Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 17: Milwaukee

The train raced through the snow- and frost-covered rural landscape of Northern Illinois on its way to the Wisconsin line. It roared down the track past mile after mile of prairie, frozen fields, wind-blown wire fences, leaning telegraph poles, rutted dirt roads, weathered barns, silos and corn cribs. A dreary, leaden sky cast a pall over everything; the surface of the moon could not have seemed deader.

A ninety-minute run from Chicago to Milwaukee; time enough for Max to think about what he had learned about the case, what he wanted to get from Hills, and what evidence he needed to clear Benny Levy.

Ike Burns, Cora Brumstone, Oliver Parr and Nora Iverson were all involved in a white slavery and pornography racket. How did Prescott Fielding fit into the picture? What happened to Nan Evans? Who killed Weinberg and Weasel? He needed to find the missing pieces to the puzzle before he went to Mueller and the District Attorney.

The First Ward brothel owners claimed they ran “clean” operations. The girls came to work of their own free will and could leave the business any time they wanted; they were well paid, cared for, and treated with respect. Violence against the women was strictly forbidden.

But there was lots of money in the racket, and plenty of those dollars found their way into the pockets of politicians, police captains, judges and prosecutors. With all that cash floating around, rules could be bent and broken; scandals would be covered-up. That was human nature. Greed, the ubiquitous vice.

Max recalled the meeting between Fielding and Weinberg at the First Ward Ball that set his investigation in motion. Did Moe blackmail the millionaire playboy? Maybe Weinberg had photos and film like the pornography Max recovered for the countess. Maybe he had compromising pictures of Fielding and Nan Evans. Did Bob Hills know what happened to the girl?

Before he left the office, Max telephoned Gus Merkel’s pal, Andy Anderson. Andy could not tell him anything about the countess and Oliver that he did not already know. However, Andy did mention some controversy in England concerning the Earl’s shooting accident. Apparently, despite the inquest’s finding, a few of the Earl’s friends suspected foul play. Maybe Cora paid someone to bump him off and make it look like an accident, Max thought. I wouldn’t be surprised.

The train chugged into the Everett Street Depot on time, at ten a.m. Max spotted Walt Wagner waiting on the platform. Max smiled, waved and picked up his pace, eager to greet his old friend and get on to their meeting with Hills.

Wagner raised a hand in recognition. The seasoned detective was a middle-aged, medium-sized man with two expressions: tough and grim. So Max did not interpret his friend’s frown as trouble until he heard it from the horse’s mouth.

“We got a problem, Max. Hills has gone missing. I have two operatives out looking for him. I tried to telephone you this morning, but you’d already left. Nothing we can do about it now. You want to get something to eat?”

Max shrugged to show his disappointment and said, “Sure, why not? I’m hungry and it’ll give me time to fill you in on the case.”

They took a cab from the station to the Republican House hotel where they breakfasted on steak, fried potatoes and German pancakes. In 1900, baseball representatives of the old Western League had met in a room of this hotel to discuss formation of the new American League. Gus Merkel was in Milwaukee covering the event, and he recommended the hotel to his pal, Max.

Max and Walt sat at a window table; raindrops beat against the plate glass. Bright electric chandeliers contended with the gray gloom outdoors. The high-ceilinged cafeteria reverberated with the murmur of conversation and the clatter of silverware and china. Max trusted Walt, and he laid out the case in some detail while the taciturn detective ate and listened.

When Walt had heard enough, he set down his knife and fork, looked up at Max and said, “Looks like you’re in it up to your neck.”

Up to my neck in Bubbly Creek, Max thought. “It’s a shame about Hills. He was a good reporter doing his job, chasing a big story. But the fix was in. He was warned, but he kept after it, and it ruined his life. What will he do with my C-note, assuming he’s still around to collect it?”

“Spend it on booze and dope, I guess,” Walt replied before returning to the remains of his steak.

“I’ve been warned, too. But I’m going to see it through. There’s irony in this case, pal. Do you know what irony is?”

Walt finished chewing a mouthful of sirloin and washed it down with coffee. “Nope, but I got a feeling you’re going to tell me,” he replied and began working on his pancake.

“I’m trying to keep an innocent guy from spending the rest of his life in the nut house. Funny thing is: I don’t like the guy. I just don’t want to see an innocent jerk take the fall. But millions of poor, dumb, innocent jerks go down all the time and nobody gives a damn.”

“It’s a messed-up world. Always was, always will be.”

“Yeah, and here’s another funny thing: I’ve already made enough dough off this case to walk away from it. I’d be ahead of the game, and life would go on. On the other hand, if I keep investigating, I’m risking my health and my wealth. If I screw up, I’ll be dead or ruined like Hills, the racket will continue and the poor dumb bastard will rot in the county asylum. Ain’t that funny?”

“Hilarious.” Walt wiped his mouth on his napkin and then signaled to a waiter for more coffee. After he got his refill, he said, “Listen, Max, why don’t you hang around the office and catch a late train back to Chicago? I got two of my best men out looking for Hills. If he’s still in Milwaukee, they’ll find him.”

“Thanks, Walt. I guess I will stick around for a while.” Max finished his steak and potatoes, but left some of the pancake. Walt eyed the leftover greedily. Max stuck a fork in the half-eaten treat and dropped the remains on Walt’s plate. “No use letting good food go to waste,” he said.

Walt grinned and quickly cleaned his plate. They left the cafeteria and walked a few blocks through the rain to Walt’s office.

* * *

The phone call came before noon. One of Walt’s operatives traced Hills to a saloon on Jones Island. He went out to the island to investigate and learned that two fishermen had just recovered a body from the channel near the docks. The operative identified Hills and called in the police. Max and Walt took a cab to the docks and hired a motorboat to take them the short distance to the island.

Jones Island is a peninsula on the confluence of two rivers with a channel cut from the Milwaukee River out to Lake Michigan. Located in the industrialized harbor area, the island was at the time populated by fishermen from northern Poland, Germany and Scandinavia who immigrated to Milwaukee in the late nineteenth century.

The fishing families built a shantytown community that grew to a population of almost two thousand by the turn of the century. Crammed into an area about a mile long and three blocks wide, the ramshackle squatters’ village reminded Max of his old Goose Island neighborhood.

A policeman met them at the dock and led them up a narrow, unpaved alley to a shed where the body had been taken for shelter prior to being transported to the morgue.

The corpse rested on a couple of pine planks laid out on the dirt floor in a relatively dry corner. The freezing rain had let up, but drops still splattered down from the leaky roof. A short, stout man with a corncob pipe protruding beneath his great, drooping moustache, walked from the body toward Max and Walt.

Walt greeted the man. “Good afternoon, Phil. I believe you know Max Niemand?”

The pipe shifted around in the moustache-covered mouth indicating a smile of recognition. “Of course, I do. How goes it, Lieutenant?”

“Fine, Lieutenant Nelson, except that I’ve gone into the private investigation business, like Walt. Maybe we can go by Max and Phil?”

“Fine with me, Max. I understand you had some business with this poor rummy?”

“Yes, I did. He might have been a key witness in a case I’m investigating. We were supposed to meet for an interview today.”

“Are the Chicago police involved in the investigation?”

“Yes and no. It’s complicated, Phil.”

Phil grimaced in response to the vague answer. He reached under his overcoat and rummaged around in his pockets for a match. The search produced an empty box. “Damn,” he muttered. “Have either of you guys got a light.”

“Sure,” Max replied. He pulled out a matchbox and lit the lieutenant’s corncob.

Nelson sucked in a lungful, exhaled and said, “Thanks, pal.”

“You’re welcome. Can we see the body?”

“Sure, but he ain’t much to look at.”

Lieutenant Nelson led Max and Walt to the corpse. The ragged clothing was still damp; the emaciated, salt-and-pepper bearded face did not appear much different than it had in life.

“He couldn’t have been in the water for long,” Max said.

“Not long at all,” Nelson replied. “Less than an hour from the time he left the saloon till the two guys fished him out of the channel.”

“Any witnesses?” Max asked.

Nelson took a puff on his pipe and shook his head. “No, at least not that we know of. My men are asking around, but getting information is like pulling teeth. Most of these folks speak little or no English, and they’re afraid to come forward. It’s like they were still in the old country.”

“I wonder why Hills came out here. Walt and I were supposed to meet him downtown.”

“Cheap hooch,” Nelson said. “Folks hereabouts don’t have much, but they do have plenty of affordable booze.”

“I see. I assume there’ll be an autopsy?”

“Yeah, as a matter of form. The coroner will handle it. We’re almost ready to take the corpse to the morgue.”

“Did you notice any suspicious marks on the body?”

“Well, he’s got some injuries to the back of the head.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he might have been sapped from behind?”

“It’s possible. Or he might have hit his head on the wharf pilings when he went into the drink. After all, it ain’t unusual for a rummy to stagger off the side of a dock, fall into the water and drown. Happens all the time.”

“Yeah, well this particular rummy had a reason to live. I was going to pay him a C-note for information.”

“Whew!” Nelson whistled. “A C-note huh? It must be some case you’re working.”

Max nodded in the affirmative. “Are you checking the flophouse to see if Hills left anything? There might be papers that could be material to my investigation. On the other hand, he might have had a friend who held the papers for him.”

Nelson pushed back his derby and scratched his forehead. “We’ll look into it, Max. But if we find anything and this case turns into a homicide, the papers could be held in evidence.”

“But you wouldn’t mind sharing the contents, would you?”

Nelson glanced at Walt who gave an affirmative nod, and then looked back at Max. “If we find anything, I’ll let you know. Where can you be reached?”

Max smiled. He pulled out a card and handed it to the Lieutenant. “You can telephone or wire my office, or pass a note to Walt and he’ll fill me in.”

“OK, Max. Are you going back to Chicago this afternoon?”

“That depends. Do you know when the coroner will order the autopsy?”

Nelson shook his head. “I don’t know. Within the next couple of days, I guess.”

“I see. Would you mind passing on the results?”

“No, I don’t mind, but I’d like to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Who’s assigned to this ‘complicated’ case down in Chicago?”

“Lieutenant Mueller. Do you know him?”

Nelson took the corn cob from his mouth and frowned. “By reputation only. All right, Max. I’ll pass on the results.”

“Thanks, Phil.” Max turned to Walt. “Anything else you can think of before we go?”

Walt said to Max, “If this does turn out to be a homicide, do you have any suspects?”

“I do. I’m afraid there are several people in Chicago who would not want Hills to talk to me. But I’m not ready to say which of them would kill Hills to prevent him from talking. That would change if Phil can come up with a witness or two and descriptions.”

Phil shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“I guess we’ll be going, then.” Max shook hands with Nelson. “I appreciate your help.”

“No problem, Max. But I do have one concern, and you can pass it on to Mueller. If this does turn out to be a homicide, we don’t like Chicago thugs crossing the state line to do their dirty work up here.”

For an instant, Max wondered if the Milwaukee detective’s comment was an implied criticism of his investigation, the Chicago police, or both, but he did not dwell on it. “Understood, Phil. Thanks again.”

With that, Max and Walt left the island and returned to the downtown office.

* * *

The train pulled into the depot just after sunset. Max caught the “L” at Kinzie with the intention of making a stop at Otto’s. Freezing rain had turned to snow; the fluffy white stuff swirling around the speeding electric cars reminded Max of a Christmas display in a downtown department store window. “Dashing through the snow”. It comes down clean, he thought, but it’s dirty once it hits the ground.

He could not get Hills out of his mind. The guy died for the story. He must have put it down in writing. What if Nelson and his detectives can’t find it? It must be somewhere... but where?

He suspected Battaglia and Capucci were killing his sources, one by one. But if that were the case, they seemed to be one step ahead of Max. Someone must be tipping them off. But who? And how long have I got before they come after me?

When he walked through the barroom door, the place was alive with the after-work crowd, the sound of laughter, rough male voices, and the jingling of cash registers. Gaslights glimmered through a thick tobacco haze. He spotted Jimmy Dolan in his usual place at the end of the long bar. Max made a beeline for the veteran cop.

“Well, Jimmy, it looks like your glass is almost empty.”

Dolan lifted his stein and swished around the remaining amber liquid. “That it is, Max; that it is. Just one more swallow, sad to say.”

Max smiled and pounded on the bar to get Otto’s attention. “Hey, barkeep; a round for me and my pal!”

“Coming right up, Max.” Otto filled two glasses at the pump and sent them flying down the slick oak surface like a pair of racing sleds.

Dolan blew off some foam, took a long swallow and wiped his moustache on the back of his hand. “Ah, that hit the spot. Pounding the beat in this weather can sure raise a thirst.”

“I know that well enough from experience, Jimmy.”

Dolan put down his glass and turned serious. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”

“Is it something I can answer?”

The old cop hesitated a moment before saying, “I think you can answer, but I’m not sure you will. Anyways, I’ll ask. There’s a rumor going round that you and Ed Mahoney are getting back together. Is there any truth to it?”

“That depends on what ‘getting back together’ means.”

“All right, Lieutenant. I know you’re playing it cagey, but you don’t need to. This is between friends. The winds of change are blowing out on the street, and the precinct’s behind it, from the cops on the beat up to the captain.”

“OK, Jimmy, like you said, this is between friends. Ed and I might work together, now and then, when it suits our interests.”

Dolan smiled, leaned closer to Max and lowered his voice. “Then you’ll be happy to know you got friends in this here precinct. But that ain’t necessarily the case elsewhere. What I mean is, you’re safe on the North Side but, when you go south of the river, well then, I guess you’re pretty much on your own, except of course for Big Mike.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. It’s good to know who you can count on in a tight spot.”

“That it is, Lieutenant. And I guess you’re in a real tight one in this case you’re working.”

Max grinned and nodded his agreement. Then he returned to his beer and thoughts about Hills and the case.

Proceed to Chapter 18...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder

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