The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 9: The Meijers of South Holland

part 1

The morning after his “friendly chat” with Levitsky, Max placed two calls from his office. The first was an inquiry about Jan Meijer’s status. A trusted contact at police headquarters told Max that Meijer had been released after a charge of public intoxication was dropped. Meijer did not file a complaint for the jackrolling. The next call was to Sid Eisenberg, an old pal who worked in the Coroner’s office.

“Hi, Sid. It’s Max. You got a minute?”

“Sure, Max. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like some information about Peg Rooney. Preliminary findings after the autopsy, date set for the inquest, the usual.”

There was a moment of silence followed by, “Can’t talk now. Meet me after work.”

“Where?”

“You know the saloon on Taylor Street, across from the ball park?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Meet me there tonight at six o’clock.”

“OK, Sid. See you there at six.”

Eisenberg hung up.

Something’s up at the Coroner’s office, Max thought. He hoped Eisenberg could fill him in. In the meantime, Max planned a trip to South Holland to see if he could get something from Meijer. Why was the charge dropped? Why didn’t he file a complaint? He was about to call the station to get the train schedule when Rosie entered with a message.

“Miss O’Neill called first thing, just before you came in. Joey took the call and left the message on my desk.”

“Thanks, Rosie. I’ll call her now. While I’m at it, phone Central Station and get me the schedule for trains to South Holland.”

“Right, boss.” Rosie returned to her desk.

Max called the Grand Pacific and was told Miss O’Neill was out. He left a message with the desk clerk. Then he checked with Rosie for the train schedule. There was a train that morning with a stop at South Holland, but Max would have to leave immediately to catch it. A round trip would get him back to Chicago in the afternoon.

On his way out, Max asked Rosie, “What’s Joey’s schedule like today?”

“Not too heavy. He should be back in about an hour.”

“OK. I left a message for Miss O’Neill. If she calls or comes to the office, see if you or Joe can help her. I should be back from South Holland this afternoon, then I’ve got an important meeting this evening. Think you two can handle things without me?”

“No problem, boss. And good luck in South Holland.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” Max gave his secretary an encouraging wink and a smile, then headed out for the boondocks.

* * *

Only forty-five minutes from Broadway,
Think of the changes it brings;
For the short time it takes,
What a diff’rence it makes
In the ways of the people and things.
Oh! What a fine bunch of rubens,
Oh! what a jay atmosphere;
They have whiskers like hay
And imagine Broadway
Only forty-five minutes from here.

Max thought of George M. Cohan’s hit tune about the two worlds of Manhattan and New Rochelle as he rode the Illinois Central, forty-five minutes from downtown Chicago to the small, mostly Dutch immigrant farming community at South Holland. He left a bustling Michigan Avenue, a mass of pedestrians scurrying up and down sidewalks lined with skyscrapers, the thoroughfare swarming with automobiles, the vast, always busy Central Station. He arrived at a whistle-stop, a sleepy country village, a few horse-drawn buckboards and carriages rumbling along its unpaved main street, a handful of pedestrians shuffling up and down board sidewalks lined with one- and two-story wood-framed buildings.

He asked the stationmaster for directions to Meijer’s farm. The stationmaster eyed him suspiciously. “First time in South Holland, Mister?”

“That’s right. Nice town you got here.” Max tried to ingratiate himself with a compliment while thinking this place was about as lively as a graveyard.

The old sourpuss glared at Max as though he had read his mind. “You walk up this main street about three-quarters of a mile till you get to a two-story white clapboard with an apple tree and two large elms. You’ll see ‘Meijer’ on the mailbox.”

He thanked the stationmaster, who grunted in response and went about his business. Max exited the station down a short flight of steps to the board sidewalk and proceeded up the street past a few horses at hitching-posts and leery locals who did not care much for “foreigners” from the big city.

At the sidewalk’s end, he continued up a road lined with shady elms, oaks, poplars and telephone and telegraph poles extending as far as the eye could see. The sky was cerulean streaked with white cirrus and filled with sunshine, the air crisp and fresh, suffused with the rustic odor of tilled soil and manure.

Max enjoyed a walk in the country, but his thoughts soon turned to Peg Rooney, Sharkey and Harry Schmidt’s racket, the O’Neills, Buford, the Lady of the Lake, the cops and coroner’s office. How did they all connect? Did they connect? Could he get anything useful out of Meijer?

A short quiet walk: wind rustling leaves and branches in tall trees; insects chirring in the grass; birds chirping; the sound of Max’s shoes beating down the roadway; dogs barking. Does Meijer have a dog? I hope he keeps it tied up. Untethered dogs were one of the many hazards of his profession, a peril common to detectives, burglars, tramps and door-to-door salesmen.

A chugging engine, the crunch of tires on macadam and a honking bulb-horn broke the calm. Max stepped aside. A new Model T whizzed by at twenty miles per hour and rattled up the road in a cloud of dust. Max looked back and saw nothing but sky, trees, grass and telephone poles, then looked forward at the automobile growing smaller in the distance. Guess this one-horse town has come up in the world. Now it’s a one-car town.

Up ahead, he saw the two gnarled elms and apple tree standing like giant trolls guarding the property, and a two-story house that had seen better days. He approached and read the name on the mailbox: Meijer; the name was barely legible on the weathered box.

Max scanned the premises: the fence needed mending; the front yard required mowing and weeding; the house wanted a new coat of paint. The general impression of seediness gave Max an idea. These people need money. If I can recover what Sharkey and Harry Schmidt stole from them, they should be grateful.

Max opened the creaking gate and proceeded cautiously up the dirt pathway leading to the front porch. Thank God, no dogs, he thought. However, before he reached the porch steps he was greeted by a pair of Indians on the war-path. The pair whooped and hollered and ran up from the back yard to confront the stranger.

“Whatcha want, Mister?” said Indian number one, who appeared to be a boy of about twelve.

Max raised his right hand and said, “How, Chief. I come in peace.”

“’How Chief’, my aunt Fanny,” said Indian number two, who seemed to be the younger of the pair. “You better skedaddle before my ma comes out.”

“I’m here on business to see Mr. Meijer,” Max said with a smile. “I assume he’s your pa?”

Before either of the boys could answer, a shabbily dressed woman of about forty opened the screen-door and stepped out onto the front porch. Her gorgon-like scowl made Max fear for the kids’ safety. The boys turned away from Max. Too late to run away, they stood petrified by their mother’s withering gaze.

“You two got chores,” she said to the trembling braves. “Get to work, before I fetch a switch.”

The boys fled, leaving Max to face the gorgon on his own.

“State your business, mister,” she said.

Max tipped his hat in his best imitation of a gentleman. “My name’s Max Niemand, Mrs. Meijer. I’m here to see Mr. Meijer.”

“What for?”

Max reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved one of his cards. He smiled and started toward the porch steps.

“Hold on, mister. Whatever it is you’re selling, we don’t want it.”

Max halted. “I’m not selling anything, ma’am. I’m a detective from Chicago and I know about Mr. Meijer’s recent difficulties in the city. I’m here to help, if I may.” He wouldn’t mention Peg Rooney; not to the wife, at any rate.

“Are you from the police?” Her harsh tone softened; the angry scowl changed instantly to a wary squint, a slight but noticeable transformation. No longer Medusa, she was just a careworn woman trying to keep her family together in hard times. That might give Max an opening.

“I used to be with the Chicago police. Now, I’m a private investigator here on a confidential matter concerning Mr. Meijer.”

“You said you could help. How?”

“I know Mr. Meijer lost a sum of money in Chicago.” He put it as tactfully as possible. “I think I can recover it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea of where the money is, and my own ways and means of getting it.”

“Let me see your card.”

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder