Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 13: The House in Austin
part 3
The Berghoff bar on State and Adams was strictly for men only. At the end of a workday, the place was packed with a noisy gathering of fellows drawn there by the best beer in Chicago at a nickel a glass and ten cents a stein, plus a free corned beef sandwich. Men stood elbow to elbow at the long, curved polished oak bar, talking business, sports, politics and variety of other subjects including crime, punishment and entertainment.
The high-ceilinged, tile-floored saloon echoed with the din of conversation, jingling cash registers, customers calling out orders and bustling bartenders shouting back at them in a mixture of English and German. A thick tobacco haze permeated the room; the yellow glow from dozens of electric bulbs in chandeliers and sconces cut through the smokiness like the masthead lights on a fog-shrouded lake steamer.
Max and Fritz carved out a little corner for themselves at the far end of the bar. They ate quickly and nursed their beers. They spoke intermittently, and the gist of the conversation was this: Norton Real Estate was listed as the owner of the Pine Avenue property, and Norton was a straw purchaser for Ike Burns. Was someone else behind Burns? Fritz could not say.
Fritz chain-smoked, his eyes darted around furtively and he had little appetite. Max noticed the signs and gave his pal a quick out. “Thanks, Fritz. You’ve done enough. I owe you one.”
Fritz stubbed out his cigarette and turned to Max with an expression that was more grimace than smile. “OK, Max. Good luck and good hunting.” He left the remains of his beer and sandwich and elbowed his way through the crowd. Another customer immediately moved up and took Fritz’s place at the bar.
* * *
Max finished his beer and cigar. He waved goodbye to the bartender and then pushed through the crowd that now formed a line out on Adams. Max pulled up his collar against the ever-present wind, lowered his head and prepared to cross one of the city’s busiest intersections on his way to the “L” station at Adams and Wabash. Always alert for a tail, he kept his eye open for a dark blue Pope-Toledo touring car.
A stream of pedestrians stepped off the sidewalk and took their chances in dodging a ceaseless flow of horse-drawn vehicles, motor cars and three-car trolleys clanging up and down the middle of State Street. Snow swirled round about the glowing globes of electric street lamps; wind whipped around the corners of massive brick buildings towering several stories into the night sky, their ground floor display windows blazing with light.
Max continued heading east toward the elevated railway, his keen eyes scanning the numberless anonymous faces, always on the lookout for a stalker. At the same time, he considered the connection between Ike Burns, the house in Austin, Nora Iverson and her “gentleman friend.” Was he the man who had tailed Max on the “L”? He needed more information. Could he trust Ed Mahoney to provide it? On the other hand, would it be better to try to get what he needed from someone at Norton Real Estate? He pondered the problem as he climbed the stairs to the cashier’s cage.
He stopped to pick up a newspaper before getting in line. As he waited to pay his fare, Max glanced around and noticed a tall, well-dressed man several places behind him in the line. The man pulled down his hat brim and turned away. Is he the shadow? Max wondered. A moment later he paid the cashier and passed through the turnstile and out onto the platform.
The long wooden platform was open to the elements, with only a sloping roof providing some shelter for the passengers. Max walked up the platform to where he could enter the first car. It was also a good place from which to observe the other passengers. While pretending to read his paper, Max glanced to his right and spotted the tall man among a small group of people gathered around a bench. It’s the shadow, all right. Time to make his acquaintance.
The northbound train rumbled up the track and screeched to a halt. The pneumatic doors slid open with a loud hiss. Max entered the vestibule and spotted a space on a side-facing bench seat. He scrunched in next to a large woman, raised his newspaper and, from the corner of his eye, scanned the entraining passengers at the rear of the car. The remaining seats were quickly taken by women; the men, including the shadow, grabbed hold of the straps dangling from the roof of the car.
Lights flickered, brakes squealed; the car bumped and lurched out of the station. Max got a good impression of his seat partner’s copious bosom and hips and more than a whiff of garlic and cheap perfume. As the car raced on through the loop and across the bridge over the river to the North Side, he got several furtive glimpses of the stalker. I’ll get off at Paulina, and take this clown for a walk. Then I’ll burn him.
When they reached the Paulina Street station, Max exited the car and led the man on as before but, this time, he did not lose the tail by ducking behind the newsstand counter. Instead, he proceeded onto Paulina heading south. The man followed several paces behind.
Max knew the neighborhood well, and he picked the ideal spot to burn his tail. He rounded a corner and entered a narrow side street, poorly lit by flickering gas lamps. Then he darted into an alley near the corner, and took cover in an alcove under a fire escape, partially hidden by a row of ash cans.
Max hunkered down and observed the entrance to the alley from his hiding place. The only light came from the moon, half-hidden behind the clouds. The man halted, looked up the shadowy street and then turned to his right and peered into the alley. He scrutinized the slush and snow that covered the unpaved lane, as if searching for footprints before going ahead cautiously in Max’s direction.
Max waited until the man had just passed by his hidey-hole. Then he sprang forward, tackled the man from behind and threw him down face-forward into the slush. He mounted the shadow, grabbed his right wrist in an unbreakable lock and applied pressure to the joint.
“Oh,” the man groaned. “You’re hurting me. This is all a misunderstanding, I assure you.”
“Misunderstanding, my ass. Now, you’ll do exactly as I say or I’ll break your arm. And that’s just for starters. Do you follow?”
“Yes, yes of course.”
Max ordered, “Stay down and spread ’em.”
“What do you mean, sir? What are you going to do to me?”
Max noticed a British accent. What’s this limey bastard doing on my tail? he thought. “I’m gonna search you, buster. You have a problem with that?”
“No, no. Please sir, I’m unarmed but I’ll do as you say.”
The man spread his legs. Max lifted his overcoat and gave him a thorough pat down from behind. Then he said, “OK, I’m going to let go of your wrist. Put your hands behind your head with your fingers locked together.”
The man did as he was told. Max pulled out his thirty-eight. He stuck the cold barrel behind the man’s ear. “This gun has a hair-trigger, so don’t do anything to make me nervous, you understand?”
The man stammered, “Yes... yes, I understand.”
Max let the man up slowly and told him to keep his hands behind his head, eyes front and walk to the wall of the corner building. “OK, pal. Keep your hands where they are and turn around slowly so I can get a look at you.”
The man faced Max. His eyes were wide with fear and his lips trembled.
Max walked forward a few steps. He lowered his revolver but kept it ready, just in case. He glared at the man for a moment before speaking. “Start talking. Who are you and why are you shadowing me?”
The man coughed and cleared his throat. “May I take down my hands?”
“Real slow, pal. No funny business and keep them open and out front where I can see them.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man lowered his arms; his lips twitched upward in a nervous smile. “My name is Oliver Parr, personal secretary to the Countess of Brumstone. Milady wishes to obtain your services in a matter requiring the utmost discretion.”
Max laughed, but not for long. “You’re Oliver Parr, secretary to Countess Whosis. She wants to hire me for a job ‘requiring the utmost discretion.’ I thought I’d heard them all, but this takes the prize. Come up with something better before my finger gets itchy.”
“No, sir, I assure you I’m telling the truth. This matter is serious. You are by reputation the best private investigator in Chicago, and that’s what milady requires.”
“Come on, Ollie; tell me a story that makes sense. I’ve got an office and a telephone number. It’s in the directory. If your countess wants to hire me, there’s a regular way of going about it. Maybe you do things differently in old England, but I guess even Sherlock Holmes would be miffed by the hooey you’re giving me.”
“Ah, yes, I admit my method of contacting you was unorthodox. But I assure you there are reasons for avoiding a more direct, businesslike approach. Moreover, following you as I did allowed me to test your skills. I must say, your reputation is well-deserved.”
Max smiled and shook his head incredulously. Nevertheless, he was intrigued. He suspected this incident might have something to do with the Levy case. If it did, it made sense to play along. “Ollie, old boy, that’s the sort of ‘test’ that could get a guy killed. But I’ll give you credit for having more guts than logic. I’ll meet your countess to discuss her case. Your story is so screwy it interests me.”
Parr relaxed and smiled. The sudden change in his demeanor might have given the impression that the whiny tone and quivering lip was a sham. “Splendid. A motor will collect you at your office at one in the afternoon tomorrow, if that’s agreeable.”
“A motor, huh? How about you give me milady’s address, and I’ll collect myself?”
“Please, Mr. Niemand, I think it would be best if you came by our motor.”
“All right, Ollie. Will you be collecting me?”
“No, sir, I’ll send Charles the chauffeur. Please wait for him at your office building entrance. I assure you he’ll be prompt.”
“OK, pal. Charles the chauffeur at one p.m. tomorrow.” Max holstered his revolver. Then he retrieved Oliver’s bowler from a slush puddle, took a couple of steps forward and handed over the abused hat. Even in the darkness, he could see that the Englishman’s fashionable overcoat and trousers were covered in back-alley filth. He asked for it, Max thought. Regardless, he decided to act like a gentleman, or at least the way he thought such a person would behave under the circumstances. “Sorry I roughed you up, but I had to make sure you were on the level. No hard feelings?”
Oliver grinned. “That’s quite sporting of you, Mr. Niemand. No hard feelings.”
They shook hands, and the strength of Oliver’s grip was surprising.
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
