Chicago Max
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 27: A Ransom Note
Maury telephoned early. According to the hotel, Fielding had reserved a suite and adjoining rooms for himself and a “guest.” The hotel received the reservation by wire the evening before the explosion and fire at the house in Austin. Fielding and the guest never arrived.
Max considered the possibilities while finishing his coffee and donut breakfast. According to the plan he had worked out with the cops and the gangs, the white slavery racket would be eliminated and Fielding was supposed to get out of town. However, the badly burned John Doe corpse matched Fielding’s description. Maybe someone figured Florida wasn’t far enough? Would old man Fielding have agreed to the death of his only son and heir? Bad as the guy was, or is, that doesn’t seem likely. And what about Olga? Was she the “guest”?
Max made notes. Just because they did not arrive at the hotel in St. Augustine did not necessarily mean they had not left Chicago. Max knew several porters at the various railroad stations; provided with descriptions of the couple, one of the porters might recall having seen Olga and Fielding boarding a train.
Joey entered the office. Max looked up from his notepad and greeted the kid. “You look sharp this morning. More like a junior operative than a newsy. I see you took my advice.”
Joey smiled, displaying a row of reasonably clean teeth. “Thanks, Mr. Niemand. It’s nice going round in swell new clothes. Makes me feel like I’m somebody.”
“Well, don’t let it go to your head. I hope the guys at the newsstand aren’t giving you a hard time?”
“No, sir. No one messes with me anymore. They all know I work for you.”
Max nodded. “That’s right, kid. Don’t hang around with losers. Choose your friends and associates wisely. That’s how you get respect. Now, what have you got for me?”
Joey handed a newspaper to Max. “There’s a note for you pinned to the sports page, as usual.”
“Who from?”
“Young guy. Never seen him before.”
“I don’t suppose he gave you a name?”
“No, sir, he didn’t.”
Max examined the envelope. “Smells sweet, don’t it?”
Joey made a face. “Yeah, I noticed that. He smelled nice, kind of like a girl.”
“You don’t say. Can you give me a good description?”
Joey thought a moment before answering. “He’s a snappy dresser, slim, maybe a couple inches taller than me. Clean-shaven, fair skin, blue eyes. High-pitched voice and talks like a swell.”
“Any distinguishing marks or features: scars, moles, tattoos?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“No limp, squint, any kind of noticeable deformity?”
“No, sir.”
Max reached into his pocket and took out fifty cents. “OK; here you go.”
Joey took the change. His eyes widened. “Gosh, Mr. Niemand. Four bits. Are you sure?”
“Just take it, son. No questions. I might change my mind.”
Joey nodded. “Yes, sir.” He pocketed the change. Then his eyes fixed on a greasy paper bag on Max’s desk. “Uh, can I have a sinker, too?”
“Getting a little greedy, huh? OK; go ahead. But keep cleaning those teeth.”
Joey grinned, went for the bag and grabbed a chocolate donut. “Yes, sir. Thanks.” Then he took a bite, turned around and sprinted toward the office door. Just before he left, he glanced back at Max and said, “Will you really have more jobs for me like that last one?”
“Sure, kid. I’ll let you know.”
Joey walked out of Max’s office with more than four bits and a donut. The boy took with him the newly minted coins of self-confidence and ambition. Under the influence of nascent aspirations, he began making plans for the future.
* * *
Max opened the envelope. The note consisted of words and letters cut from magazines and pasted on a sheet of blank, white stationery. It was a ransom demand:
If you want to see Olga alive, bring $5,000 in unmarked bills to the freight tunnel under Grand Central Station tomorrow evening at 10 sharp.
There was a crude map drawn in pencil, with an x marking a location near the underground intersection at Harrison and Franklin Streets.
Is this a gag or a trap? Joey’s description of the “sweet smelling” dude matched Fielding, but so did the John Doe corpse. Besides, Fielding was heir to millions. Why would he take such a huge risk just to extort five grand from Max? Maybe his old man cut him off without a cent and he’s desperate? On the other hand, the guy has never been playing with a full deck. The events of the past few days could have pushed him over the edge, in which case I’m dealing with a lunatic.
Max frowned and shook his head. He picked up the telephone and placed a call to Lieutenant Mueller.
* * *
“You done right to come to me. Since you patched things up with the captain, you’ve become the fair-haired boy in this here precinct.”
Max smirked. “I love you, too, Mueller. Now tell me what you think of my plan.”
Mueller looked down at a map of the freight tunnels, spread out on his desk. Construction of the tunnels had begun in 1899 and was nearing completion at the beginning of 1906. Built by a private company, their original purpose was to carry miles of underground telephone cable. But early on the company decided to make the tubes large enough for the passage of small electric trains.
The concrete-walled horseshoe-shaped tunnels contained a network of narrow-gauge tracks. For the most part, there was just enough clearance on either side of the miniature railroad for a worker to jump out of the way of an oncoming train. On some stretches, there was no clearance at all. The trains carried freight, mail and coal to the sub-basements of downtown buildings; the tunnel system conformed to the street grid so you could find your way by following a surface street map.
Max would enter the tunnels by way of an elevator in the Grand Central Station train shed. From there he would follow the map to the marked spot. Police would enter the tunnels from other locations, effectively blocking all possible escape routes. The trains would continue on their normal schedule; they could whip around a corner with little warning, which meant everyone must be wary for the potential hazard. During construction, several workers had been too slow getting out of the way of a speeding train, with predictably bad results.
“Your plan’s OK, as far as it goes. Where you gonna get the five grand?”
“I have a source, but I’m not sure I’ll need it.” Max glanced at Olga’s file placed next to the map on Mueller’s desk. “What do you know about Olga Boyer that I don’t?”
Mueller lit a stogie. Then he picked up the file and leafed through it casually. “She’s Fielding’s mistress, a former prostitute, a forger and a jail-house snitch.”
“She was a snitch, too?”
“You didn’t know that?” Mueller grinned smugly as if to add, So, you don’t know everything, Max.
Max shook his head.
“Yeah, she’s a smart girl. Knows how to take care of herself. And you suspect Fielding’s holding her for ransom?”
“That might depend on what happened between him and his old man. According to the deal, Fielding was supposed to leave town, the farther from Chicago the better. I guess you would know more about that than I do.”
Mueller took a puff on his stogie and nodded in the affirmative. “Old man Fielding wanted Prescott to go to a Swiss clinic for some kind of cure. The kid wasn’t agreeable. They had a fight; the servants had to break it up. Prescott planned to go to Florida with Olga, but the old man wouldn’t give him any more dough. That was right before the West Side whorehouse burned down and Prescott and Olga disappeared.”
“As I recall, you and the captain had ‘plans’ for the whorehouse.”
Mueller frowned and narrowed his eyes at the implication. “Yeah, same plans as you. We were gonna raid the joint. We set it up with Captain Morrissey. But someone torched the place before we got to it.”
“You suspect Fielding and Olga?”
Mueller shrugged. “Fielding had a motive. Getting rid of the joint along with Parr and Nora Iverson covered up Fielding’s crimes. And maybe he was after the loot, too. There was a safe full of cash in the place, but it survived the fire intact and unopened. As for Olga, she took orders from Prescott like a good little girl. After all, he was her mealticket.”
“What about the unidentified stiff? It matches Fielding’s description.”
“Still unidentified. And you said the guy who sent you the ransom note matched Fielding’s description, too.”
“Yeah, he sure did.” Max paused a moment to light a cigar. “So, are you OK with my plan?”
“All right, Max. Mike and me will be waiting for you at Grand Central, and I’ll set it up with Sergeant Murphy. He leads the patrol at the depot. You know Murph?”
“Sure I do. He’s a damn good man.”
“He is, at that. But you know you’re walking into a trap. I mean, we’ll have cops blocking the exits, but for the most part you’ll be on your own.”
“Won’t be the first time.”
Mueller came out from behind the desk and held out his hand. “Good luck, Niemand.”
Max got up from his chair and shook hands. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a corona. “Have a real cigar. Now that you’re a lieutenant, you ought to stop smoking those stinking ropes.”
Mueller smiled and grabbed the corona. “All right, Niemand. I’ll consider your suggestion. See you tomorrow night at the depot.”
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder
