Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 11: Weasel in the Hole
When Max exited the station onto Fullerton Street, he noticed a crowd milling about, waiting for the cars. A stalled trolley could cause a back-up all down the line. He figured it would take about twenty minutes on foot to reach the skating pond in Lincoln Park. If he walked fast, he could meet Weasel on time or at most a few minutes late. He turned up his collar, pulled down his hat brim and headed east into a brisk wind filled with swirling snow.
Max checked his watch at the park entrance. OK, I’ll be a minute or two late. He headed northeast in the direction of the pond along a paved pathway lit by bright electric lamps. As he passed by concession stands catering to the skaters, Max remained alert for signs of a shadow. After a few minutes of vigorous walking, he reached the entrance to the shortcut. He glanced around before stepping off the pavement onto the snow-covered trail.
His boots crunched along the narrow path; as the growth thickened around him, Max ducked and brushed back whippy branches. He could not see much ahead of his feet, but he heard the band, the laughter of skaters and the swishing of their blades on the icy surface of the frozen pond.
When he emerged from the thicket, he saw the lights surrounding the pavilion and the wooden landing. He scanned the area for Weasel, but did not see him. Max headed up the dock, past the gingerbread pavilion, toward the secluded area near the ditch.
As he approached the meeting place, Max spotted what appeared to be fresh footprints in the snow and a track or furrow leading to the edge of the ditch, as if a large object had been dragged in that direction. He also noticed that one of the sawhorse barricades had been moved.
Max walked to the threshold and gazed down into the trench. There was a body lying face down in the frozen mud and snow. From what Max could make out of the individual’s size, shape and a familiar overcoat, he presumed it was Alfie Hogg, aka The Weasel. So they got him, poor bastard. However, now he was not sure who “they” were. Was it Bugsy and Vito or one of the Ike Burns mob? Maybe the well-dressed gent who tailed Max on the “L.” Or it could have been someone else, someone Max had not yet considered as a suspect in the Weinberg murder.
Max made a quick decision. He could leave and hope no one had spotted him, but he dismissed that option as too risky. This is Tom Riley’s beat. He’s all right. Better report it to him.
He walked out to the dock and scanned the area. Max spotted the patrolman talking to a vendor on the pathway leading around the perimeter of the pond. He headed in that direction. As he neared the concession stand, Riley looked up and recognized Max. The veteran cop smiled and touched the brim of his helmet in salute.
“Evening, Lieutenant. I didn’t know you went in for skating.”
“Evening, Tom. It’s nice to see you, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
The patrolman’s smile turned into a worried frown. “What news is that, Lieutenant?”
Max glanced at the nosy concessionaire, and then looked back at Riley and gestured to him. Riley came over. They walked together a few steps in the direction of the pavilion.
Max stopped suddenly, turned to Riley and said, “Tom, there’s an open trench back of the pavilion. I was up there a minute ago, and saw a body at the bottom of the ditch. I think I know who it is.”
“The devil you say! Who is it?”
“I can’t be sure, but I believe it’s Alf Hogg. He was supposed to meet me here with some information on a case I’m working. I guess someone got to him first.”
Riley shook his head and sighed. “Ah well, if it’s The Weasel, it don’t come as a shock. Someone was bound to get him, sooner or later. Let’s go have a look.”
They arrived at the trench. Riley carried a bull’s-eye lantern. He aimed it at the corpse. “No sign of blood, Lieutenant. I guess I’ll go down and get a better look.” Riley redirected the light toward a path running along the wall of the pavilion. “There it is,” he said while pointing the beam at a step ladder the workers left propped up against the wall.
Riley was past sixty and thirty pounds overweight. Max made an offer. “If it’s all right with you, Tom, I’ll go down.”
Riley shook his head. “No thanks, Lieutenant. It’s my duty. But you could help out by fetching the ladder.”
Max brought over the ladder and lowered it into the ditch. He steadied the ladder while the old patrolman climbed down gingerly with the lantern dangling from his right hand. Riley groaned and puffed from the effort as he stepped off the bottom rung.
Riley approached the body and hunkered down with another grunt. After a moment, he looked up at Max. “It’s Weasel, all right. Looks like he was throttled. I can see the marks on his throat. And there’s a lump and some dried blood on the back of his head, like he was cold-cocked from behind before he was strangled.”
“OK, Tom. Guess you better go to your box and call it in. I’ll wait here.”
Max helped Riley up and out of the ditch. The veteran coughed, wheezed, and took a moment to catch his breath. “Ah me,” he sighed. “I’m too old for this. Guess it’s time I retired.”
Max smiled and patted Riley’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you when you do, Tom. You’re one of the last of the good old-timers, like Jimmy Dolan.”
Riley grinned. “Yeah, me and Jimmy go back a long ways. We were on patrol during the Great Fire. Those were the days. But no time for stories. I’ll go call in.”
“When you do, you can tell your sergeant I’m here. If it’s Nolan, he knows me well enough.”
“Yeah, it’s Nolan on duty tonight. Another one of the old boys.”
“Good. See if he can get Mueller and Mike Sugrue out here. I think this homicide relates to one of their cases.”
“I’ll do that. But before I go and report, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Sure, Tom.”
“Why did you leave the force? You were one of the best.”
Max smiled wistfully. “It’s nice of you to say that, Tom. I guess I wanted to be my own boss. It’s no secret Captain Crunican and I had our differences.”
Riley nodded sympathetically. “I suppose so, Lieutenant. But nonetheless, it’s a shame you’re no longer with us.” Then he turned around and walked slowly up the landing and onto the pond-side promenade in the direction of his call box.
* * *
“Your snitches are dropping like diggers on the Panama Canal.” Mueller grinned as he analogized Max’s dead informers to laborers in the Central American fever swamps. Perhaps his proximity to a corpse lying in a ditch prompted the witticism. At any rate, the detective seemed pleased with his wisecrack. He struck a match, lit his stogie and waited for Max’s reply.
“Still smoking those cheap dago ropes, Lieutenant?” Max reached into his overcoat and produced a corona. “Here you go, Mueller; have another good cigar on me. I’m feeling charitable this evening.”
Mueller grabbed the proffered cigar and stowed it in his pocket. “Thanks, Niemand. I’ll save it for later. Now, could you be a little more charitable and come up with a suspect, or at least a lead?”
“Yeah, I’ll give you a good tip. Weasel was bringing me information on the Weinberg murder. Find Moe’s killer. I’ll bet he bumped off Weasel to shut him up permanently.”
Mueller frowned, shook his head and spat in the direction of the ditch. “The guy who iced Moe is locked up in a cell. Next stop, the county nut house.”
“I believe Benny Levy is innocent. You should consider other possibilities.”
Mueller’s eyes narrowed; his voice became an irritated rasp. “That’s a closed investigation, Niemand. Who’s paying you to keep poking your nose in it?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, that’s confidential.”
“I can get that information from you, if I have to.”
Max shrugged and said nothing.
“Listen, pal. You got a bad habit of showing up in the vicinity of the recently deceased. Maybe I should list you as a suspect?”
Max smirked. “So you’re changing your mind about Weinberg? You think I bashed his head in with Levy’s candlestick?”
“Don’t crack wise with me, pal. I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Good for you, Mueller. Suspect everyone and no one, like a good dime-novel dick.”
Mike Sugrue interrupted. Sensing trouble, he glanced at Max before turning to Mueller. “The body’s ready to go to the morgue. We’re setting up a barrier around the trench, and I’ve been talking to Riley to see if he can come up with potential witnesses. As for evidence, we’ll come back and search the area in daylight before the workers get here. We’ll want to question them, too.”
“OK, Mike. I gotta tend to some business. While I’m gone, maybe you can persuade your pal to be more helpful.” He turned and walked around the ditch in the direction of the pavilion rest rooms.
Mike frowned and shook his head in dismay. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Max.”
“My life’s a dangerous game. What else is new?”
“Stop kidding. This is serious. People want the Weinberg case closed. And I’m guessing they’ll want this one closed quick, too. Guys like Moe and Weasel don’t count for much.”
“Yeah, and neither does Benny Levy. Who are people, Mike?”
“Who do you think?”
“Crunican?”
“Yeah, the captain for sure, but it goes higher up the ladder.”
“How high?”
“I couldn’t say and wouldn’t want to know. You better drop it, Max.”
The fact that people in high places wanted Max off the case was a strong incentive for him to continue, but he would not state the obvious. “Mike, I’ve a professional obligation to pursue the case until my client says otherwise. The fact that I’m working for a new client doesn’t change things. I already told Mueller that I’d go to him if I turn up anything worthwhile, and you can remind him of that. Now, I don’t see any reason for me to hang around here unless you need me for something.”
“You can go, Max, and I’ll pass on what you said to Mueller. But think over what I said. I don’t want to scrape what’s left of you out of the bottom of some ditch or fish it out of the river.”
“Don’t worry about me, Big Mike. I’m hard to kill.”
“Yeah, I guess you are at that.” Then the big man glanced in the direction of the pavilion and cracked a smile. “What’s keeping Mueller? He must be emptying the lagoon.”
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
