Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 3: A Fresh Corpse
part 2
When Max stepped off the streetcar at Halsted and Maxwell, he noticed Pat Coughlin, the beat patrolman, standing like a sentry in front of Weinberg’s shop. The street was mostly deserted, it being too cold and windy for the pushcart peddlers and bargain hunters who swarmed the area during the more temperate months.
Pat saw Max, nodded and touched the brim of his helmet in recognition. Then he began twirling his nightstick as though he were trying to impress someone. Max approached Pat, and the twirling ceased.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. What are you doin’ down here?” Like Dolan and most of the patrolmen, Coughlin still addressed Max by his former rank.
“I came to pay a New Year’s call on my old pal, Moe. Is he in trouble?”
The patrolman smirked. “I’d say his troubles are over, unless you believe in an afterlife, in which case they’ve only just begun.”
Max frowned; he had had an inkling Moe was in a jam, but he did not suspect the worst, which might have been poor judgment on his part. He had let Olga — or, rather, his thoughts and feelings about her — distract him. Under the circumstances, he did not appreciate the patrolman’s gallows humor. “You mean Moe’s dead?”
“Dead as can be. Looks like someone used his head for batting practice.”
“Are the detectives here?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant Mueller and Big Mike came about 11:45, not long after I called in the report. They brought a couple of the new specialists with them, a photographer and a fingerprint expert.” The Chicago police had recently added crime scene photographers and fingerprint experts to the Detectives Division.
“Did you discover the body?”
“No, a little Jew kid who helps around the shop found the body. He ran up the block and caught me at the call box. He seemed half-crazy, jabbering in English and Yiddish; I could barely make out what he was saying.”
“When was that?”
“After eleven. Anyways, it’s all in my report. If you got questions, ask the detectives.” Coughlin smiled wryly and added, “Not to say you’ll get much out of Mueller. From what I hear, you and he ain’t exactly pals.”
Max shrugged and shook his head. “Well, it doesn’t hurt to ask. Anyway, happy New Year to you and the wife and kids. It’s three now, isn’t it? Two boys and a girl.”
“Four, Lieutenant. Another girl, to even things out. She almost came in with the New Year.”
“That’s great, Pat. OK; I’m going in for a look-see.”
“All right, Lieutenant. Good luck.”
Max entered the musty front room, an area crammed with second-hand clothes displayed on racks and tables piled high with marketable schlock. The awning was up, and pale winter light streamed in through the doorway and display windows. He walked down the narrow aisle that cleared a pathway between stacks of jumbled goods; his eyes peered through an open back entrance toward the cramped space that served as Moe’s storeroom and office.
The back room was lit by gas jets and the natural light from an open doorway that led to a small loading dock in the alley behind the store. The detectives were working around the body that lay face down next to a desk. The print expert was examining the premises with his magnifying glass and dusting equipment. The photographer had his camera set up on a tripod and was sprinkling powder into a flash-lamp.
Max approached through the doorway, and Big Mike was the first to notice him. “Hello, Max. What brings you here?” Mike asked.
That got Mueller’s attention. “Yeah, Niemand,” he growled, “why are you poking your nose in our business? Do you know something, or is it just your hawkshaw’s curiosity?”
Lieutenant Mueller was a squat individual with a gravelly voice and a mean expression to match his characteristically malicious disposition. He had always reminded Max of a Bull Terrier, with all the bad characteristics of the breed and none of the good.
Max smiled and walked over to the detectives. “I came to pay a New Year’s call on my old pal, Moe. Looks like I came a bit too late.”
“Looking for a tip or a lead, I suppose,” said Mueller. “Well, you won’t get anything from him now. Guess you’ll have to find another snitch.”
“Be nice, Mueller. It’s the season of gifts, and I may have something you can use.”
“Oh, yeah. Like what?”
“Do you know when he died?”
“Of course not, but we’ll narrow it down with further investigation and the autopsy results. He opened the shop at eight and a kid that worked for him part-time found his body around 11:30. We’re looking for witnesses, but these people aren’t too good with English, at least not when they’re talking to us. And they don’t seem to see or know much, either, when the police are doing the asking.”
“Maybe they have bad memories of the old country and the Tsar’s Cossacks.”
“Nuts to the Cossacks. This is Chicago, not Odessa.”
“Yeah, and like George M. Cohan, we’re all Yankee Doodle Boys.”
Mueller’s smallish eyes narrowed to slits. “Stop cracking wise, Niemand. Have you got something for me or not?”
“OK, here’s what I’ve got. I telephoned Moe at 11:20 this morning. I noted the time on my wall clock. He sounded nervous and didn’t want to talk on the phone. He said he had a customer, and asked me to come by later, which would mean now.”
“All right, that’s good information. Looks like he was bumped off between approximately 11:20 and 11:30. I don’t suppose you know who was in the store with him?”
“Sorry, I haven’t a clue.” Max would keep his suspicions concerning Prescott Fielding III to himself, at least for the time being. “Mind if I look around?”
“I suppose you can, but don’t touch nothing, and be careful where you walk. We’re very scientific now.”
Max grinned. “I know: fingerprint experts and crime photographers. I approve, but there’s more to detective work than forensics, as I’m sure you know.”
Mueller muttered something unintelligible, stuck a cheap stogie in his mouth and started chewing. Big Mike remained prudently silent.
Max walked around the desk and hunkered down to assess the damage. The right side of Moe’s skull was bashed in; blood, brains, bits of shattered bone and fluid gushed out into a slimy puddle on the plain wooden floor. The cockroaches were having a feast.
“Ugly,” Max remarked. He looked up at Mueller. “Did you find a murder weapon?”
“Yeah, it’s a fancy silver candle holder, with dents from Moe’s head. Old-country work, with marks in Russian. The expert is checking it for prints.”
“Kind of careless of the killer to leave it for you to find, don’t you think?”
Mueller shrugged. “Not all these guys are so bright.”
Max nodded. “The piece seems high-toned for Moe’s shop.”
“We thought of that,” Mueller said. “Maybe someone gave it to Moe to pay off a debt.”
“That’s a good guess,” Max replied. “Did you check Moe’s safe? That’s where he kept all his valuables.”
“It hasn’t been tampered with. Without a combination, we’ll need a locksmith to open it.”
“So you haven’t ruled out robbery as a motive?”
“Of course, not. After all, we just got here.”
Max got up and scanned the area. “Any signs of a struggle?”
“No, it’s just as you see it.”
“Moe was no sissy, Mueller. He would have put up a fight, unless he was taken by surprise.”
“So maybe it was someone he knew. But you said he sounded nervous on the phone, like he had reason to fear something bad was about to happen.”
Max shrugged and said nothing. He scanned the area, and it wasn’t long before he spotted something odd; he wondered if Mike or Mueller had noticed it. There appeared to be scattered cigar or cigarette ashes on the corner of the desk next to a box of matches. The matchbox had lettering, probably the name of an establishment of some kind, an address and telephone number. Moe did not smoke. Tobacco made his eyes itch and his throat sore; he complained if someone smoked in his shop.
The ashes and matchbox were clues that could lead to the killer, but Max was not ready to share his insight with the police any more than he was prepared to reveal his suspicions about Fielding, at least not until he had done more investigation on his own. This might be the big case to start the New Year right. On the other hand, he did not want to be caught removing evidence from a crime scene, or be accused of impeding the official investigation. If anything, he wanted to maintain the appearance of cooperation. He had an idea that could get him what he wanted while providing him with a plausible excuse if he were caught.
“Hey, Mueller, do you mind if I smoke?”
Mueller grinned. “Smells in here, don’t it? Guess you want to get the stink out of your nostrils. OK with me.”
Max thanked Mueller and reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar. He nonchalantly picked up the matchbox and struck a light. Neither Mueller nor Mike seemed to notice. After taking a puff, Max said, “Now that’s a good smoke. It’s a Havana Corona. Would you guys like one? I got plenty.”
Mueller’s Bull Terrier face wrinkled in what might have passed for a smile. “Sure,” he said. “This stogie I got is a piece of crap. Better for chewin’ than smokin’.”
“OK, how about you, Mike?”
“No thanks, Max,” Mike replied.
Max walked over and handed two cigars to Mueller. “Since Mike doesn’t want one, why don’t you take two?”
Mueller took the stogie out of his mouth and pitched it out through the opened back door. “Thanks, Niemand; that’s mighty white of you,” he said as he took the cigars. He placed one in his breast pocket and stuck the other between his teeth.
“Would you like a light?” Max asked.
“Thanks, pal.”
If Mueller had ever noticed the matchbox and ashes, he seemed to have completely forgotten about them. As for Mike, he was out in the alley looking for clues. Max slipped the matchbox into his pocket. “Well, fellas,” Max announced, “I guess I’ve seen enough, and I don’t want to get in your way, so I’ll be going.”
Placated by Max’s friendly attitude and oblivious to the fact that he had just been played, Muller said, “Hey, no problem, Niemand. Of course, if you come up with something relevant to the case, you’ll let us know, won’t you?”
Max smiled. “You can count on it, Lieutenant.” With that assurance, he walked out of the store, past Coughlin, and headed up the block toward Halsted to catch the streetcar. On the way, he noticed how all the locals had seemed to go to ground. As a young patrolman, Max had been assigned to this precinct. He had learned German from his immigrant mother, and he quickly picked up Yiddish, a sort of pidgin German, on the street. This fluency and his lack of prejudice helped him establish relationships on Maxwell Street. They’ll clam up around Mueller and Big Mike, he thought, but I bet they’ll talk to me.
He heard the clanging bell of an approaching northbound trolley. Max ran to catch up to it at the corner.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
