At that point, after having been in there an hour, the dapper Dan came out of the building and walked up to Wilson Avenue and hailed a cab.
I hailed one, too.
Followed him to a nice three-story apartment building, a big brick place that probably had flats running to six and eight rooms. It was on Pine Grove Avenue, near the lake, near Lincoln Park. Dapper Dan had dough—more dough than a traveling salesman, that was for sure.
He went in, and my cabbie drove on.
I had him drop me at the El station. I’d planned to stay overnight at the room I’d rented, at the Wilson Arms, but now I couldn’t see any point in it. I did figure to give my client some more of my time, tomorrow, but I also figured to follow Polly around in my car, to hell with this cab noise.
So I didn’t return to Uptown till near seven the next night. I spent the day in Evanston investigating an insurance claim; why sit in that little hotel room, looking out the window at Polly’s sandwich shop? It wasn’t going anywhere. And neither would she, till after work.
My ’29 Chevy coupe with me in it was parked down the street when she came out of the S & S just after seven, wearing a light blue dress and a darker blue hat that fit snug to her head, and waited for her boyfriend to show up. That’s the way it seemed, at least: her behavior today was no different than yesterday.
Neither was dapper Dan’s.
With one exception: while he arrived in a cab again, he shooed it on, and they walked arm in arm, east on Wilson. He looked jaunty, with a straw boater and a white shirt with dark pinstripes and a blue tie and pale yellow slacks.
I got out of the car and shadowed them.
They walked under the El and across to a waffle shop on Sheridan. It was a small place, but at this point I figured I could risk them making me. After all, I’d pretty well established what was going on here; I’d already earned my client’s money—did it really matter whether Dan was her boyfriend, or just another john? Either way, she was fucking somebody who wasn’t her husband, and that’s all I’d been paid to find out. But for some reason, which I cloaked in giving my client his money’s worth, I couldn’t let go of this just yet.
They sat at a table; I sat at the counter. We all had waffles and bacon. We all had coffee.
Then we all went to the picture show.
I almost lost Polly and Dan, when the show was over; the fancy lobby was mobbed, and I had just squeezed out onto the street when I saw them pull away in a Checker cab. I caught the next cab and fell in behind them.
Tonight, they went to his place, that fancy apartment house near the lake; maybe her room in the Malden Plaza was too cramped. Maybe she had a Murphy bed; speaking from experience, I can say that making whoopee in a Murphy bed’ll do till the real thing comes along—but Dan probably had six or seven rooms in his flat, one of which was no doubt a room with a bed in it that didn’t fall down out of a box or the wall.
It was too ritzy a neighborhood to risk my sitting-on-the-stoop ruse, so I stayed in the cab and headed back to her place, the Malden Plaza. There I took my position on a stoop opposite and waited for Polly to come home. After two hours, I decided she probably wasn’t going to.
So I walked over to the Wilson Arms and finally used that bed I’d paid for.
The S & S opened at six-thirty, so I wandered across the street at seven. I’d made a decision—in my sleep apparently, because there it was in my brain when I crawled out of the sack: I was going to talk to Polly.
I didn’t know what I was going to say—certainly not that I was a private detective checking up on her for her husband. Still, I felt the need to talk to her. To see if I could get her side of the story. Maybe even give her a break.
Or not.
I wasn’t sure. I just felt I somehow owed her this much. Possibly because I couldn’t remember paying her for that night over the bar on Halsted.
I took a counter seat and a pretty brunette with a cap of curls and blue eyes came up to take my order. I asked for scrambled eggs and bacon and orange juice, and while I waited for them, I glanced around, looking for Polly. There were only two waitresses here today—the girl behind the counter, and a poor harried thing with blond hair and too many tables.
When the brunette waitress delivered my juice, I said to her, “You’re shorthanded this morning.”
“I’ll say,” the brunette smirked. “Our other girl called in sick today.”
“Polly, you mean?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember you eating here before—”
“Sure. Bunch of times.”
“If it’d been at the counter, I’d remember you.”
She went away and I sipped the juice. Pretty soon she placed the eggs and bacon in front of me.
“Toast doesn’t come with it,” she said, “but I can get you some.”
“Please.”
When she delivered a little plate of toast, I said, “I know you’re busy, but I wondered if I could ask you something.”
She smirked again, but it was pleasant. “Make it quick.”
