Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 28: Beneath the Streets of Chicago

The horse’s hooves beat time on the Harrison Street bridge: clip-clop, clip-clop, steadily like a metronome. Boat whistles shrieked, streetcar bells clanged, an automobile backfired, and horses whinnied in response.

As they crossed Franklin Street and approached the arched carriage court, Max gazed up at the crenellated Norman clock tower thrusting upward almost two hundred and fifty feet into the dark, snowy sky. Powerful electric lamps lit the station’s brick, brownstone and granite walls. Max sometimes wondered why so many modern buildings were designed to look like medieval castles. Was it nostalgia for an idealized past, a longing for a Golden Age? If so, perhaps he too was an anachronism: a knight errant battling on the mean streets of a twentieth-century metropolis.

The hansom cab entered the stream of station-bound traffic. Presently, the cabbie reined in his horse, applied the brake and flipped up the trap door over the passenger compartment. Snowflakes dusted the crown of Max’s homburg.

The cabbie announced their arrival. “Grand Central Depot, sir.”

On the way to the station, Max had tried to focus on the situation without succumbing to doubt or fear. He considered the possibilities. The person who had sent the ransom note, presumably Fielding, might be lying in wait with a plan to shoot first, grab the cash and make a run for it through the maze of underground tunnels. Olga might not be in the tunnels; she could be dead. However, Max had an intuition that this worst-case scenario, while possible, was not probable, and he was prepared to stake his life on a hunch.

He entered the massive waiting room, the marble-floored, colonnaded interior echoing with the voices and footsteps of a milling crowd, passengers arriving and departing, friends and family greeting one another or saying goodbye. Max scanned the area; he soon spotted the police waiting for him near the gate leading to the train shed.

Mueller was there, along with Mike Sugrue and Sergeant Murphy. In juxtaposition, Big Mike and Dion “Little Dinny” Murphy appeared as comical as a vaudeville act. The top of Murphy’s black derby barely came up to Mike’s shoulder. However, the pint-sized sergeant — he barely met the force’s minimum height requirement — compensated for his size with terrier-like ferocity. Like many aggressive small men, the feisty redhead had spent much of his boyhood and youth picking fights with guys twice his size and, though battered and bruised, he often came out the winner.

Murphy looked up at Max and held out his hand. “Good evening, Lieutenant. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Too long, Murph.” Max shook the small hand and marveled at the compact power of Murphy’s grip.

They all exchanged greetings, and Max got the impression his former colleagues were sending him off with their last farewells. Not wanting to prolong this grim ceremony, he glanced up at the station clock. “Nine forty-five, gentlemen. I guess we’d better get on with it.”

“Right,” said Mueller, the senior officer present. “Follow me.”

They passed by the guard and entered the enormous steel and glass enclosure. Passengers and porters shuttled up and down the long, concrete platforms; engines chuffed in the bays amid billowing smoke and clouds of steam. The cops and Max headed directly for the freight elevator and a line of small open cars waiting to be lowered into the tunnels. An engineer in sweat-stained cap and greasy overalls, raised the elevator gate.

“My name’s Matt,” the engineer said. “I’ll take you down and point you in the right direction.” The engineer smiled wryly, as though he thought Max was a man on a fool’s errand.

Max nodded his acknowledgement to the engineer, and then turned to Murphy. “I think I know the answer, but I’ll ask anyway. Did any of your men spot a couple of suspicious individuals going down into the tunnels?”

Murphy frowned and shook his head. “No, they sure didn’t. If they’re down there, I suppose they entered through one of the sub-basements in a building hereabouts.” He stared up at Max for a moment before adding, “It’s awful dangerous walking about in them tunnels.”

“Thanks for reminding me, Murph.” Max turned and stepped onto the floor of the elevator. He grinned at the engineer. “Let’s go, Matt.”

They began their slow, forty-foot descent with a sudden jolt followed by the creaking and groaning of the lift mechanism. At the bottom of the shaft, the engineer lifted the gate. Max and Matt entered a brightly lit gallery in the station’s sub-basement. Max noticed a small electric engine and a couple of empty cars parked on a siding. Matt led Max up the line of track toward the end of the gallery. The engineer unhooked a bulls-eye lantern from his belt and handed it to Max.

“Take this, Mr. Niemand. There are lights along the main line, but the side tunnels are dark. And you better stick to the main tunnel.” He pointed straight ahead at the track stretching out into the distance. “This here track is two-foot gauge. You have some clearance on either side. The engines run off a trolley, so you don’t have to worry about a third rail. If a train’s coming, you’ll feel the vibration, hear sparking and the whine of the motor, the rumbling and squeal of the wheels, and see a flash of light. You’ll have just enough time to hug the wall and let it pass by. But if you stray off into one of them narrow tunnels, God help you.”

Max took the lantern. “Thanks, Matt. According to the map, I’m going straight ahead to the third intersection under Clark Street.”

“That’s right. You’re under Harrison Street now, and you just keep on going under Harrison three blocks to Clark. Good luck.”

They shook hands. Max lit the lantern and proceeded into the tunnel, walking along the right-side wall. Upon leaving the gallery, he encountered an eerie stillness broken only by the constant muffled reverberation from the ventilation shafts. He did not envy the men who worked in this place. Max felt a suffocating sensation, a tightness in his throat and chest, as though he were being buried alive like Radamès and Aida in Verdi’s opera La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse.

Max slowed as he approached the first switch and intersection. He peered down the corridor and along the main track lying straight ahead. He raised the lantern and aimed its beam at the two lines that forked away in opposite directions while recalling Matt’s warning. No sign of a train, he thought. As for an ambush, he had the derringer up his sleeve. He wondered if he could get it out in time.

Continuing up the track, he passed through the second intersection. He could make out the third in the near distance. Proceeding cautiously he went on until he reached the switch where the tracks forked. A shadowy figure came out from behind a corner too suddenly for Max to pop the derringer out of his sleeve.

The individual wore a tweed flat cap pulled down low over the forehead, the face was covered by a black silk scarf. A revolver pointed directly at Max. “Have you got the five thousand, Niemand?” The echoing high-pitched voice sounded familiar.

“Show me the girl, first. Then we’ll talk business.”

The masked figure hesitated a moment before replying. “All right, Max.” Olga lowered the scarf and stared at him with piercing blue eyes. “Are you surprised?”

Max put on his poker face. “Not surprised at all. But I am glad to see you’re alive and well.”

“You have a great sense of humor. Now show me the five grand.”

“There is no five grand, Olga. Instead, I’ve come to offer you a deal. You’d be wise to hear me out.”

Olga’s face flushed; her eyes burned with anger. “You got a nerve. I ought to shoot you, just for the hell of it.”

Max remained calm; he had anticipated her reaction. “That would be foolish. The cops have the place sealed off. Your only way out of here is with me. If you shoot me, they’ll catch you for sure. You’ll go back to prison for a long, hard stretch. If I die, they might even hang you. I figure you’re too smart for that. Now, are you ready to listen to me?”

Olga nodded her tacit agreement.

Max noticed her gun hand shaking with fear, anger or both. A dangerous sign. “Would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It might go off accidentally.”

She lowered her hand. A tear started in one of her eyes. She did not bother to wipe it away.

Max smiled and softened his tone. “I care about you, Olga. I don’t want anyone to hurt you. You’ll have to trust me. I assume you left the diary where you guessed I would find it. Is that true?”

She nodded again, silently.

“You asked if I would forgive you. I do forgive you, with all my heart. But you must come clean, so I can help you. You hated Fielding for what he had done to you and others, so you killed him. You torched the house in Austin. Oliver Parr and Nora Iverson died in the explosion and fire, along with Fielding. They were all part of a dirty racket. I know what they did to women. I don’t blame you. They got what they deserved.”

Olga stared at him questioningly before saying, “But you’re working for the police, aren’t you?”

“I work with the police, not for them. That’s an important distinction. Fielding’s body hasn’t been identified. If or when it is, I have reason to believe the authorities will hold that he died in an accident, along with the others. They won’t stir up the ashes. Case closed. Do you understand what that means?”

“Are you saying I’m off the hook for murder and arson?”

“Absolutely. You have my word on that. Now we need to discuss this little extortion trick of yours. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected it was you all along. You’re about the same size as Fielding, same color hair and eyes, same fair skin. But I doubt Fielding wore perfume. Even the kid you gave the note to noticed that.

“When the police question you, you’ll say Fielding dumped you, and you were desperate for cash. You don’t know what happened to him. Anyway, you’ll need to face the consequences, but I promise they’ll be light. Like I said, the authorities want this matter closed. Maybe you’ll do a short stretch as a trustee—”

“No, Max,” she broke in. Her face reddened; she shook visibly. “I can’t go back to prison, I can’t... I can’t. You don’t know what it’s like, what they did to me.”

“Please Olga, listen to me. Just a little time, maybe six months at most. You’ll be well treated and protected inside. I got pull in this town. People owe me. I’ll get you the best lawyer....” Max heard a distant rumbling up the tunnel. He saw sparks and a flash of light. “A train’s coming! Hit the wall, now!”

Olga jumped out of the way, just in time. Max hugged the wall until the train passed by. He looked up the track to see if she was all right. She had dropped her revolver and was bending over to pick it up. His sleeve-holstered derringer came out in a reflex action.

“Don’t go for the gun, Olga!”

She looked up with terrified eyes and saw the derringer aimed at her. “You lied, Max. You’re like Fielding. You don’t give a damn about me. You’re going to turn me in for a reward.”

“No, Olga. That’s not true, I swear it isn’t. I want to save you. I... I love you.”

She may not have heard him. Olga panicked, ran up the track, and then darted around a corner into a dark side tunnel.

Max raced after her. “There’s no way out,” he shouted. He halted near the entrance to the narrow tube. “Come back, Olga. Please come back!”

He felt the vibration under his feet, heard the crackling of a trolley, the whine of an electric motor, and an ominous rumbling on the steel tracks. There was a white flash followed by a scream, sparks, and the metallic squeal of braking wheels.

After a short, breathless interval, Max heard the engineer’s voice. “God forgive me, I’ve killed a woman.”

Proceed to Chapter 29...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder