Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 14: Milady

“Hi, Gus. Glad I caught you before you left town.” Max got through to Gus Merkel at the sports desk early in the morning.

“I won’t be leaving for Los Angeles for another couple of weeks. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for information on a Countess Brumstone and her secretary, Oliver Parr. Do the names ring a bell?”

“Brumstone... Brumstone. There was an Earl of Brumstone, a limey sportsman and big-game hunter. I think he died in a shooting accident about a year ago. The countess could be his widow. Oliver Parr draws a blank. Anyway, I’ll ask Andy Anderson to check it out. Here’s a phone number. If you don’t hear back in a couple of days, give Andy a jingle.”

“Thanks, pal. That’s two I owe you.”

“OK, Max. You can pay me back when I return from sunny California.”

“Dinner and drinks at Otto’s on me?”

“Sounds good, Max. I’ll look forward to it.”

Max put down the telephone and checked his calendar. He expected the chauffeur at one p.m. If he arrived in a dark blue Pope-Toledo, that might answer some questions. But that seemed too easy, too obvious. Trying to guess the countess’s game was idle speculation, a waste of time.

He wondered if Walt Wagner had made any progress in locating Bob Hills. He made a note to follow up with Walt within the next couple of days. Then he jotted down a reminder to telephone the Johnsons and check on Nora Iverson. Finally, he considered the pros and cons of asking Ed Mahoney about Ike Burns’ connection to Norton Real Estate. He decided to pay a call on Vi in the next day or two and have her pass on a message to Ed.

* * *

Charles arrived on time, driving a dark green Packard. So much for the Pope-Toledo, Max thought. The chauffeur was dressed appropriately for winter driving: peaked cap and earmuffs, goggles, heavy fur-lined leather coat, gloves and snow boots. He solicitously held open the passenger door and tucked Max in under a bearskin rug. When all seemed secure, Charles put the car in gear and cautiously edged his way into the dense downtown traffic.

The powerful Packard chugged along at little more than a walk, its progress blocked by horse-drawn traffic and streetcars. Charles occasionally made noises with the bulb horn, if only to vent his frustration. They headed east onto Michigan Avenue and continued north into the congested back-up of vehicles waiting to cross the Rush Street bridge.

The old swing bridge had been built two decades before the advent of motorized traffic and was inadequate to the needs of the growing metropolis. The situation was bad enough when the bridge was open to traffic, but it was even worse when the bridge had to be swung around to make way for the passage of a lake steamer or a tall-masted schooner being towed by a tugboat.

Every Chicagoan knew what it meant to be “bridged” as though the local neologism were a socially acceptable way of saying “I’m screwed.” Max appreciated the irony of an expensive automobile capable of fifty miles per hour subjected to traffic that limited it to five, when it moved at all.

They finally gained entrance to the bridge and proceeded across the river at the pace of a moribund snail. Plenty of time for Max to admire a postcard vista of the bustling dockside. He saw the S.S. Christopher Columbus berthed nearby, the whaleback passenger steamer that made a daily round-trip run to Milwaukee.

Milwaukee. He wondered if Wagner had had any success tracking down Bob Hills. He would know soon enough, one way or another. Che sarà sarà. Max turned his attention back to a crisp, clear scene that stirred ambivalent feelings of love and hatred for his native city.

Vast warehouses and towering grain elevators lined the wharves for as far as he could see. These heaps of brick and masonry were crammed with finished goods, raw materials and produce, the commerce of the prairies and the Great Lakes, shipped and transhipped into and out of the Midwestern entrepôt. Ships, barges and boats of all description, both steam and sail, moored up and down the river, loading and unloading cargoes that fueled the engine of trade that, in its turn, powered the nation.

These United States interconnected by a system of lakes, canals, rivers and a vast network of rails, from border to border and ocean to ocean and from the seaports to all points of the world, provided incomes of millions and millions of dollars for a chosen few: sharp entrepreneurs, speculators, grafters and crooks. Max loved the power, energy, and dynamism on the surface as much as he hated the corruption underneath, the underworld nexus of vice, machine politics and crony capitalism.

Corruption marred the shining surface of the growing metropolis, like the first signs of decomposition on a handsome, young corpse. Max could easily recognize these signs in the vice-ridden First Ward and in the slums of his childhood and youth, but they were not so readily detectible on the elegant avenues and boulevards, and in the clubs, boardrooms, and mansions of the rich and powerful.

Michigan Avenue ended at the river. Charles turned onto Pine Street. Max grabbed his hat and huddled under the bear skin as the Packard, now freed from the constraints of heavy traffic, raced past the Water Tower and pumping station, a Victorian architect’s fanciful impression of a medieval crenellated fortress.

At Pearson Street, the Packard made a left and pulled over to the curb halfway between Pine and Rush Streets. Charles shifted into neutral and set the hand brake. He exited the idling automobile, walked around to the passenger door and held it open. Max stepped down carefully from the running board to the icy curb.

“Please follow me, sir,” Charles said. The chauffeur led Max up a recently shoveled and swept front lawn path to the covered porch of a four-story townhouse. The red brick mansion, built in the eclectic Victorian style with architectural elements of the Queen Anne period and Gothic Revival, was typical of the stylish homes built in this neighborhood in the years following the Great Fire.

Charles rang the bell. After a short interval, there was the sound of sliding bolts and the click of a lock. The heavy oak door opened. A tall, well-built man with long English sideburns greeted Max: “Mr. Niemand, I presume?”

The butler’s appearance and toffee-nosed accent put a smile on Max’s face. “You presume right, pal,” he replied.

Charles said, “Jeffries will see to you now, Mr. Niemand. He’ll call me when you are ready to leave.”

Max glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks, Charlie. It was a swell ride.”

Charles touched the brim of his cap in salute and returned to the Packard parked at the curb. Max entered the vestibule where he removed his overshoes and handed his hat, coat and scarf to the butler. He made a friendly observation: “So your name is Jeffries. Any relation to the champ?”

Jeffries was not amused. “Pardon me, sir?”

Max smirked and shook his head. “Never mind, pal. Lead on. We don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”

Jeffries answered dryly, “Follow me, sir.”

He led Max down a long corridor, lit by electric bulbs in sconces and chandeliers, to the sitting room where the countess waited. An immaculate purple runner covered a polished parquet floor; the dark mahogany and walnut wall paneling was brightened by several modern French paintings in a style Max recognized from his self-improving visits to the Art Institute. There was a fresh odor in the hallway emanating from porcelain vases filled with freshly cut greenhouse flowers.

Jeffries stopped at the end of the hallway and knocked on the sitting room door. A strong, clear feminine voice replied, Jeffries slid the panel open, announced the visitor and then took his leave.

The room was bright with sunshine streaming in through casement windows; warmth radiated from opened registers near the baseboards; the atmosphere was fresh and smelled of flowers and the countess’s expensive perfume, a heady mixture of floral essences and musk.

The countess was seated on a sofa; she was leafing through some fashion magazines spread out on a coffee table. She put down a magazine, turned to look at Max, smiled and rose to greet him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Niemand. It was so nice of you to come. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting with great interest. Please come over here and join me.”

Her manner of speaking was refined but cordial, and the accent was definitely American. On first impression, Max thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As he approached, he guessed he would notice some flaw, some slight imperfection that would bring her down to earth. However, as he came nearer, he could see nothing to diminish her striking beauty. It’s there all right, but she keeps it well hidden, he thought. No one can be that perfect.

She was tall, but not too tall, slender but not overly thin. Her long, lustrous brown hair was tastefully styled and done up in the latest fashion. Her dark blue eyes sparkled like sapphires beneath full eyebrows. An exquisitely proportioned nose and naturally red lips ornamented an oval face that might have been carved in white marble. Too good to be true. Max thought the countess was like a poet’s idealized vision of beauty rather than a flesh and blood woman. But he could have been wrong.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder