Chip Stack was satisfied with his picture and phoned an old friend who moved on the fringes of the Gold Coast crowd in Westchester. Adroitly, he learned that Lili Harrison had just such a playmate, a girl named Valerie Snowden, married to a fatheaded cousin of that prominent family, without the brains or gumption to make them a decent income. What it boiled down to was that Valerie’s good times were largely the result of knowing Lili Harrison. As might be expected with such a dumbun husband, Valerie liked her martinis and the ponies. She was damned good-looking, too, the friend added.
That was too bad, Stack considered. He did have his streak of chivalry — he hated framing pretty women.
He hopped in his Mercedes Special and drove out to Westchester. The upper crust would not do their bar hopping at obvious, popular places, but such communities were invariably dotted by discreet little back-lane bistros where they were relatively safe in letting down their hair. One such place always led to another.
It took four days and nine bars to pick up the haunts of Valerie Snowden. It was an unduly long time for Chip Stack to reconnoiter, but he was handicapped by not daring to mention the Harrisons or Valerie Snowden even casually. Just a whispered rumor that a stranger was interested in them might get that mink buried deeper than a skunk’s hide.
He might have eased things by a little social name-dropping, but that could be a trap, too. So he let himself appear in a character role that wouldn’t expose him to too many risks — that of a well-heeled, self-made man on a little loup while away from the wife. A man without any social pretensions, and quiet enough not to alarm the Gold Coast strata.
He was a good tipper and did much of his drinking in the off hours when the bartenders had time and freedom to talk, and it was the bartender with the passion for the ponies who first mentioned her. They’d been talking horses for two days when Chip Stack expressed the opinion that long shots were smarter betting than favorites.
“Now that’s a funny thing for anyone who knows the ponies to say,” the bartender argued. “But maybe there’s something to it. We have a customer, a Mrs. Snowden, who’s making a mink coat on longshots. She picks ’em, too. She’s got it almost made.”
“I’m not that good,” Chip chuckled. “I ought to get her system.”
Privately, he was blessing the devil for the break. He’d been growing afraid that she was a home drinker and a kind of uppity wench who wouldn’t speak to the hoi poloi. But it was now assured that she did make the rounds and was not above chumming with a bartender, which meant that she often stopped by alone.
They had some more random talk and then a couple entered from the side door. The bartender confided with a mutter, “The longshot lady and her useless.”
Seating herself, the girl looked Chip Stack over with the open curiosity of her kind about a stranger who had invaded a more or less private club. She and her husband joshed the bartender in friendly fashion while they had a martini.
Then leaving, she laughed, “Henry, you’d better pick a damned good long shot for me tomorrow. I’ve got everything but the collar on that coat!”
So, Chip Stack thought, she’s using the ponies to set up the explanation of how she came by Lili’s coat when she begins to wear it. Lili Harrison got her check and new coat. They figure the investigation’s over, and all’s clear now for Valerie as soon as she gets a new collar to disguise the coat around the home neighborhood.
He had another drink himself on that, and then drove in town and brightened the check girl’s spirits with the report that the case was breaking and she’d soon be in the clear. But he’d still need her help for identification, of course.
At noon next day Stack opened the Westchester bistro, armed with a Telegraph and the scratch sheet. He’d also learned the name of a possible long shot in the first, and he gave a ten to Henry to play on a split, just to prove his theory.
Henry phoned in the bet and Chip had an eye-opener and brunch, and he was making up his day’s bets when Valerie Snowden came in wearing flannel slacks that fitted her from all sides, which was an achievement among young matrons. She really had something. It was going to hurt Chip Stack to turn her in.
Henry had just served her drink when his bookie phoned back that the long shot had come in. Henry emerged from the phone, as excited as a kid. He explained to Valerie what the excitement was all about, and she made a face and complained that he hadn’t acted like a friend in not including her in.
It was a three-way conversation now with no suspicions raised, and Stack said that he didn’t see much more he felt confident about today, but there would be some horses running tomorrow. The hitch was, he confessed, that he’d have to be in town and right at a bookmaker’s to get the tips, and there wouldn’t be time to phone her.
“But you probably know the spot,” he added. “It’s the upstairs lounge of the Parakeet, and they serve a better lunch than downstairs. I think half the women drop in more for lunch than for the bet.”
She showed surprise. “You mean that plush spa is simply the front for a bookie — and I never even suspected it? Of course; I know the place. It’s very toni.”
She looked at him speculatively. “If I were sitting right here waiting and Henry could make my bet right away, don’t you think there’d be time for you to phone?”
“Well—” he murmured. “You know how it is. They have some private way of getting reports, but they probably don’t like outgoing calls about bets.”
She made a cute, wry face.
“But if you’d really like to bet,” he said, “I’m driving in at noon and I have to be back here by seven sharp — earlier if possible. It’s a pretty select spot. You wouldn’t have to worry about being seen.” He laughed good-naturedly. “Unless it was being seen with me.”
She thought it over. It was clear she was busting to cap her phoney story and have the excuse to wear the mink. She said, “No woman would feel self conscious about riding in a Mercedes. But it’s not a convertible, is it?”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s strictly wide open. You’d have to bundle.”
“Well—” she said.
He watched the excited lights flicking through her eyes, and knew exactly what she was thinking. It was a chance to wear the coat in town before the collar was changed, where it wouldn’t be recognized, and also the opportunity to package her excuse so that she could appear in the remodelled coat locally any time now.
“I’d like to go if you’ll really be back by seven,” she said. “But I’ll have to be on the dot. I have to be at dinner at eight.”
He made a gesture. “We’ll hit ’em hard and duck back as early as you like.”
Valerie Snowden studied him and relaxed even while he could feel her gathering excitement. But he knew damned well that she would not have made a date with a stranger except for the coat. It was a funny thing what a woman would do for a mink.
He met her next day at the shopping center where she parked her car. The day was cold and clear, and he’d set his trap right. She picked a luxurious mink off the seat beside her and pulled it on as she darted from her car to his and snuggled in the open seat.
The lounge of the Parakeet was loaded with women in mink, but Valerie drew special envious attention even from that crowd. They ordered lunch and made their bet for the second race, Chip Stack betting a hundred with the usual proviso that if it hit, half of it would be hers. He could sense her calculating what the bet would bring, her excitement growing as she realized that it would pay for the remodeling of the coat.
Chip Stack played across the board and when the horse romped in for place, Valerie had a woman’s usual reactions to soaring excitement and visited the powder room. It gave him the chance he needed to examine the coat under the lining, his practiced eye quickly finding the identifying marks of the furrier and the insurance code on the backs of the hides.