The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 7: Mary O’Neill Hires Max

Rosie looked up from her typewriter. She gave Miss O’Neill the once-over followed by a knowing glance at Max, then she went back to tapping the keys.

“Good evening, Miss Mandelbaum,” Max said. “I thought you would have locked up and gone home by now?”

Rosie stopped typing and looked back at Max. “Just catching up on some work, boss.”

Max glanced at the wall clock and then smiled at Rosie. “It’s late, kid. Whatever you got can wait till tomorrow.”

“All right,” she replied. She set aside her paperwork and headed for the coat rack.

Max turned his attention to Mary O’Neill. He pointed to the partition door. “After you, miss.”

She gave a nervous nod and entered the inner office. Max followed.

“I think you’ll find this comfortable,” Max said as he gestured toward an armchair. She sat, crossed her legs and folded her hands on a purse resting on her lap. He settled down in the chair behind his desk and then leaned forward with his hands folded on the desktop. He maintained his friendly, professional demeanor while scrutinizing the young woman seated across from him.

Her blue-green eyes caught his attention; they were curious, intelligent and interesting. A nice face: regular features; smooth fair skin with freckles she tried to hide with powder; full, naturally red lips. Max guessed she was about twenty-five, but her restrained manner made her seem older. She remained silent while calmly waiting for Max to speak.

“Well, Miss O’Neill, I hope you don’t mind my asking a few questions?”

“I don’t mind,” she said quietly while keeping her eyes fixed on his.

“All right. For starters, how did you know I was looking for your brother?”

“Dan Buford, one of my brother’s friends from the Lady of the Lake told me.”

Who told Buford? Max wondered. “When did you talk to Dan Buford?”

“This evening, at the Majestic.”

“You mean Buford’s not aboard the boat?”

“No, he left the crew same time as my brother.”

Why didn’t McCoy mention him? “Where’s Buford now?”

“At the hotel, I guess.” She frowned and suddenly seemed unsure as though the question caught her off guard.

“OK, Miss O’Neill. We’ll get to Buford later. Now, I assume you’re looking for your brother, too. Am I right?”

“Yes, Mr. Niemand. I’m looking for Bob. And I need your help.” She paused a moment, and gripped her purse tightly, as if about to make an important decision. “I’m not rich, but I can afford to pay for your services.”

“What do you know about my services?”

“By reputation, you’re the best private investigator in Chicago.”

“So, you asked around and checked me out before you decided to follow me to my office?”

“No, I read about you in the newspapers back home.”

“Really now? Where is ‘back home’?”

“South Bend.”

He recalled working on a case in Indiana that might have made the papers in South Bend. “I’m glad to hear my reputation extends that far,” he said with a hint of irony. “Anyway, we can discuss payment later. I want to hear your story first.” Max gave her a reassuring smile before adding, “Would you care for some coffee? Miss Mandelbaum keeps a fresh pot going.”

“Oh, yes, I would. Thank you.”

He went to the outer office and returned with two cups of coffee, a creamer, sugar bowl and a couple of teaspoons on a tray. He set the tray on the table and said, “Help yourself.”

Max observed the way she poured, added milk, a lump of sugar and stirred. Fine manners, soft, white hands unaccustomed to hard labor, not what I’d expect from a deckhand’s sister.

She took a couple of sips before speaking. “Would you like some background about my family and my relationship with my brother? It might help you understand our situation.”

“Please go ahead. I’m interested. I’ll let you know if you wander off-track.”

She began a narrative. Bob was the eldest of four children, one boy and three girls. Mary, the second child, was two years his junior. Their father was a successful building contractor who had worked his way up from bricklayer to middle-class businessman, a respected member of the community. He had married up; his father-in-law’s money helped finance O’Neill’s expanding construction business.

Mr. O’Neill had plans for his son; he wanted him to get at least two years of high school and then learn the business from the ground up; so, when the time came, he could take over. Mrs. O’Neill had a vague notion of the boy having a vocation for the priesthood, which caused some minor friction between the parents. But as soon as he finished eighth grade, Bob wanted to sign on to the crew of a lake steamer, causing a predictable disruption in the family.

To Max, this sounded like a cliché; the upwardly mobile first and second-generation Irish-American family with a misfit “heir apparent.” But Max also knew that much of life was a cliché, so he did not discount the story entirely. He listened patiently, up to a point when he decided it was time to cut to the chase.

“Excuse me, Miss O’Neill. The family history is interesting, but I think it’s time you told me what brought you to Chicago.”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Niemand,” she said with a sheepish look as though she were ashamed of having said more than was necessary. “Last week I received a wire from Hammond. We were close growing up, but I hadn’t heard from Bob in almost three years, so the wire took me by surprise. He gave me the name of his boat, the Lady of the Lake, and its date of arrival in Chicago. He asked me to meet him today at The Majestic.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you think that was odd?”

“Yes, very odd. I sensed he was in trouble, so I decided to go. After all, it’s only a couple of hours by train. However, I was worried enough to consider hiring a detective. That’s when I recalled your name from the newspaper article. So, I wrote down your name, office address and telephone number as a precaution.”

“I see. What happened when you went to the hotel?”

“The desk clerk told me my brother had checked out, but he had left a message for me.”

“Was the message in writing?”

“Yes, I have it here.” She opened her purse, took out a scrap of paper and handed it to Max.

He read the note. Dear Sis, sorry I missed you. Something came up all of a sudden. Ask to see Dan Buford for more information. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Bob.

He placed the note on his desk and looked up at her with a questioning gaze that was still friendly but somewhat skeptical. “Do you recognize his handwriting?”

“Yes, it’s Bob’s writing.”

“The desk clerk you spoke to, was his name Levitsky?”

“I didn’t get his name.”

Max described Levitsky. She nodded. “Yes, that’s the man.”

Levitsky withheld information. He didn’t mention the girl or Buford, but he did mention the two gents in the car. What’s his game? “OK. So, what did you do after you got the note?”

“I asked to see Dan Buford. The clerk gave me the room number and I went upstairs—”

“Excuse me,” Max broke in. “Do you remember the room number?”

“Yes. Number 3. He shared the room with my brother.”

“Thanks. Please continue.”

“I went to the room and spoke to Buford. He said a couple of well-dressed men came to the hotel and met with my brother. They weren’t there long; maybe fifteen or twenty minutes at most. Then they left with Bob. Buford said not to worry. Bob would be in touch.”

“Was Buford present when your brother met with these men?”

“No, they told him to take a walk while they used the room.”

“Did he say when they left the hotel?”

“This afternoon, around four.”

“Can you describe Buford?”

She provided a description that might have applied to any number of guys, including her brother Bob: twenty-five to thirty, medium build, fair hair, blue eyes. When he asked if Buford had any distinguishing scars, tattoos or other noticeable identifying marks she replied, “I don’t recall.”

“I see. I’ll need to go back to the hotel and talk to Buford. Levitsky, too.”

“Does that mean you’ll take the case?”

“I’m considering it. I have just one more question. Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

The question seemed to catch her off guard. She hesitated before answering. “My family would like to keep the police out of this. We’d also like to avoid publicity, keep it out of the newspapers.”

“I understand. All right, Miss O’Neill. For a case like this, I charge a fifty-dollar retainer plus expenses. Can you manage that?” He noticed a familiar wide-eyed look that he got from prospective clients when they realized his services did not come cheap.

After a moment, she replied, “Yes, I can.” She opened her purse, took two twenties and a ten from a billfold and handed the cash to Max.

He scrutinized the bills for an instant before pocketing them. Then he picked up a pad of paper and took out his fountain pen. “I’ll need some contact information. Where are you staying?”

“I’m at the Grand Pacific.” She gave him the room number.

“Is there a phone in your room?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Good. I’ll keep you up to date on progress in the case.” Max took out a business card and wrote down his home phone. He handed her the card. “You can call me any time during business hours. If I’m not available, Miss Mandelbaum will see that I get a message. If it’s an emergency, you can try calling me at home but...” — he paused for emphasis — “use your judgment. In an emergency I may not be available. Under such circumstances, you might even need to call the police. Do you understand?”

“I understand. Is there anything else?”

“A couple of things. Do you have a recent photo of your brother?”

“Yes.” She opened her purse, rummaged about and produced a photograph. She handed it to Max.

He studied the photo for a moment, recalling the description he got from the Lady of the Lake’s mate. Then he placed the photo on his desk and said, “How long do you plan on staying in Chicago?”

“For as long as it takes to find my brother.”

“That may be a while. I’ll do my best to locate him. For starters, I’m going back to The Majestic.”

“I’d like to go with you.”

Max shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise that, Miss. It’s a bad place. Things could get rough. Best you go back to your hotel. I’ll be in touch soon, and like I said, you can always call the office if you have questions.”

“Do you expect trouble?”

Max grinned. “Not necessarily, but I’m always prepared for it when it comes.” He got up and extended his hand for a friendly shake. “Good evening, Miss O’Neill.”

She rose from her chair and shook hands. “Good evening, Mr. Niemand,” she said with a forced smile.

After she left, Max opened a desk drawer and took out his Smith & Wesson .38 M&P. He checked the cylinder and pocketed a loaded moon clip, then glanced at his watch. I hope that rat Levitsky’s still there, not to mention Buford. He holstered his revolver, grabbed his hat and coat from the rack, switched off the lights, locked up and headed for the elevator.

“Calling it a day, Mr. Niemand?” The old elevator operator greeted him with a knowing smile.

“Nope, not yet, pal. Satan never sleeps.”

Proceed to Chapter 8

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder