly, Verna broke the connection.





FOURTEEN





Buddy Norris Collars a Crook