“Miss Ballard,” said Johnny. “May I introduce your date, my friend, Sam Cragg.”
“Right name,” said the girl, “wrong date.”
“I’m Johnny Fletcher. Let’s talk it over...”
Nancy Miller appeared behind the redheaded girl. “Johnny!” she cried. She was wearing a long evening dress that must have cost her four or five weekly paychecks.
“Your date,” said Miss Ballard. “Excuse me.” She backed into the apartment and Johnny and Sam followed. Sam’s eyes never once left the redheaded girl.
Nancy Miller looked at Sam Cragg, then at Johnny. Her head tilted to one side. Johnny grinned.
“You did say you had a girl friend for Sam, didn’t you?”
“No,” said Nancy coolly. “I didn’t.”
“You mean I forgot to tell you that Sam and I always double-date girls?”
“You didn’t mention it. And if you had, I’d have told you that I never double-date...”
Johnny nodded toward Nancy’s roommate. “I don’t think Sam would mind.”
Miss Ballard heard that. “Sorry, chum. I’ve got a date.”
“With your regular boy friend?”
“Yes.”
Johnny made a deprecating gesture. “What’s one date more or less with a steady? Sam’s new, he’s different. And he’s the strongest man in the world.”
“Oh, the strong man Nancy was telling about.”
“She’s told you about him? And me?”
“About you, plenty!”
“Shut up, Jane,” snapped Nancy Miller.
“Go ahead, Janie,” urged Johnny. “I like to hear nice things about me.”
“Johnny,” said Nancy. “I let you make this date against my better judgment. I’ve got a very dull novel here, from the rental library, but I think I’d just as soon read it as go out with you.”
“Now,” said Johnny, appeasingly. “I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs. I’m all set to show you a few very warm spots...”
“Like the Bucket of Blood, perhaps?”
“They’ve got a dance tonight.”
“They have one every Friday night.” Nancy went to a closet and got out a coat. “What about him?” she asked, nodding to Sam.
“Gordon’s been feeling his oats a little too much lately,” Jane Ballard suddenly said. “I think I’ll stand him up tonight. Do him good!”
“Atta girl!” cried Johnny.
“Oh, boy!” chortled Sam.
“Jane,” said Nancy Miller, “if you don’t mind...”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” exclaimed Jane Ballard. “I’ll come along for the laughs.”
There was a glint in Nancy’s blue eyes, but she turned away and got her purse. When she came back the glint was gone. “All right, Fletcher and Cragg, bring on your laughs.”
“The first one’s waiting downstairs,” said Johnny, “a private detective in a black Chevrolet. He’s been shadowing me all day...”
“If you think I’m going out with a detective following us, you’re crazy,” Nancy flared.
“What’s the difference?” asked Johnny. “I want him to follow me. Saves me the trouble of following him.”
Nancy stared at Johnny a moment, then she exhaled softly. “Where do you come in on all this, Johnny?”
“I’m an innocent bystander, that’s all.”
“Innocent bystanders sometimes get hurt.”
“Who’s going to hurt me? Freddie Wendland? Or— Elliott Towner?”
Nancy whirled away, walked to a wall mirror and put new lips on her mouth, with her lipstick. Jane Ballard, in the meantime, got her purse and coat.
Nancy put away her lipstick. “All right, let’s go.”
They left the apartment and crossed the sidewalk to the waiting taxicab. Johnny didn’t even bother to look for Begley, the private detective. He was parked nearby, no question of that. They all climbed into the cab.
“Somebody’s got to sit on somebody’s lap,” Johnny said, plumping down and pulling Nancy onto his lap. She was stiff and resistant for a moment, but then leaned back against him. Sam shot a disappointed look at Johnny as he took the seat on the far side. Jane seated herself between Johnny and Sam.
The cabby swiveled his head. “Where to?”
“The Bucket of Blood,” said Johnny.
“What’s that?”
Nancy exclaimed. “Another of your jokes.”
“Uh-uh, the name intrigues me. I’d like to see the place.”
“I’ve got on my new dress,” Nancy said, angrily. “I thought we were going—”
“Maybe later on. Let’s take a look at the Bucket of Blood first.”
“Mister,” said the cabby, patiently. “I know a Bucket of Blood down on Wentworth, near 22nd. There’s another out on Kedzie Boulevard...”
“The one we want is on Clybourn Avenue. The Clybourn Hall, it’s called.”
“Oh, that place!”
The driver meshed gears and the cab shot away. It roared up Armitage to Halsted, turned left and a few minutes later, diagonaled into Clybourn. The brakes squealed and the car came to a stop.
The group got out of the taxi. The building before which they had stopped was an ancient three-story brick affair. The first floor housed a tavern. A wide door and a stairway led up to the second floor. A banner over the doorway announced: Clybourn Turnverein Dance. $1.00 Admission. Ladies Free.
“Ladies, free,” Johnny exclaimed. “That’s sure a break.”
“Ladies don’t come here,” snapped Nancy.
“Nancy, darling,” said Jane Ballard sweetly. “Your claws are showing.”
“Thank you, dear, for telling me,” retorted Nancy. “When we get home tonight, I’ll file them down.”
“Mustn’t fight, girls,” chided Johnny. “We came here for fun.” He caught Nancy’s elbow and started up the long flight of stairs.
Music pelted them as they climbed. It wasn’t good, but it was loud and that was what the patrons of the Clybourn Hall seemed to want. Although it was still early, there were already three or four hundred people in the large hall and twenty-five or thirty were crowded at the head of the stairs, either debating whether to go in or wishing they could go in if they had the admission.
Two middle-aged men stood in the doorway. White bands on their arms had the word “Committee” printed on in blue letters.
Johnny gave one of the men two dollars and received four tickets that were promptly taken up by the other committeeman. They entered the dance hall and the first person Johnny saw was Karl Kessler, dancing with a plump flaxen-haired woman of about forty.
Kessler’s eyes widened in astonishment. He stopped dancing, said something to the woman and she walked off. Kessler came over.
“Surprised seeing you two here,” he said, addressing Johnny and Sam. Then he nodded to Nancy. “Hello, Nancy.”
“Hello, Karl,” Nancy said, “meet my roommate, Jane Ballard.”
“Pleasetameetcha,” said Karl. He turned back to Johnny. “Didn’t expect you at a German-Hungarian dance...”
“Oh, is that what this is?”
“It’s the Clybourn Turnverein — athletic club, you know. This is their gymnasium week days.”
“You’re a member of the club?”
Kessler grimaced. “Me? I get enough exercise at the factory.”
The music stopped and the dancers left the floor, but Johnny’s group remained in a little huddle. Sam nudged Johnny and, when he caught his eye, nodded to someone at the right of the floor.
Carmella Vitali, surrounded by several dark-complexioned young men and a couple of Italian girls, was watching Johnny with a fierce scowl on his features.