Into the Night

“Oh, that’s why you call him Ange sometimes. Does he like it when you call him that?”

“Why shouldn’t he like it? That’s his name.” Dell sampled her new drink. Or rather, left the sample behind in the glass, and took the drink itself. “Jack d’Angelo.”

Now she knew one of them.

During another of these matinee sessions she got “confidential” with Dell. That is to say, confidential on the subject of her finances.

“Dell, I was wondering. I have a little money put aside. Not as much as you get from some of the pieces of jewelry you sell. But I hate to leave it lying around in a savings bank. You only get a measly three and three-quarters. Would you advise me to put it into some of those stocks like you were telling me about?”

“Honey.” Dell made a pass of dissuasion with the flat of her hand. “You can’t touch them unless you’ve got a big wad of dough backing you up. The market’s sky-high right now.”

Madeline let her face droop disconsolately, as though she saw all hopes of ever attaining financial independence fading from view. “But are they all high? Aren’t there some that are a little lower than others?”

Dell had that warm glow, of friend toward friend. And there was a touch of show-off in it too. Besides, love wasn’t involved, so there was no danger.

“Wait a minute,” she said generously. “I’m going to call Walter up and ask him. I’ll let him think I want to know for myself.”

The building had a downstairs switchboard, so she couldn’t dial.

Madeline listened carefully.

“Cardinal seven, four two hundred.”

Then, “Mr. Shiller, please.”

Now she had the other one too.

She went back to her own place, asked for “Cardinal seven, four two hundred.”

A voice answered, “Warren, Shiller, Davis and Norton, good afternoon.”

She hung up. She cross-checked it with the directory, and that gave her his office address.

She sat down to write the letter. The letter of betrayal.

Why to him, why not to the other one? The other one would have seemed to be the likelier prospect, but in actuality was he? Maybe her psychology was turned inside out, but not the way she saw it.

He was insanely jealous. Right. He had lived by violence — or at least by illegality — at one time. Right. He had come up out of the underworld jungle, where punitive death was a commonplace. Right.

But when all this had been granted, that was when her reverse psychology entered into it. For these very reasons, he was the less likely candidate of the two. He had no influence, at least in respectable places, to see him through afterward. He had an unsavory past, there were all sorts of strikes against him. He wouldn’t dare to jeopardize his hard-won legitimacy by stepping out of line.

Whereas the broker was secure, respected, had an impregnable background, probably had all sorts of powerful influence backing him up in high places, and because of this very immunity would be far the readier of the two to carry out whatever measures he felt this treachery to his ego and his love life demanded.

Or so believed Madeline, the theoretical but unpracticed.

So to him she wrote.

Letter number one: “Dear Mr. Shiller: This is not a poison-pen letter—” But it was. What else was it?

Letter number two: “Dear Mr. Shiller: I think as a friend you ought to be told—” But they weren’t friends.

Letter number three: “Dear Mr. Shiller: I hate to see anyone sold out behind his back—” Sheer cant. What she was doing was sneakier than what Dell was doing.

Letter number last: “Dear Mr. Shiller: Some girls haven’t even one man. Some girls, like Dell Nelson, have two going at the same time. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

She went down to the stamp machine in the lobby, put a coin into it, and got out a stamp. She stuck it on the letter, she dropped the letter into the mail slot, and she even pounded all around the mail slot with the heels of her hands to make sure it settled down properly inside.

The getting-even was on the way.

Things started moving fast from that point on.

Dell called her up, and her voice was all unraveled with strain. This was around five in the afternoon, next day.

“I’m in a jam!” she said, as winded as though she’d run up and down a flight of stairs a half a dozen times.

“What’s up?” Madeline asked, startled but not too startled. She hadn’t expected it to start rolling quite this soon, that was all.

“I don’t know. But I don’t like the way he sounded. I guess I played both ends against the middle too long. That’s where you come in. You’ve got to help me.”

“Me? What can I do?”

“You’ve got to run interference for me.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve got to come over here and stand by. There’s no telling what he may do. He may bang me around unmercifully.”

“Wait a minute,” Madeline brought her up short. “This is your life. I can’t come barging into it at the drop of a hat. You kept it pretty much to yourself all along. Now that you need help, suddenly it’s an open book with a place mark left in it specially for me. Well, no thanks.”

She couldn’t resist asking at a tangent, “Which one of them was it?”