“Anyway,” Myra May said to Verna’s back, “what I was saying is that your man is getting Euphoria’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, which might slow him down a little. He may not get out to the phone booth right at noon to make that call. Don’t worry if he’s a little late.” There was the clatter of a plate being dropped and she rolled her eyes. “That’ll teach me,” she muttered. “Step away from the counter for a second and everything goes to hell.” She slipped out the door.

Liz leaned forward, frowning. “What do I know?” she challenged. “You told Myra May that I know something, but I don’t know anything, Verna. I’m completely and totally in the dark.”

“You know who he is,” Verna replied, and plugged in another cord. “Number, please.” She connected Mildred Kilgore, who had a private line, to her husband at Kilgore Motors, and unplugged Mr. Dickens, who had finished talking to Mr. Whitman. While she was doing this, she made a mental note to call Mildred back and ask her to give Myra May a hand behind the counter.

“No, I don’t know who he is,” Liz said crossly, when Verna turned back to her. “Bessie says that Mrs. Adcock says that he’s a government agent.”

“What would Leona Ruth Adcock know about government agents?” Verna scoffed. “Quite the contrary. He’s a member of the Capone gang.”

Liz’s eyes got round. “You’re sure? How do you know?”

“I’m sure. His name is Diamond, Frankie Diamond. Mrs. O’Malley says that he’s a friend of the man who slashed Miss Lake’s face.”

“Slashed—!” Liz’s hand went to her mouth.

“What’s more,” Verna went on, “Miss LaMotte shot the slasher—some gangster named Sal Raggio.”

Liz’s eyes were like saucers. “Shot him!” she whispered.

“With her Remington pistol. He died on the street in front of the Western Hotel. The hotel where Al Capone conducts his business. Where Miss LaMotte was standing in that photo the baldheaded man showed me yesterday. Mrs. O’Malley says that Frankie Diamond wants to kill Miss LaMotte, to pay her back for killing his friend.”

“I just can’t believe this is happening in Darling,” Liz muttered, biting her lip. “It sounds like one of those awful gangster movies!”

“I know, Liz. But it’s true, at least according to Mrs. O’Malley, and I don’t think she’d lie about something like this. She said they called a doctor, who came and stitched up the cuts on Miss Lake’s face. Miss LaMotte and Miss Lake caught a train the next morning—just before the Cicero police, under the direction of Al Capone, showed up to arrest Miss LaMotte for shooting the slasher.”