She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

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The attractive blond secretary looked up from her typewriter as the office door opened. A tall, thin man with an expressionless face glanced about the room, then nodded to someone out of sight to one side of the doorway. The thin man moved into the room, followed by a pale, powerfully built man with graying hair.

Beyond the flick of a glance he had given her when he first opened the door, the thin man paid the blonde no attention, moving directly to the door beyond her marked: PRIVATE. Opening this door, he glanced in and gave the pale man another nod.

The pale man threw the secretary a friendly smile as he passed, but he didn’t speak either. Both men entered the private office and the door closed behind them.

Stella Parsons had become used to the silent, unannounced visits of the pair during the six weeks she had worked as Carl Vegas’ private secretary. The attorney had a number of similarly secretive clients whom he never introduced to her, whom he always saw alone, and on whom no records whatever seemed to be kept. Most of these clients were mere faces to which she could attach no names, but she knew from recent news photos who the pale man was. He was Whitey Cord, Chicago’s top racketeer, currently in the news because the Federal Narcotics Bureau of Internal Revenue were simultaneously attempting to obtain indictments against him. The thin man who always accompanied him she assumed to be Cord’s bodyguard.

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