The Girl on the Rush Street Bridge

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 10: The Coroner’s Report

When Max returned to the office, Mary O’Neill was in the waiting area; she was flipping nervously through the pages of a dogeared copy of Ainslee’s. As soon as Max crossed the threshold, she dropped the magazine on an end table and ran to him.

“Mr. Niemand, thank goodness you’re here,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been waiting for hours. Bob phoned me this morning. He wants to meet me tonight, at eleven.”

Max glanced at Rosie, who was busy tapping the keyboard. She looked up at Max, rolled her eyes, and went back to her typing.

“All right, Miss O’Neill,” Max said gently. “Let’s go into my office. Would you care for something to eat? I was about to have a late lunch myself.”

“Oh... no, thank, you. I’m too upset to eat right now.”

“How about some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Miss Mandelbaum,” Max said, “please bring the coffee into my office.”

Rosie stopped typing and looked up at Max with a wry smile on her lips, a look that he did not always appreciate. “Will do, Mister Niemand.”

“Thank you, Miss Mandelbaum,” Max said with a hint of annoyance. Then he ushered his client into the office. As soon as they were seated, Max said: “Now, please tell me about the call. Are you sure it was your brother on the line?”

“Yes, I recognized his voice.”

A knock on the door interrupted. Rosie entered, served the coffee with a straight face, and then quickly departed without saying a word.

Max set aside the coffee and continued his questioning. “What was the call about, and please don’t leave out any details.”

“Bob wants me to meet him tonight at eleven in a place called Thatcher Woods.”

“Did he ask you to bring anything; cash for example?”

“No, he just wanted to talk to me.”

“Why meet there?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“I assume he gave you directions?”

“Yes, of course. When I asked what this was all about, he said he couldn’t tell me on the phone; then he hung up.”

“Did you tell him you’d hired a detective?”

“No, I didn’t. I suppose I ought to have told him, but he talked so fast and I was so surprised to hear from him that it slipped my mind.”

“Is that all?”

She nodded. “Yes; that’s everything.”

“Whereabouts in Thatcher Woods?”

“I wrote it down.” She opened her purse, took out a sheet of hotel stationery and handed it to Max.

He studied the directions without comment.

After a while, she asked, “Do you know the place?”

Max set down the paper. “I know it well enough. It’s in the Forest Preserves, about one hour’s drive west of downtown. Pleasant and scenic in the daytime. Not a place you’d hang about at eleven at night. Frankly, this looks like a trap. What’s more, it’s so hinky I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Hinky?” she said with a bewildered look. “What does that mean?”

“Sorry, Miss O’Neill. That’s slang for ‘weird,’ ‘strange.’ You see, meeting in such a place late at night is dangerous. And the danger should be obvious to anyone familiar with the area. Can you think of any reason why your brother would expose you to a situation like that?”

“No, unless...” She paused a moment before continuing. “Unless he’s desperate or acting under compulsion.”

“Do you have any idea who would compel him to do such a thing?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have enemies? What about on the Lady of the Lake? Can you think of anyone among the officers and crew who might have a grudge against your brother? What about back home, someone from his past?”

“The only one I know of on the Lady of the Lake is Dan Buford, and I assume he and Bob are friends. At least as far as I know, they are. As for back home...” She paused a moment to think before saying, “There was a boy in the neighborhood. He and Bob didn’t get along. A few years ago, they fought over a girl. They both got beat up, but I guess Bob got the better of it.”

“What happened to the boy? Does he still live in South Bend?”

“Yes, he’s still in South Bend. He works for his father. The family owns a grocery store.”

“What’s his name?”

“Pat Simmons.”

Max grabbed a pencil and legal pad; he made some notes for the file. Then he looked at her, trying to penetrate her thoughts by reading her facial expression and posture. Was she anxious, frightened, hiding something? Her face and body seemed to convey nothing beyond her words, no more, no less. Max decided on a course of action.

“I’ll take care of this, Miss O’Neill. Best you go back to your hotel. Of course, if your brother, or anyone else, contacts you regarding this matter, call me.”

“You’re going to Thatcher Woods?”

“Yes.”

“But Bob will expect me. Shouldn’t I go with you?”

“No, miss, it’s much too dangerous. I don’t know who’s going to be waiting out there. Let’s hope it’s just your brother, and he’s on the level.”

“Very well, Mr. Niemand. Do what you think is best. I trust your judgment.”

* * *

After Mary O’Neill left, Max called Rosie into his office. She entered, walked up to the desk and waited for the boss to speak, her shrewd eyes fixed on his.

Max was smoking. He dropped the cigar in an ashtray and gave her one of his unfriendly looks. “All right, kid,” he said with a sharp edge to his voice, “what’s with the goofy faces, the Mister Niemand and all that?”

“I’m not sure, boss. I just think there’s something fishy about her.”

“You do, huh? And what’s the basis for your opinion?”

“Well, maybe it’s just my female intuition.”

“Come off it, kid. You need more than that to be a good operative. Now give it to me straight.”

“OK. She was here for about two hours. We talked girl talk, if you know what I mean. She let her hair down; told me a bit more about herself and her family. Then, you show up, and she goes into her act.”

“I see. Was there anything in your ’girl talk’ that I can use in my investigation?”

“Not really. She just may not be the sweet, innocent girl from Indiana that she acts like when you’re around.”

Max smiled. “I didn’t figure she was. Is that all?”

“No.” She frowned and shook her head. “How do we know she is who she says she is?”

“We can run a routine background check on the O’Neills. Anything else?”

“Are you going out to Thatcher Woods by yourself?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Don’t you think you should have someone along to watch your back?”

“I thought about taking Joey, but he’s out on another job tonight.”

“How about me? I got a new Colt .25. Joey taught me how to use it. I’m pretty good. He’s been teaching me some Judo, too.”

“Sorry, kid. You ain’t ready for a job like this. I’d be worried about you; you’d be more a distraction than a help.”

Rosie looked down at her hands and said nothing. Max tried to cheer her up.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

“No,” she said without looking up. “I was too busy taking care of Miss O’Neill.”

“I’m hungry. How about we split an apple pancake at Henrici’s? My treat.”

That suggestion put a smile back on her face. She looked up at Max with a sparkle in her dark green eyes. “Thanks, boss! That’d be swell.”

“Good. Grab your coat. I figure we’ll be out for about an hour. Then I’m going home to fetch the Buick. I’ve got a six o’clock meeting with Sid Eisenberg before I head out to Thatcher Woods. And don’t work late tonight! OK?”

“OK.” On her way to the outer office, she turned around in the doorway and said, “Will you take me out on a job like this someday, when I’m ready, that is?”

“Maybe. Now get a move on. We don’t have all day and I want to eat.” As he spoke, Max hoped the apple pancake would not be his last meal.

* * *

These are the saddest of possible words:
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double —
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”

A mounted and framed signed copy of Franklin P. Adams’ poetic tribute to the 1908 World Champion Cubs was prominently displayed on the wall behind the bar along with an autographed team photo and a pair of game bats and a game ball signed by the double-play heroes. Max’s sportswriter pal Gus Merkle, no relation to the Giants’ Fred Merkle who was responsible for the infamous bonehead play that may have cost the Giants the National League Pennant, covered the game at The Polo Grounds. The Cubs went on to beat Detroit in the World Series.

The saloon was quiet; the Cubs were not playing that day. A couple of half-gassed regulars talked baseball and politics with Horatio “Huck” Finn, the owner, who was tending bar. When Max entered, Huck and the regulars greeted him, and then returned to discussing the Cubs’ chances for regaining the pennant they had lost to the Pirates the previous year.

Max spotted Sid seated at a small table in a dark corner on the other end of the bar. He had just downed a shot and was in the process of chasing it with beer when he noticed Max. He put down the stein, wiped some foam from his mustache and nodded in recognition. He did not look happy.

Some of the regulars called him “Sid the Yid,” but Huck said “Sid’s all right,” so he was welcomed in an environment that was not necessarily friendly to other members of his race. He had gained dispensation from the typical anti-Semitic slurs and jokes for several reasons: he was a fervent Cubs fan; his Nordic good looks did not conform to the anti-Semitic stereotype; he was high-up in the Coroner’s Office, which meant he had clout in the city and county; he was The Hawk’s pal.

Max signaled Huck for a round, then took a seat across from Sid.

“You want to give me the bad news?” Max said.

“What makes you think it’s bad?”

Max grinned. “It’s written all over your face, pal.”

Sid took a long swallow of beer before answering. “There won’t be a public inquest. The Coroner’s already decided. Accidental death. The matter’s closed.”

Max was not surprised. “Accidental, huh? What was the ’accident’?”

“She was drinking heavily. Stopped for some reason while crossing the bridge, leaned over the railing, blacked out and fell into the river.”

Huck came over with the drinks on a tray. “Evening, Max,” he said as he placed two shots of rye and two steins of beer on the table.

“Evening, Huck,” Max replied. “How’s business?”

“Not bad, but it’ll be booming when the Cubs take back the pennant from those Pittsburgh mugs. What do you think of their chances?”

“I couldn’t say,” Max replied.

Huck could tell from Max’s terse reply that any further discussion of baseball should be saved for a more opportune time. “OK, Max. See you around.”

“See you, Huck.” Max downed his shot as Huck returned to the bar to talk about the pennant with the now totally gassed regulars.

“Peg wasn’t drunk, Sid. She’d just taken a rube for a hundred bucks. You need your wits about you to play that game.”

Sid shrugged. “Nevertheless, that’s how the Coroner’s Report reads. That’s what goes in the record.”

“I see. Was there any basis for the finding?”

“Yeah. There’s a witness. Frank Olson, a bartender at Sharkey’s. According to him, Peg was stewed when she left the saloon.”

“I don’t suppose he mentioned the rube?”

“Nope. He said she came and left alone.”

“No other witnesses?”

“No one else came forward.”

Max grimaced. The fix was in. Meijer was a witness, but he was scared off by the cops. Moreover, there would have been plenty of other witnesses at Sharkey’s; they did not come forward because the powers that be were not out looking for them. “Case closed, Chicago style,” he muttered, then knocked back half a stein. He paused a moment before adding “Frank Olson is in on Sharkey’s and Harry Schmidt’s racket. Did you know that?”

“I just know what’s in the report, and that’s all I want to know.” Sid gazed at his friend sadly, a sadness interfused with fear.

“What about the autopsy?”

“You know what our autopsies are like, especially in a case like this. We’re not exactly on the cutting edge of forensic science.”

“Yeah, I know. So, what have you done with her body?”

“Buried.”

“In the potter’s field?”

Sid looked down at his hands and nodded in the affirmative. Then he went back to his drink.

Max had a vision of Peg as she was three years earlier: pretty, young, and full of life till bad habits and worse “friends” brought her down. She deserved better, he thought. He finished his beer. Then: “Anything else, Sid?”

“No, Max. Sorry.”

Max gave Sid a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry about, pal. The information’s useful, and I can’t say it surprises me. Thanks.”

For the first time that evening, something approaching a smile creased the corners of Sid’s mouth, as though he had just received absolution. “Don’t mention it. Anyways, how’s life treating you these days?”

“Like a bitch with an itch. How about you?”

“Can’t complain. I got job security, the wife, the kids, and a mortgaged house. I’m living the American Dream. Even thinking about getting a car. How’s that Buick of yours?”

“Swell. It’s parked out front.”

“I know. I noticed it as you drove up. You got plans for this evening?” “Plans” was code for chippies, young women of easy virtue who were susceptible to men with automobiles, especially cars like the sporty new Buick.

“Yeah, I got plans all right. Plans to work. It pays the bills, Sid.”

“That’s true, Max. But all work and no play—”

“Makes jack.” Max smiled and got a laugh out of the sometimes-morose Sid.

The friends shook hands and parted company. Max exited the saloon and walked up the street to the Buick, which was parked under a street lamp. The car’s clean white body glistened in reflected light. He gazed up at the sky and saw a full moon partially hidden behind a cloud bar.

Across the street stood the ballpark’s grandstand, dark, empty, and silent. It reminded him of a picture of the Roman Coliseum. He felt a sudden sense of loneliness, a longing for the crowded park on a warm summer day, the smell of hot dogs, the salty peanuts, a cold beer, the crack of the bat, the roar from the stands.

I remember the last time I took Peg to a game, the year the Cubs won the Series. Far from the cold dirty river, the morgue and the potter’s field. He shook his head and snapped out of it. All work and no play, makes jack. But in this case, he would risk his life for more than money; he wanted revenge. Or maybe it was something more than revenge. He wanted to make a statement. Peg’s life had value. He wanted to say something to the rich and powerful, the crooks and politicians: You can’t use people until they’re broken and wasted, then dispose of them like so much trash.

* * *

Max made good time on Washington Boulevard, a well-paved, well-lit tree-lined thoroughfare. The quality of the neighborhoods improved as you drove westward, from the modest dwellings and shops of the near West Side working-class ethnic enclaves to the tonier middle and upper-middle class environs of the far West Side and suburbs. He had time to kill, so he headed up to a North Avenue tavern where he could get a sandwich and beer before entering the dry, Anti-Saloon League dominated villages of Oak Park and River Forest.

When he left the saloon, he noticed a change in the sky; the moon hid behind a cloud cover like a virgin seeking refuge under a bedspread. As he proceeded west, the brick business blocks gave way to more single-family homes surrounded by foliage and well-tended front yards. A half mile from his destination, Max turned onto a quiet side street and parked in an alley behind an empty lot. The car would be reasonably safe here, and not too conspicuous when covered by a tarpaulin.

He stowed his motoring duster, jacket, goggles, and flat cap in a storage trunk and put on a black turtleneck sweater. The pullover covered his holstered .38. He hooked a flashlight to his belt next to the revolver. Then he took out the tarp and covered the car.

Max checked his luminous dial watch; ten o’clock. He had an hour to get to the meeting place, hide, watch, and wait. He was not sure what he would do when whomever he was waiting for showed up. He would just play it by ear.

Proceed to Chapter 11...

Copyright © 2018 by Gary Inbinder