Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 25: A Secret Diary

Andy Anderson telephoned Max with information about the fire.

“Good morning, Max. I have got something for you. There were three bodies taken to the morgue, two males and one female. They identified one male and the female: Oliver Parr and Nora Iverson. The other male is a John Doe; burned beyond recognition and no identification. All they can tell is he was white, late twenties to early thirties, small frame, about five-foot seven, one-hundred and thirty pounds.”

Might be Fielding, Max thought. “No one else? No survivors?”

“That’s it. Just those three stiffs.”

“What about the cause?”

“Preliminary finding is accidental, a gas leak. There’ll be a Fire Marshal’s investigation, but you know how that goes. Pretty much routine.”

“Thanks, Andy. I appreciate it. How about this? When Gus gets back from California, we’ll meet up at Otto’s, drinks on me.”

“Sounds good, Max. And good luck with your case.”

“Thanks, pal; I’ll need it.”

Max set down the phone. If Fielding is the John Doe, what happened to Olga? Maybe the landlady will be more helpful if I see her in person. He decided to check out Olga’s boarding house.

* * *

There is a boarding house, far, far away
Where they serve ham and eggs, three times a day
You should hear the boarders yell
When they hear that dinner bell
They give that landlord hell
Three times a day.

The boarding house reminded Max of the popular comic song set to the tune of an old hymn. Mrs. Popović, the landlady, greeted him with a gravelly voice and suspicious squint. She was a middle-aged widow who resembled a bumpy potato wrapped in shabby gray silk and topped off with a frazzled blonde wig. She walked with the aid of a cane. “Follow me,” she said, and led Max down a threadbare runner toward the back parlor.

The place had a familiar boarding house smell: the above-mentioned ham and eggs, boiled corned beef and cabbage, mildew, and the commingled body odor of working-class boarders who rarely laundered or changed clothing and shared a bathtub on a strict, once-a-week schedule.

The parlor contained faded chintz furniture, walls covered in splotched floral-patterned paper, an oak mantelpiece lined with framed photographs and bric-a-brac. An oilcloth-covered drum table sat in the center of the room beneath a hissing gas chandelier. A tarnished samovar and China tea service were set up on the tabletop.

The landlady pointed to an armchair: “Take a seat, Mr. Niemand. I was just about to have tea. Would you like some?”

Max sat and answered politely, “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Popović. Yes, I would.”

The landlady nodded. She filled two cups from the samovar’s spigot and handed one to Max. He thanked her again. She pulled the cork from a bottle on the table and poured a jigger of clear liquid into her cup.

“It’s gin, Mr. Niemand. I take it for my rheumatism. These Chicago winters are killing me.”

“Have you tried embrocation?”

Her eyes widened at his display of interest in her malady. “I’ve tried just about everything. Nothing seems to help.”

Max took a card and pencil from his jacket pocket, jotted down some information and handed the card to the landlady. “Here’s the name and address of an herbalist on North Avenue. She knows all the best old-world remedies. If you tell her I sent you, she’ll give you a good deal.”

His expression of solicitude for her pain raised the landlady’s opinion of Max. She said, “Thanks, Mr. Niemand. I’ll give her a try. Would you like some gin in your tea to keep out the cold?”

Max held out his cup. “Just a drop, please.”

The landlady grinned and liberally spiked Max’s tea. Then she sat with a loud grunt and a wince of pain and set her cane against the table. After taking a sip of fortified tea, she said: “You ain’t the first detective to come asking about Olga. A fellow came round a couple of days ago. I told him what I told you on the telephone. She seemed like a nice girl; quiet, no bad habits and always paid her rent on time. So, I’m happy to oblige answering questions if it helps, but I ain’t sure what more I can tell you about her.

“I haven’t seen or heard from her since that day she went to work and didn’t come back. She left a few things behind, just clothes mostly. Can’t be worth much. If she don’t claim them I guess I’ll give them to the church. She ain’t paid for this week, so I had to let the room to someone else. Is she in trouble?”

Max set down his cup and saucer. “She could be. The detective you mentioned is a colleague of mine. In the last few days has anyone else asked you about Olga?”

Mrs. Popović shook her head. “No, just you and that other detective.”

“Think back to when she first moved in. Did she have any regular visitors? A gentleman friend, perhaps?”

The landlady took a sip of tea and thought a moment before answering. “Olga pretty much kept to herself, but now that you mention it, there was a fellow who called on occasion.”

“Can you describe him?”

The landlady closed her eyes and thought a moment, as if trying to visualize the individual. Presently she opened her eyes and said with conviction, “He was a handsome young man, always well-dressed and well-groomed with good manners. Fair hair and complexion; I think his eyes were blue. Slight build, maybe a bit smaller than average, but not a runt.”

Fielding, Max thought. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Let me see. I guess about two weeks ago. They met in the front parlor. It’s natural for the young women to have gentleman callers, but I run a respectable house. They must keep to the parlor with the doors open at all times, and I want them out of here by ten p.m., no exceptions.”

“I understand, Mrs. Popović. Did this gentleman give a name?”

“Yeah; Mr. Smith.”

Very original. “How about a first name?”

“Don’t know. I’m not nosy. As long as they stick to the house rules, I don’t pry.”

“Do you recall anything else about Mr. Smith? Anything that stands out in your mind? Anything peculiar?”

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t talk to him much, but when I did, he was polite.”

“Do you recall his means of transportation?”

“Say what?” The landlady screwed up her face in a bewildered frown.

“How did he get here and leave? Cab? Carriage? Streetcar? Automobile?”

“Oh, he always came and left in cabs. The young fellow must have dough. I figured he was a good catch for a girl like Olga.”

“Did he ever take her out?”

“A couple times, as I recall. Mostly, they just met in the parlor.”

“Do you recall Olga saying anything about this fellow?”

“No, can’t say that I do.”

“What about the other boarders? Did she confide in any of them?”

“Confide?” Another bewildered stare.

“Did she share secrets? Young women often do with other young women.”

“No, Mr. Niemand. She kept to herself. Frankly, the other boarders thought she was stuck up. But I don’t think that was it.”

“What was it, then?”

Mrs. Popović sighed. “I been in this business a long time. You see all sorts of people. I said Olga seemed like a nice girl, and I got no complaints about her. But now, I guess maybe she was hiding something about her past that she didn’t want to come out. That might explain why she run off the way she did.”

Max nodded but made no comment. Instead, he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go through her things. I might discover something useful that could lead me to her.”

“I guess that’d be all right, but my handyman packed the boxes and put them in the attic. My legs can’t make it up those stairs.”

“Can the handyman take me up there?”

“He could, but he ain’t here.”

“Well then, would it be OK if I went myself?”

Mrs. Popović hesitated a moment before saying, “I suppose so, but don’t be too long. You’ll need my keys and a light.” She handed him her key ring, identified the attic key and then pointed to an oil lamp on the mantelpiece. Max took the keys and fetched the lamp. He followed the landlady to the front hall staircase.

“You go all the way up to the top landing,” she said, “then turn right to the attic door. There are two boxes marked ‘O.B.’ to your left near the entrance.”

Max thanked the landlady, struck a match, lit the lamp and climbed three flights to the attic landing. Upon entry, he encountered a musty farrago of boxes, trunks and rusting junk stacked against the slatted walls halfway to the exposed beams and rafters. Pale light streamed into the center of the attic from a frost-covered dormer window. He aimed his light at the shadowy corner space to his left. Despite the jumble, he immediately spotted the boxes marked “O.B.”

He rummaged through the first box and found nothing but underwear and toiletries. The second box contained a couple of dresses, a skirt and shirtwaist and a jacket. He shook his head and was about to give up the search when he felt a lump in the jacket. On closer examination, it appeared something had been sewn into the lining. Max set down the lamp, pulled out his knife and cut through the stitches. He discovered a small, Morocco-bound notebook. Max leafed through the pages and noticed several recently dated entries. He put the book in his pocket and then carefully folded and repacked the clothing.

The landlady met him at the bottom of the staircase. “That didn’t take long. Did you find anything?”

Max shrugged and handed back the keys and lamp. “Not much, I’m afraid. Just old clothes and toiletries.”

The landlady sighed and shook her head. “Poor girl. I hope she’s all right.”

“Me, too, Mrs. Popović. Thanks again for your help. If you hear anything of interest, please let me know. You have my card. And give that embrocation a try.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Niemand. I’ll try anything that’ll give me some relief from this misery.”

* * *

Max read the notebook repeatedly. In the early morning hours, he was still reading it; around two he set it down and rubbed his eyes. He sat in an armchair near the apartment window that overlooked the quiet street. On the small table next to where he sat, a green-shaded kerosene lamp sputtered, casting a dim yellow glow. An occasional gust of wind rattled the frosted pane; large white flakes fell and drifted, accumulating on the outside sill.

She played me for a sucker. This thought repeated itself as he read through the entries in Olga’s diary, but he did not despise her. Max categorized people based on his instinct and experience. He had mistakenly compared her to Miss Wells. I didn’t know Olga. We’re alike, she and I. We’re formed of the same clay. We belong in the same world.

The daughter of poor immigrants, Olga learned her trade on the streets. Fielding had discovered her in a brothel when she was nineteen. He did not treat her like his other women. He bought out her contract and set her up in a nice apartment on the near North Side. She became his mistress and confidant.

But Olga had a rebellious streak. She wanted her freedom. So, she forged one of Fielding’s checks, cashed it and ran away. Fielding had her caught and sent to jail to teach her a lesson. Then he used his pull to get her released and got her the job at the music store. Their relationship changed; he was the master; she was the slave. She hated him, but she feared going back to prison, so she obeyed.

She’s trapped and she’ll do anything to break out. Yes, we’re alike, she and I. Max reached for a bottle and filled his glass. He downed the whiskey and then picked up the notebook and flipped the pages to Olga’s final entry:

I hate Fielding, but I do what he says. I’m afraid. I can’t take another stretch in jail. After that, there will be nothing left for me but the streets. I spied on Max. I bribed the cleaning woman to gain entry to his office and found the Levy file and Max’s notes on his calendar. I passed the information to Fielding and he gave it to Battaglia. Will Max forgive me? Will he understand? I doubt it.

Max shook his head. Why did she write this down? Did she think I would find her diary and read it? Will I forgive her? Why should I? Love? Love for such a woman is for saps. He reached for the bottle and emptied the remains. He stared out the window at the falling snow. “So, God help me,” he muttered, “I’m a sap.”

Max decided. He would find Olga, save her, forgive her and take care of Fielding, if he was still alive. There’s plenty of room for one more body in Bubbly Creek.

Proceed to Chapter 26...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder