Summer, 1926
It was Friday the 13th. As if to remind me of the fact, an unexpected thunderstorm slowly rolled across the city while I hoofed my way to Attorney Abe Birnbaum in the Kenworthy Building. The counselor had telephoned to say that he had another job for me. Mrs. Rearden, my landlady, was growing weary of taking telephone messages for me. I needed to resolve that issue soon. But for now, I had to get to the lawyer’s office for a ten o’clock meeting with a potential client.
I’d paid off the ’23 Durant Birnbaum had sold me the year before, but it was in Max Eberhardt’s garage for a repair to the ignition system… or something. Streetcars got me only so far toward my destination. And because I had only been in the private detective racket a short time, my financial status had not attained the point of being able to splurge on taxis. So I hustled my way along. Unfortunately, I wasn’t prepared for the abrupt change in weather: no umbrella, no raincoat. I ducked in and out of storefront embrasures as I moved. Nonetheless, by the time I reached the shelter of my destination’s lobby, I was fairly drenched.
In the lawyer’s outer office on the fourth floor, his secretary, Anna Stadleman, greeted me warmly and tried to find something for me to wipe the rain off with. She retrieved a towel from the suite’s bathroom and patted my suit coat as dry as possible. The girl did the same to my face and hair.
As she fussed to make me presentable to her boss and my potential client, waiting in the next room, I watched her. She’d been several years behind me in school, and I vaguely recalled her as a very shy kid. Since the last time I’d seen her, Anna had changed her coiffure to a bob with a lock of hair curling onto her forehead. Most people referred to the drooping tresses as a “spit curl.” Among the many libertines in the male population, it was called a “kiss curl.” According to their scurrilous rumors, the number of curls a girl wore equated to the number of times different guys had kissed her. Her coquettishness intrigued me. My natural curiosity about individuals gave me pause to imagine the backstory of the sweet, innocent-looking skirt.
According to their scurrilous rumors, the number of curls a girl wore equated to the number of times different guys had kissed her.
I didn’t have long to ponder the notion. The telephone on her desk jingled. After straightening my tie, she answered the call. Mr. Birnbaum wanted to know if I’d arrived yet. Anna shot me a wink and explained demurely that I had just come in. She rang off, escorted me to the inner office door, opened it, and walked inside a short distance, announcing me. I entered as Anna moved aside, then left.
Abe sat at his desk. A very well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman occupied the chair opposite. The attorney stood and gestured toward another visitor’s seat. As I approached, the lawyer introduced the second fellow as Carl Bernoulli. The dark-haired man remained seated while giving me what I thought was a skeptical once-over. My slightly soggy appearance apparently didn’t find favor in his assessment. I extended my hand. When the stranger ignored it, I withdrew my offer of a handshake.
Now, I’ve never been a stickler for strict proper decorum as set forth by Emily Post in Etiquette. And I needed the work this lug’s patronage might bring. Nonetheless, I expected to be treated with the same courtesy that I extended to others. I’d been brought up to understand that a man never shook hands while seated unless he was incapacitated. I saw no such disability on Carl’s person.
Abe appeared mildly flustered. When he pointedly cleared his throat, my prospective client took the cue and rose, grudgingly holding out his mitt. We brusquely shook hands.
Birnbaum quickly moved forward. “Mr. Bernoulli, this is the private investigator I’ve spoken to you concerning. Tanner is a hard-working guy with proven results. He–”
Glaring at me while speaking to the counselor, he judged, “He looks awfully young to do a job as important as the one I must have done.” Carl’s words held a hint of an Italian accent. My guess was that his first name was an Anglicization of Carlo or Giancarlo. His dark eyes shifted to the mouthpiece as he continued, “I demand someone who is experienced and can provide results,” he proclaimed haughtily. He was what my mother might describe as an overweening individual.
“I assure you, Carl,” Abe promised, “that Gil will easily meet both of your requirements. He’s handled every case I and others have assigned him to our complete satisfaction. In fact, he just finished a tough investigation for me that was—”
“Here’s the deal, Mr. Bernoulli,” I interrupted in frustration. Though I had passed on sitting for the time being, I had to get a few things straight with Bernoulli. “I’ve put everything I have into being a competent private detective. It’s my chosen vocation. So far in my brief career, I have faced down more than a few hard roughnecks. During those encounters, I’ve been involved in fisticuffs, been shot at, attacked with a knife and a baseball bat, lied to, double-crossed, and underestimated. Every obstacle has only made me more determined to see my tasks through to a successful completion. I don’t tell you this to be boastful; I simply want you to recognize my experience and my determination to be the best PI possible.” The man glimpsed the abrasion above my left eye, a souvenir from my most recent Abe Birnbaum mission.
“So far in my brief career, I have faced down several hard roughnecks.”
When Carl started to speak, I raised a restraining hand to cut him off. “Don’t make the mistake of judging my abilities by what you perceive to be my relatively young age. I’ve had my share of hard knocks. I grew up in a damn tough neighborhood and learned to take care of myself and to stand up to hooligans while I was still just a kid. Dealing with hostile environments and troublesome people has provided me with significant life experiences. Those have given me a powerful insight into my fellow human beings. As a friend of mine described it, ‘Hard miles age a man faster than birthdays.’
“Let me finish by assuring you I take my cases seriously. Yours will be no different. You’ll be constantly informed of any developments. Obviously, if at any time you are dissatisfied with my work, you need only pay any fees due and discharge me. I charge fifteen dollars a day plus expenses. I’ll ask for a modest retainer when I learn what the case involves. Now, if that’s satisfactory to you, we can talk turkey. If not, I have other matters to attend to.” That last part was a bluff. At that time, I was unencumbered by other employment.
What followed was a lengthy, poignant silence. I folded my arms across my chest and waited while praying I hadn’t overplayed my hand. Recognizing the significance of the moment, Birnbaum, too, remained silent.
Carl’s brow furrowed. His gaze passed between Abe and me several times. Finally, he grunted, “Very well, young man. We’ll see how it goes. However,” he emphasized, pointing a threatening index finger, “don’t think for a second I won’t cut you off at the knees if I’m not happy with the way you are performing.” Despite his words, I could tell he wasn’t totally convinced about hiring me.
Attorney Birnbaum relaxed and beamed. I sat down.
“Fine. What is it you need done, Mr. Bernoulli?” I asked.
With hard eyes, Carl expounded. “I have a daughter, Magdalena. She’s a beautiful young lady. Regrettably, she’s as stubborn as she is lovely. I’ve learned that Magda has become enamored of a man regarding whom I know very little. I fear for her future with this fellow. Your function will be to determine more about him and report your findings to me. His name is Charles Rouault. At least, that’s what he’s calling himself. The informal inquiries I have made so far show there was no record of such a person until he blew into town nearly a year ago. He lives in an apartment house somewhere on the southeast side of the city, but I’m not sure where. I think he’s moved a few times since arriving here, which also causes me concern. Who’s he hiding from?”
It was common knowledge that an Italian mob controlled the north side of our burg, with the east-west dividing line being Broad Street. Of course, not everyone of that descent in our area was tied to it. However, Bernoulli’s deportment gave the impression of someone whose self-assuredness came in part from his affiliations and the company he kept. Because he didn’t appear to be a syndicate knuckle-dragger, I played a hunch. “I’m certain, Mr. Bernoulli, you have men in your employ or, at the very least, you have associates who could do this sort of work for you. Don’t misunderstand me; I want the job. It’s just a matter of curiosity on my part.”
With my last words, Carl smiled. Refined and smooth though he might be, the man couldn’t hide the malevolence the grin revealed. From the corner of my eye, I sensed a slight, but visible discomfort play across our host’s puss.
“Even if your perception may be correct, Mr. Tanner,” Bernoulli said evenly, “turning this task over to the individuals with whom I’m acquainted would be, shall we say, risky? Most wouldn’t know how to handle it without getting physical with the target of their inquiries. Magda might well lay any such actions at my door and never forgive me. Discretion is paramount. Approach the job inconspicuously. If the kid gets wind of your investigation, he’s sure to tell Magda. And if she learns of my hiring you, it will drive her away from me. She may disappear from my life entirely.”
He paused and studied his hands momentarily. His harsh expression faded. A sad frown marked his face. His eyes welled. “She’s all I have when it comes down to it. My wife died of septicemia while my daughter was still very young. I did the best I knew how to do to raise her. Losing her would be more than I could take.”
“…the individuals with whom I’m acquainted … wouldn’t know how to handle it without getting physical with the target of their inquiries.”
“I understand, Mr. Bernoulli. Keeping a low profile will be my priority.”
Carl glanced once more at Birnbaum, as if seeking one last bit of reassurance. Whether he perceived any, I’m not sure. Then, he retrieved a wallet from an inside coat pocket. “So what will you need in the way of a retainer?”
“First, I have a few questions to get me started. Tell me what, if anything, you know of this Rouault fella.”
“I understand he’s in his early to mid-twenties. He’s a teller at the First State Bank and Trust on Broad Street. No trouble with the law that I can learn of. Oh, and I almost forgot: he drives a two-tone Ajax automobile. I don’t know the year. Anyway, I assume it’s his heap. One night, Magda snuck out of the house, and I followed her. The kid picked her up a block from our home. He was in the Ajax. It was dark, so I’m not exactly sure of the colors.
“I need to learn where he comes from, who his people are, and what kind of person he is. I don’t want my daughter getting hooked up with a crumb who’s after her because of my money or who will,” he exhaled audibly, “use her and cast her aside like some sort of Lothario.” He waggled his head dejectedly. “This relationship has already driven a wedge between us.”
I looked up from the notes I was making. “Does your daughter work?” He shook his head. “Does she drive a car?” This time, he nodded. “What kind?”
He bristled in defiance. “See here! You aren’t being hired to investigate my daughter! She isn’t—
“Look,” I broke in on his tirade, “I don’t know what might happen during my inquiry. Her car may come into play at some point. I’d rather have the information and not need it than to need it and not have it.”
Bernoulli seemed to fold in on himself slightly. “I have two automobiles. She drives a 1925 Lincoln Beetleback. It’s light gray and black.”
“And your automobile?” He hesitated and shot a sideways glimpse at our host. “C’mon, Mr. Bernoulli,” I insisted. “The same logic applies to your car as it does to your daughters. I don’t know–”
He cut me off abruptly. “I drive a new Buick 25S. It, too, is gray and black,” he added.
“Thanks. This information’s a good start for me. I shouldn’t need more than a few days to gather what you want. If I require more time, I’ll contact you.” He gestured with the billfold he was holding. I took his meaning. “Pay me three days’ fee for a retainer. That should do it, but it won’t include any expenses I might incur.”
“Fair enough,” he said, counting the money out from the quantity of cash he possessed.
As I tucked the dough away, I inquired, “How can I reach you to make my reports?”
He handed me a business card. It was from the Seven Hills Storage and Transport Company, an outfit known to be a front for the Northside mob’s various nefarious enterprises. As I read it, I shot him an up-from-under look. He deciphered my thoughts and tossed me the same smirk as before. I merely nodded at the confirmation of my earlier conjecture.
“You may also contact me at my home.” He took the card from me and penciled a number on the back. “But be careful,” he warned as he wrote. “I have a housekeeper who usually answers the phone, though occasionally Magda will pick up.”
“Put your home address on there, too, just in case.”
He complied, but not without griping. “I’m not accustomed to divulging this much private information regarding myself or my family.”
“I promise anything you reveal to me will stay strictly confidential.”
“Promises are buried with the dead,” he said somberly.
It was a flat statement that didn’t ask for an answer. I always took pronouncements such as it as a serious threat. A naïve approach to life can get a mug hurt or worse, especially in my line of work. Regardless of what meaning was behind his ominous utterance, I knew I was now swimming with the sharks.
I rose from my chair. “Well, on that cheerful note, I’ll take my leave and get to work.”
Abe stood and said, “Gil, please wait outside for a minute. I need to talk with you briefly.”
I agreed to his request, left the room, and lingered by Anna’s desk. She asked how it went.
“As well as I’d hoped, I guess. Bernoulli hired me.”
“He’s a–”
The opening of the inner door cut her thought short. The two men walked past us to the exit. After Carl departed, Abe requested I join him, and we returned to his office.
When we were seated, the counselor folded his hands on the desk. Leaning forward on his elbows, he sighed heavily before speaking. “Listen, Gil, I understand how you feel concerning the way people see you, treat you. But your work is similar to mine in one respect. Your clients won’t always appreciate the steps you take on their behalf. Likewise, you won’t necessarily approve of your clients. But sometimes you simply must hold your nose, do the job they pay you to do, and move on.
“I’ve represented Carl Bernoulli for a number of years. He is a complicated guy. On the one hand, while I believe he means well mostly, there’s no doubt he can be a dangerous man to deal with. On the other hand, he’s a fellow of fixed principles. But above everything else, he loves his daughter desperately. As my legal mentor once told me, ‘Don’t love ‘em. Don’t hate ‘em. Just represent their cause.’”
I had no response other than nodding my understanding. After thanking the lawyer and saying farewell to Anna, I left the building. Gratefully, the rain had moved on.
* * *
My first objective was to lay peepers on Charles Rouault. I rushed along the three blocks of Market to Broad Street, then over to the First State Bank and Trust building. If push came to shove and I needed a cover story, I’d open an account there with the cash Bernoulli had paid me.
Inside, I stopped to speak to the bank dick. I quietly inquired if someone named Rouault worked there. He pointed to a fellow standing at a teller’s cage. I got a good squint at the fellow behind the wicket. My chinch was an average-looking guy: dark hair and eyes, appearing to be around five feet eight or nine inches tall, and somewhere in his early to mid-twenties. I thanked the guard and turned to leave. He put a firm hand on my arm and was about to deal with me when a gussied-up dowager required his attention. Under the cover of her diversion, I made a hasty exit from the building.
He put a firm hand on my arm and was about to deal with me ….
Out on the sidewalk, I paused and checked my strap watch. It was just before two in the afternoon. The bank didn’t close until three o’clock. I hadn’t eaten since a quick breakfast that morning at my boardinghouse. Hunger was gnawing at my insides. It was time to spend a bit of Bernoulli’s cash. I entered the Ajax Diner, which was next door to First State Bank.
On a stool at the counter, I ordered a hamburger sandwich with cheese and all the trimmings to be washed down by a cup of coffee. I passed the next hour, slowly munching my lunch and nursing several cups of java as thick as motor oil and with a similar flavor.
A little before three, I left a gratuity for the waitress and paid the cashier before returning to the street. I waited and watched. Twenty minutes later, Rouault emerged from the bank and bounded down the steps while chinning with another employee. They crossed the road to the parking lot beside the Hotel Bixby.
As I observed from the sidewalk, the men separated. My pigeon climbed into the Ajax crate Carl had described. Suddenly, I had no choice but to spring for a hack. And I was doubly grateful Bernoulli had forked over my retainer. I grabbed a taxi at the stand in front of the Bixby and told the driver to wait for a few seconds. When Rouault’s two-tone brown bucket paused at the lot’s entrance before pulling out onto traffic, I instructed the cabbie to follow it.
Charles led us south on Fremont Street, then turned west on Lexington Avenue. He eased to the curb fronting a modest apartment building. We did likewise at a distance behind him. My mark slid out of his car and entered the structure, which my driver told me was the Drexel Apartments. I paid for the cab ride and followed Rouault.
Stepping down into the sunken anteroom, I found the single elevator’s floor indicator registering that it was stopped on the top level. There was no telling where it may have dropped off a passenger between this floor and there. I stuck my head in the stairwell next to the lift. No footfalls indicating someone climbing the stairs echoed in them. It was possible that my patsy lived somewhere on the ground floor but was nowhere to be seen along the two corridors extending from the vestibule. I looked the place over. There was no directory of the occupants and their apartment numbers. Likewise, no one who appeared to be attached to the building was around to question. I resigned myself to having reached a dead end regarding exactly where Rouault resided.
This investigation needed to be pursued in my Durant, or I’d soon run through my money, forking over for hacks. In the lobby’s telephone booth, I called Eberhardt’s garage. After a dozen rings, the mechanic answered. He told me that my heap would be ready to be picked up at noon the next day. He’d already telephoned my boarding house and left a message with my landlady. Swell, I thought, another session with Mrs. Rearden grousing over taking my phone messages. I’d deal with that when the time came. The repair bill Max quoted was well within the cash in my pocket. On the other hand, the timing of getting my car back at midday on Saturday put the kibosh on an easy way of tracking Charles from the bank until Monday. Time for Plan B.
I rang off, then called the Medallion Cab Company and asked if Mel Philpot was on duty. He was a right gee. We’d met during my first case. The dispatcher assured me he’d send him to my location as soon as possible.
In short order, my pal pulled to a stop in front of the Drexel building. He reached across the seat and threw the passenger door open as I approached his bucket. “What’s on the wire, Gil?”
“Another day, another buck, my friend. My jalopy’s been under Eberhardt’s tender care again. I need to partake of your assistance until I can get it. Take me to my rooming house for now, please.”
“Sure thing.”
Philpot delivered me to my lodgings. He agreed to pick me up at eleven thirty the next morning to take me to Max’s and retrieve my Durant. I paid him and headed inside to face what I was certain awaited me. Sure enough, an unhappy landlady met me at the door.
She drew herself up to her full five and a half feet of height and frowned up into my kisser. “See here, Mr. Tanner, I provide the basics one might expect of a residence such as this. But that does not mean I am a concierge. Answering the telephone calls for you has become a nuisance. You–”
“I’m very sorry for any inconvenience they have caused you, Mrs. Rearden.”
From that point, we bargained on a sum I’d pay her per week for any “annoying” phone calls she might experience. We settled on an extra dollar added to my weekly room rent. It seemed a bit costly to me, but the “service” was something I really needed. I paid her for my lodging plus the agreed-upon amount.
* * *
As requested, Mel appeared at Rearden’s and delivered me to Eberhardt’s garage the next morning.
Through his thick Bavarian accent, Max tried to explain what he’d found wrong and repaired. I paid and thanked him, then departed in my chariot.
Despite the unlikely chance of coming upon Rouault on a Saturday afternoon, I decided to go to my backup plan and drove to his apartment building. Along the way, I stopped at a newsstand and bought the latest edition of the four local rags to pass the time.
At the Drexel building, the street was lined with cars in both directions. I didn’t see my target’s heap among them, but watched his place for a while. Parking where I had a clear view of the entrance, I slid over to the passenger seat and unfolded a copy of The Morning Star.
Only one story on the front page caught my interest. Richard Reese Whittemore, the leader of a group of bank robbers who had been active in the mid-Atlantic and eastern United States for the last several years, had been hanged. Whittemore’s wife, Margaret, had also been arrested for her role in the robberies, but the charges against her were still pending.
On the sports pages, a follow-up article featured a picture of Gertrude Ederle, who’d become the first woman to swim across the English Channel a week earlier. With her time of fourteen hours and thirty-nine minutes, she’d broken the three-year-old record of an Argentinian fellow.
Regarding my primary interest at that moment, baseball, there was a mention of Tris Speaker hitting the five hundredth double of his career in a 7 to 2 loss to the Chicago White Sox at Dunn Field in Cleveland.
Then, I read that my Cincinnati Redlegs, who were coming off two thorough beatings of the Phillies on Wednesday and Thursday, were tied with the St. Louis Cardinals for second place in the National League. Since I had first met Harry Bittles of Harry’s Paradise Tavern, I’d learned he was a dyed-in-the-wool Redbirds fan. The same had been true of his old man. So there’d been plenty of back and forth between us concerning the rivalry. I was sure to hear my pal’s palaver about how Les Bell, Rogers Hornsby, and Bob O’Farrell were tearing up the diamond. The rest of the season should prove interesting.
After several hours of surveilling, I’d worked my way through the dailies, twiddled my thumbs for a while, and still had no sighting of Charles. Just when I was ready to call it a day, Rouault’s Ajax appeared in my wing mirror, rounding the corner from Freemont onto Lexington. He pulled to the curb a few spaces behind me, climbed out, and hustled along the sidewalk and into his building. I gave him time to clear the front door before I bailed and followed.
I’d worked my way through the dailies, twiddled my thumbs for a while, and still had no sighting of Charles.
In the lobby, I found the elevator propped open with an “Out of Order” sign hanging there. A guy in coveralls was just inside working on it. The man I was shadowing certainly hadn’t used it to go anywhere. As before, I checked the stairwell. There were no sounds indicating that someone was climbing the stairs. My guess was he had to be somewhere on the first floor but was nowhere to be seen throughout the two corridors extending from the vestibule.
Another door to the foyer opened, and a fellow in work clothes emerged, carrying a mop and a bucket of a liquid reeking of disinfectant. I ankled to him. The gent smelled of cleaning solvent. He stated he was Stanley Coulson, the building’s superintendent, and wanted to know if he might help me. Telling him I thought I just saw a guy on the street I’d gone to school with enter the place, I described my prey to him. He told me that the person sounded like Chuck Rouault. Coulson said he lived in apartment thirty-three, which was along the corridor on the other side of the entryway.
When I questioned why a flat with that number was on the first level versus the third floor, he shrugged. “I dunno. That’s just the way the builder numbered ‘em. Down here, the apartments run from one to thirty-six. Next floor up starts with one hundred. Same numbering system each floor after that. Odd bird, he was, the builder.”
I thanked him, but explained my friend had a different name and that I must have been mistaken. The super shrugged and went on with his business.
When the custodian disappeared, I prowled the hallway to the door of Rouault’s flat. The rhythm of Sweet Georgia Brown, likely Ben Bernie’s recent release, filtered through the portal. When the song ended, I heard someone moving around. Then that somebody padded across the floor toward the entrance. As I raced to the building’s main entrance area, Charles emerged from his apartment behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a man dressed for a night on the town. He went back inside but didn’t close the door.
My intuition spurred me to the lobby as quickly as possible, where I ducked into a telephone booth. My effort was intended to prevent him from recognizing me and possibly getting suspicious if he noticed me later. Rouault appeared and passed through the atrium. I followed.
The man scrambled into his bucket, cranked the engine, and sped away toward the heart of the city. I bird-dogged him at a reasonable distance.
* * *
Charles eventually turned into a parking lot on Decker Avenue. I pulled in and located a space close enough to watch him. He exited the Ajax and walked over to a girl getting out of a gray and black Lincoln Beetleback. While I am in no position to comment on the appearance of others, I must say the dame was not exactly “the beautiful young lady” her father had described. I reckoned it came down to beauty as beheld by a loving parent.
The pair embraced passionately. Then, with his arm draped around her shoulders, they began strolling along the sidewalk toward Market Street. At one point, the girl pulled them to a stop. She whispered something in his ear. It was impossible to be sure in the street lighting, but I swear he blushed. Until that moment, I could have pictured the guy strumming a ukulele and crooning to his sweetheart. Now, a more fervent vision reared his head. The pair continued on. At Market, they turned the corner and entered a tony seafood restaurant called The Captain’s Table.
Inside the crowded joint, the appetizing aroma of cooked marine life filled the air. Waiters and busboys scurried among the tables and booths. I caught sight of my quarry comfortably ensconced at a table across the room.
At that moment, it occurred to me it’d be an opportune time to frisk Charles’s flat to get more information about him.
I hurried to my jalopy and hightailed it back to the Drexel Apartment Building.
* * *
I eased inside, flash in hand, . The place was relatively quiet as I moved along the dimly lit corridor to Rouault’s place. As expected, the door was locked. I had no way to jimmy it. No amount of gentle shaking, pushing, and pulling freed it. At that point in my private investigator career, I was ill-equipped for the challenge of a latched door. The penknife I carried was useless against its mechanism. My next option was to try my luck with an entry from the outside. Fortunately, my target’s bedsit was on the ground floor. Based on what appeared to be the layout of the building, my best estimate was that each apartment had two windows.
I made my way to the rear of the structure and counted the glass panels to where I figured Charles’s flat was. Both of them were secured. Using my flashlight, I saw a very thin gap between the horizontal pieces that sit at the top of the lower sash and the bottom of the upper one. Retrieving my penknife, I forced it into the opening. When the blade slid across the latch, it unlocked with minimal effort.
I raised it, climbed inside, and lowered the shade behind me. Stale air greeted me. The space was dark, with only a faint light coming from a small bathroom. I searched the lit area first but found nothing noteworthy.
Next, holding the flashlight between my cheek and shoulder, I rummaged through the drawers in the dresser and the bedside table. Again, nothing of note revealed itself. Searching the wardrobe, I saw only the usual men’s clothing. When I shone my flash beneath the bed, it illuminated only travel bags, but something on them caught my attention. To be certain of what I thought I’d seen, I pulled a suitcase closer and refocused on it. The two pieces of luggage had the initials “C. B.” and not “C. R.” emblazoned on them. It struck me as a red flag. Perhaps Carl Bernoulli was right in his suspicions regarding the man after all.
As I was shoving the bags back into place, there was the sound of someone at the apartment door. Certainly, Charles and Magdalena had not concluded their date this early, I reflected in exasperation. The fumbling seemed more as though somebody was picking a lock rather than inserting a key. Instinctively, I reached for the window next to me, but pulled away and ducked when the door opened.
The fumbling seemed more as though somebody was picking a lock rather than inserting a key.
The person entered the room, but didn’t turn any lights on right away. I raised enough to get a look at them. From what light there was in the space, I could tell the man wasn’t Rouault or whatever my gull’s real name was. The intruder was an older, burlier mug. He slunk across the room silently, opening drawers and the wardrobe doors. I waited for the opportunity to make my escape. When he strolled into the bathroom, I stood. My odds of exiting through the door without detection were better than through the window. He became engrossed in going through the medicine chest.
I edged around the bed, quietly opened the door, closed it behind me and hauled ass.
In the safety of my Durant, I set fire to a Chesterfield, waited, and watched for the interloper to come out of the building. His presence added another layer to the mystery surrounding Charles Rouault beyond the different initials monogrammed on the travel bags. As I sat, I contemplated the events of the last few minutes. Who was this other man? Was he someone my client had hired besides me? If so, why? Could he be a lawman or a bounty hunter on the trail of my target? I felt compelled to determine how he fit into this equation. I had to learn who he was and figure our relative positions in this gambit. And whoever he was, I needed to work around him to get answers to Bernoulli’s questions.
After a few minutes, the brawny lug appeared and lumbered to a Ford Model T parked on the other side of the street. He sat behind the wheel for a brief time before starting the thing and pulling away. I fired up my crate’s engine and tailed him.
* * *
Another downpour moved across the south end of town as we drove. I followed him out of the metropolis proper to a Bavarian-themed restaurant called The Heidelberg Inn on Shoe Factory Road. Aside from being a decent place to eat with a small dance floor, the place boasted a speakeasy in the basement called the Rathskeller. The covert saloon was one of the worst-kept secrets in the county. The joint apparently enjoyed the protection of our metropolis’s south side mob, known as The League.
Despite the anti-German sentiment that developed during the Great War, the owner, alleged to be tied to The League, had steadfastly refused to change its name. The Heidelberg kept its moniker, and business never suffered. Rob Waddell, my pal on the police payroll, told me the inn served the best Schweinsbraten with Kartoffelklöße and cabbage salad in the city.
By the time I found a spot to park in the crowded lot, the goon had disappeared inside. I crunched my way across the gravel where the light emanating through the eatery’s stained-glass windows cast multicolored glows on the rainwater pooled here and there.
Upon entering the packed restaurant, I didn’t see the hefty guy. He had to be in the verboten gin mill in the cellar. An unassuming portal at the far corner of the bar led to the speak. Everybody and their dog knew it. Casting a nearly imperceptible wave to the joint’s gatekeeper standing at the other end of the counter, I approached the door. The gorilla shook his head and gestured for me to come to him.
When I reached him, I explained I was supposed to meet a pal in the Rathskeller. I described him and asked if he’d shown up yet. The bruno advised me that he had arrived a couple of minutes ahead of me and was already in the barroom below. The sham worked. He told me to go downstairs.
Descending the steps, I wondered how I might engage the guy to tumble to his part in this situation. There were fewer patrons in the Rathskeller than I would have expected for a Saturday evening. At the bottom of the stairs, I spied my target occupying a stool at the bar and being served a cocktail. He had two empty glasses in front of him. He was a fast worker when imbibing the eel juice. I sauntered over and took the seat three away from him.
At the bottom of the stairs, I spied my target occupying a stool at the bar and being served a cocktail.
When I sat down, the stranger turned and nodded a greeting, which I returned. Upon getting my requested Jack Daniels neat, I lifted my libation to my mouth. The husky lug suddenly swung to me, raised his glass, and said, “Sloppy night out, what with all the rain.”
I needed him to come to me with information. So I was grateful for the icebreaker. Luckily, he struck me as a man who longed for conversation. “Yeah,” I obliged, raising my drink in his direction. “It’s been that way all summer.” After a sip of my cocktail, I added, “Haven’t seen you in here before. Did you just discover this watering hole, or are you new to the vicinity?”
With watery eyes, he gave me an odd glance, then answered. “Just visiting. My name’s Spencer Ludlow, but folks call me Spence,” the man said, extending a mitt. “I’m only here for a short while on a job. Stumbled across this gin joint last night. What’s your moniker, friend?”
“I’m Hal Cooper,” I countered, using an alias I’d started employing on just such occasions. We shook hands.
After a slug of his booze, he asked, “So, Hal, what do you do for a living?”
“I work in a lumberyard,” I replied, falling back on an earlier occupation. It wasn’t anything that he might take as threatening to his objective here.
“What kind of work do you do?” I put the question as casually as I knew how.
The fellow looked around furtively, then awkwardly slid over to the seat next to mine. He leaned into me and, in a conspiratorial fashion, spoke low. “I’m a private investigator out of Chicago.” Ludlow’s breath was a brutal mixture of whiskey and garlic. Fumbling through a pocket, he produced and handed me his business card with a clumsy flourish.
I feigned wonderment. “Wow. That must be fascinating work. Dangerous, too.”
He stuck his chest out. “It can be. The risk of life and limb at every turn. But the assignment I’m on right now is kinda humdrum. Chasing a runaway son.”
The older fellow’s voice and demeanor told me he was a proud man, eager to share his exploits and his proficiency in them. He’d be easy to steer and draw out. In vino veritas, as they say.
“Running from the law, is he? Or can you say, Spence?”
He chugged his highball and chuckled. “Nah, nothing like that. He’s the scion of a well-heeled family back in the Windy City. His old man is a candy tycoon there.” He paused as the bartender sauntered past us. After eyeing the tapster suspiciously, he resumed his narrative. “The old boy is used to getting what he wants. He expects, … no, he demands his son work in the family business and run it later on. The kid’s not interested. I think the young man figured the only thing to do was make a clean break from pater. He just took off without a trace. His parents didn’t know where he had gone. They hired me to find him. Turns out, he came here and started using a phony name.”
“That’s crazy. It’s amazing you could track him. You must be damned good at your profession.”
With aplomb, he crowed, “You have to figure the angles in this racket, brother. That, I know how to do.” He was feeling the effects of the hooch, slurring his words, looking bleary-eyed from behind heavy lids. Maybe he’d already had a skinful when he broke into Beaufour’s flat.
I played on that. “So, how’d you find him?”
“During my initial inquiries, I learned he was extremely close to his kid sister. Just between you, me, and the grand piano, I surreptitiously sorted through the family’s mail for a couple of weeks. I found out Charles Beaufour–that’s the boy’s name–had corresponded with her after he arrived here. He’s using a general delivery address at the main post office. It was easy to set up on that window and wait ‘til he picked up his sister Lorraine’s letter.
“Funny thing, though, she apparently sends her letters addressed to Charles’s correct name. I was standing close enough when he received one to hear him call for his mail using Charles Beaufour. This local skirt he’s running around with was beside him. She had to have heard the name, but didn’t flinch. So she’s in on the charade.”
“Zowie! My job’s nothing as exciting and glamorous as being a private investigator,” I put in, continuing with the puffery, “but I won’t be there forever. I guess the guy’s folks were happy to learn you’ve found him.”
“Well, I haven’t notified the family of my discovery yet.” I took that as a break for myself. “I want to give them a better picture of where things stand and assure them he’ll return home.” Clearing his throat and pressing one of his fists into a palm, he threatened, “I may have to convince Charles to get on the train to Chicago with me. I might have to use threats to his girlfriend as a bargaining chip to persuade him to leave with me.” He emitted a satisfying belch.
… pressing one of his fists into a palm, he threatened, “I may have to convince Charles to get on the train to Chicago with me.”
“Won’t his parents be upset if you have to become rough with their son?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. Beaufour senior told me to do ‘anything within reason’ to get the boy home. He’s a tough old bird. Offered me a sweet bonus if I bring junior back.”
“Spence, you mentioned traveling by train. Is that how you got to our city?” He nodded. “Do you need a ride to town? I have a car.”
“No thanks. I rented a jalopy from one of those ‘Drive-Ur-Self’ outfits near the depot. It’s not much, but it gets me where I need to be. Say, did ya know this car rental business was started by a lug named Walter Jacobs right there in my hometown?” His bloodshot peepers drifted. He jerked his chin toward my glass. “Let me buy you another before I call it a night, Hal.”
“Swell, but only if you let me return the favor. Maybe tomorrow at a joint near your hotel, if you’re gonna be in town.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll still be here. I intend to corral my target on Monday night. Surprise him when he walks through his door after work. Once I’ve got him in hand, I’m gonna call Mr. Beaufour. Then we’ll catch the ten thirty-something Great Lakes Special to Chicago, and I can present the prodigal son to his old man early the next morning.” Ludlow ordered another round for us. “By the way, I’m staying at the Sumner Arms Hotel. The desk clerk told me there are a few speaks nearby, if you’re serious about that drink and if we could make it late afternoon. I want to stick to my schedule.”
“Sure thing. I’ll meet you in your hotel lobby at four.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Well, I need to hit the hay. Have to work tomorrow morning.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yeah, the boss man wants a couple of trucks loaded for delivery first thing Monday morning. I’ll be done in plenty of time to meet you. So I’ll say good night, Spence. Great to make your acquaintance.”
“Same here.”
With that, we parted company. Considering Spence’s state of inebriation, his ability to drive to his hotel was questionable. Not my problem.
* * *
At that point, I recognized the initial issue to be resolved was getting Ludlow out of the picture. For that, I intended to call on my client. There was a second matter I had to deal with. But I’d come to grips with it on the fly. By the time I reached my boarding house, it was too late to telephone Carl Bernoulli. I set my alarm clock and crawled into bed only to endure a fitful sleep.
* * *
The alarm sounded way too early the next morning. I quickly got ready for the day and hustled to the pay station in the drugstore a couple of blocks from the boardinghouse.
My call brought the sweet voice of a female, whom I supposed was Magdalena, on the wire. When I asked for Carl, she called out “Daddy,” which confirmed my suspicion. After a moment, the man came on the line.
“Mr. Bernoulli, this is Gil Tanner. I need to see you as soon as possible.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“No, sir, nothing such as that. But it’s very important that I meet with today.”
“Well, in a few minutes I’ll be headed out the door to go to early Mass. After that, I have a scheduled confab with…um…associates. Then I’m meeting Magda for lunch. If you insist, we can get together later this afternoon.”
“It’ll keep ‘til then.” The notion that I needed a few other answers before this powwow crossed my mind. “Is Magdalena going to church with you?”
“No. She normally meets a few girlfriends for breakfast or coffee. Then they go to a later service. Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to make certain she wouldn’t be with you when we met,” I lied. “What time and where can we get together, Mr. Bernoulli?”
“What say we meet at the Seven Hills warehouse at two-thirty this afternoon?”
“Swell. I’ll see you there.”
Now was the time for me to take the bull by the horns. I rang off and hustled to my Durant parked in front of Rearden’s. As I moved, I retrieved Carl’s business card with his home address from a pocket. The residence was in an upper-crust neighborhood in the northeast corner of the city.
* * *
Minimal early Sunday morning traffic allowed me to make good time getting to Bernoulli’s place. Easing to the curb where I had a clear angle on the family’s driveway, I cut the motor and waited. Just as I was settling in, a Buick crept along the drive to the road. A quick glance before I crouched down in my seat confirmed it was my client behind the wheel.
Easing to the curb where I had a clear angle on the family’s driveway, I cut the motor and waited.
Within twenty minutes, Miss Bernoulli appeared in the Lincoln Beetleback. She turned out and motored past me as I again ducked out of sight. I cranked my bucket’s motor, made a quick three-point turn, and discreetly followed her. She drove toward downtown, eventually finding a spot to park her car half a block from The Wayside Café, which proved to be her destination.
I parked nearby. After she entered the eatery, I casually walked past, eyeing the place. Magda sat by the window in the end booth. Beside her was Charles, as I’d hoped.
Climbing the steps, I went inside. Oscar, the diner’s owner and fry cook looked my way from the griddle. He gestured a greeting to me with his egg flipper thing. The joint had become a regular haunt of mine.
I strolled to Bernoulli and her jellybean’s location and sat down across from them. The move caught the couple off guard. Their hands quickly moved from their laps to the tabletop, and their faces reddened. I pretended not to notice.
Before they could respond to the intrusion, I said, “I need to speak with you, Mr. Beaufour.” The twosome looked at each other with stunned expressions. “This involves both of you.”
The girl’s brow furrowed as she glared at me. “Did my daddy hire you?”
“Or did my father send you to look for me?” the young man interjected harshly.
I ignored their questions. “They are both concerned about you and your well-being. But relax. I’m not here to start a kerfuffle.”
The waitress appeared and took my order for a serving of joe.
“Are you the guy who burgled my apartment last night?” Charles’s eyebrows knitted. He pushed his coffee cup aside, bent in my direction, and growled low, “Don’t deny it! You left behind plenty of clues! My door was unlocked when I got home. The drawers of my dresser had been rifled, as had my medicine cabinet. I oughta–”
“Hold on, Philo Vance!” I cut him off, raising a hand.
“Who?”
“Never mind. The point is, I saw the mug who broke into your flat.” Just then my java appeared. While the waitress refilled their cups, I lit a Chesterfield and offered the pair a smoke. Both declined. After taking a sip of my coffee, I turned to Magda. “I take it by your reaction that you’re familiar with Charles’s background.”
“You mean his true name, his family back in Chicago, and that he wants to make it on his own? Of course, I do. I wouldn’t marry a man I wasn’t sure of,” she scoffed. The dame struck me as a willful child.
Marriage. So this thing between them was more serious that Bernoulli had anticipated. And it wasn’t a matter of Beaufour being a gold digger. This was a sort of modern-day Romeo and Juliet tale. Whatever the case, it seemed as if my private investigator’s pursuit was slowly turning into a position as a social worker. Maybe Jane Addams could find a spot for me at Hull House, I mused. For the sake of my self-respect, I needed to get back to my role as a private detective.
The guy took his girlfriend’s hand. “I have a natural way with numbers. Whether that means becoming an accountant or working in banking remains to be seen. But I need the chance to prove myself on my merit.” He smiled at Magda. “We intend to be married, but hopefully not before our respective parents realize we are serious. And put aside any objections. We want a wedding, which includes both families celebrating with us.” Miss Bernoulli nodded vigorously.
“We intend to be married, but hopefully not before our respective parents realize we are serious.”
Again, I focused on the girl I was being paid to protect. “Have you spoken to your dad regarding where you and Charles stand? Concerning what your intentions are? From what I can tell, he has no idea of these facts.”
“No,” she sighed softly, glancing at the man next to her. “Daddy’s certain Charles is only interested in me because of his money. If you understand anything about his history in Chicago, you know that’s not true. But my father’s too rigid to ever be moved from that conviction. We don’t speak of it. Ever.”
“Look, I’m no alienist. But did it ever occur to you that you’re the only person in the world who can convince him otherwise?” I made a vague gesture toward the bank teller. “Maybe if Carl knew his background, he’d better understand the circumstances and your feelings for each other.”
The Bernoulli girl’s face took on an expression of uncertainty. “I can’t be sure,” she moaned. “I’m afraid Daddy may do something rash, putting Charles in danger. He has men working for him–”
“Your father wouldn’t send those kinds of men into this situation. He told me so. That’s why I’m here. He only wants what’s best for you, Magda. I’ll wager if you tell him old man Beaufour’s status in Chicago and how you feel about each other, you’ll be pleasantly surprised with his reaction. What if I go along when you talk with your dad? I believe he’ll take the news easier if he knows I’ve made a thorough investigation of the circumstances. I can arrange a meeting on neutral ground, so to speak. If you’re agreeable, I’ll work it out and contact you. The pair peeked sideways at each other with optimism in their eyes before nodding their agreement with my offer.
When they moved to leave, I took hold of Beaufour’s arm. “By the way, the thug your old man sent after you is named Ludlow. Spencer Ludlow. He’s an older, hefty fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and blue peepers. When I last saw him, he was wearing a dark gray suit with a light gray fedora and carrying a raincoat.”
I finished most of my coffee and doused my latest gasper in the remainder. “Are you going to Mass?” I asked. They hesitated, but then said they were. “Good. I suggest that both of you keep a low profile this afternoon until I’ve smoothed out some bumps. Spence is not likely to pull something today, but play it safe. After the service is over, find a quiet place to spend time. Perhaps the library. Ludlow didn’t strike me as an avid reader. Or take in a motion picture matinee. Don Juan is playing at the Modjeska Theater over on Broad Street. I hear it’s pretty good.” We stood. “I’ll call you at your home when things are ready to move forward, Magda.”
I followed them from the diner out onto the sidewalk. From the eatery’s corner location, I surveyed Cuyahoga Street and Decker Avenue in both directions. The Chicago shamus was nowhere in sight. I stayed long enough to see them leave in their respective automobiles.
Glimpsing at my watch, I realized there was time to stop by and visit with my mother before the appointed hour to meet with my client. It meant possibly dealing with my old man, who was hopefully still passed out from his usual Saturday night bender. I spent a couple of hours with Mom while the “man of the house” snored stertorously in their bedroom.
* * *
A few minutes before two-thirty, I pulled to a stop in front of the Seven Hills warehouse. When I entered, a heavy-faced, barrel-chested bruiser with a dense neck met me. He wore a flannel shirt tucked sloppily into gray duck-cloth work pants and boots. The goon had been resting on a high stool at a tall table just inside the door. He dropped a pencil onto the table’s small surface and stood when he saw me. As I approached, he placed a hairy hand the size of a catcher’s mitt on my chest gently. I was certain it belied the force he might employ.
“Where you goin’, pally?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Bernoulli. I assume he’s here.”
“Name?”
“Gil Tanner.”
“Park it right there, bub.” He made a call to someone somewhere from a phone sitting on the table. After a brief conversation, he directed me to a nearby staircase. “Mr. Bernoulli is in the office. It’s the first door to the left down the hall at the top of the stairs.” As I passed him, he grabbed my shoulder. Instinctively, I took hold of his arm to ward off a threat. The lug had an arm like a Yule log. He shot me a hard glare, then shifted his eyes to my offending hand. I got the message and released my grip. Trouble with him, I didn’t need at the moment. “If ya knows what’s good for ya, don’t get lost.”
The lug had an arm the size of a Yule log.
The hallway the gorilla mentioned had several doors along its way. I knocked on the one he’d directed me to.
“Come in.”
I opened the door and found Carl sitting at a large desk in a moderately well-appointed office space. My host rose and offered me a chair across the desk from his. When we were seated, we exchanged pleasantries briefly.
I cleared my throat and got down to brass tacks. “I need to fill you in on what I’ve discovered so far.”
My client bristled. His expression darkened. “I’m not looking forward to what I may have to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything but face the truth.” My admonition took Carl by surprise; it was obvious he wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to that way. I held up a hand to signal that I was moving on. He said nothing. With that, I detailed what I had learned thus far regarding the young man Magda was seeing without disclosing the source of my information. I explained Charles’s family background in Chicago, his desire to make a living without assistance from them, which accounted for his adopting a different last name, and the sincere commitment to each other the couple had expressed.
“There. That’s something I object to. Living under an alias is a dishonorable thing. He isn’t–”
“Whoa! Wait a minute, Mr. Bernoulli! With all due respect, how many of your associates have used phony names in the past or maybe are living with them right now.” It was a bold challenge, but I was feeling better about our relationship. “Your statement reminds me of something William Penn wrote many years ago. It concerned a man criticizing others while not conquering his own weaknesses, which he termed the pot calling the kettle black.” Yeah, I read a book once.
He took my admonition in stride and moved on. “Well, what about his job prospects?”
“They’re as solid as the bank is. I asked around.”
“I’m just so afraid of losing Magdalena.”
“You won’t if you give the couple a chance.”
“Charles needs to know I’m going to keep a close eye on him.”
“He won’t care. He loves Magda, and she loves him.”
The mobster went quiet for several minutes. I let him mull the facts I’d presented over. Then, he shot me a steely gaze. “How did you learn so much so quickly? Abe said you were very good at what you do, but this was fast.”
“That’s why wanted to meet with you immediately. Unfortunately, there’s another player you need to be aware of who’s entered the picture. Old man Beaufour hired a private detective named Spencer Ludlow to track his son. Despite the alias, Ludlow located the kid here. I plied him with alcohol last night to loosen his tongue about his role in this situation. The blotto snooper filled me in on all the background I’ve given you. He told me he plans on snatching his quarry tomorrow night and forcing him back home on the Great Lakes Special.”
“So?”
“So, what happens if Magda somehow learns her father knew about and didn’t prevent the kidnapping of her future husband?” Bernoulli’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Yeah. Her word, not mine. As I see it, you have a choice of gaining a son-in-law or losing a daughter. From what you told me in Birnbaum’s office, I think you’d opt for the former. But that’s between you and you conscious.”
“You’ve talked directly to the kids then?”
“I had no alternative. But it wasn’t until after I’d gotten the scoop from Spencer. And they simply confirmed everything he’d related to me.”
“Okay. Hold on a minute.” He reached for his telephone and contacted an operator to place a long-distance call. “Please connect me with Michigan 3270 in Chicago, Illinois. I need to reach Mr. Rico Capezio there. My name is Carl Bernoulli. Yes. I’ll be at this number. Thank you.”
He pegged the receiver and retrieved a cigar from a humidor on his desk. I declined his offer of one and lit a Chesterfield instead. We didn’t have too long to wait for his connection to be put through.
He answered on the second ring, reflecting his anxiety about the circumstances. “Yes, operator, I’m here. Thanks… Rico? … Buon pomeriggio! … Qui va tutto bene. How’s it with you? … Yeah… Okay. Say, I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but something’s come up here, and I need some information. A spostata has blown into town, claiming to represent a mug named Charles Beaufour from Chicago… Oh, yeah?” I listened as some of Bernoulli’s smooth polish gave way to his old-country mobster heritage when speaking with a fellow gangster. “You don’t say? Big money, huh? … So … I see … What’s this Beaufour punk look like? … Okay, that fits. … Yeah, I heard. Good riddance. McSwiggin was always a pain in the ass. … Sure. Okay. That’s all I wanted to know… No, no trouble here. Thanks. Pass my regards to the boss. Ciao.” He disconnected from the call.
“My associate in Chicago confirms everything you’ve been told and then some. Seems when the boy disappeared a little over a year ago, his old man suspected he’d been kidnapped for ransom. He notified the police. Spurred on by a state prosecutor, who most think wants to be governor, the coppers started busting the outfit’s balls. But that proved to be a dead end. Besides, our mugs can make more in a month from rum-running, bathtub gin, and other rackets than they’d ever get from this Beaufour mug.”
Spurred on by a state prosecutor, who most think wants to be governor, the coppers started busting the outfit’s balls.
Carl fiddled with the letter opener on his desk in silence for a minute or two. Then he looked at me. “You seem to have come here with a plan in mind.”
“No, sir. You hired me to investigate Magda’s boyfriend. I’ve done that. I needed to give you my findings and the dilemma their relationship is facing. As they say, the ball is in your court.”
The letter opener garnered another minute or two of Bernoulli’s attention. “Do you know where we can find this Ludlow?”
“Yeah. We’re meeting in the lobby of the Sumner Arms Hotel at four this afternoon.”
He reached for his blower again and dialed a number. “Otero? Yeah, send Carbone and Skeezix to my office.” He rang off, stood, and stared out the window behind his desk. He was wrapped up in his thoughts. I couldn’t read them, whatever they were. I only hoped they were kind toward Charles Beaufour.
The door opened, and two enormous men entered. Now, I’m not a smallish man by any means, but either of this pair could stand toe to toe with Jack Dempsey any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
“Yeah, boss?” the one I later learned was Santino Carbone asked. He had a face like a mud fence. The bruiser wore a suit he appeared to have outgrown years earlier, topped off with a porkpie hat. If he hadn’t been so menacing in appearance, the lid might have been comical on a man of his size. Buster Keaton, he wasn’t. His basilisk eyes shot to me. The goon looked me over as if he were measuring me for a coffin. I admit to holding my breath in his glare.
The second brute had a puss resembling craggy granite. Relatively speaking, his eyes were less threatening; they were only restless.
Finally, Carl spoke, interrupting Carbone’s contemplation of me. “I need you two to go pick up a mug named Ludlow at the Sumner Arms Hotel.”
“He’s about forty,” I put in, “heavy-set, around five feet six–”
“Wait, Tanner,” the boss interrupted. “You’re wasting your breath. You’re going with them.” When I started to respond, he made a motion with his hand that told me to keep still. “Uh-uh. I’ll not have my boys pinched on a kidnapping that turns out to be based on a mistaken identity. You’ll put the finger on him.”
“Should I kiss him on the cheek the way Judas did?”
My client’s voice became hard. “Don’t be a wise head. Nobody’s gonna crucify the mug. I only need to talk with him.” I wasn’t persuaded. He turned to his henchmen. “Grab him with as little trambusto as possible. Bring your pigeon and Tanner back here with you.” As we moved toward the door, Carl gave his minions one last instruction. “I want the mark alive and unharmed. Get me?” When neither replied, he firmly declared, “Do I make myself clear, Santino?”
“As clear as glass, Mr. Bernoulli.”
* * *
The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the back of a black Buick touring car with Skeezix behind the wheel and Santino Carbone on the seat next to him. We rode in silence east along Washington Boulevard to Market Street, where we turned toward the hotel. Suddenly, I felt compelled for some reason–possibly uneasiness over what was to follow–to make conversation.
“Say, Skeezix, how’d you come by that moniker?”
He peeked over his shoulder and chortled. “It’s a whatchamacallit, a… uh… a cowboy slang word for a motherless calf. Everybody knows I really like readin’ Zane Grey stories.” He shrugged. “Plus, I was raised in an orphanage. One of the guys hung it on me a while back. It stuck.”
As he spoke, his fellow gangster shot him sideways looks of disdain. There was probably a story behind them. Carbone was a man of gelid reserve.
* * *
In time, we pulled into a parking spot along the block in front of the Sumner Arms.
It was ten minutes to four by my strap watch when we strolled into the lobby. Skeezix took up a position by the front door. I grabbed a chair next to a large jardiniere and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible. Santino marched past me to the cigarette stand. Apparently, he believed the blonde there had an affinity for mud fences.
Just at the allotted time, the elevator doors opened, and Ludlow emerged. I rose, met him halfway across the lobby, and shook his hand. He carried an overwhelming aroma of rye. My two companions were on my heels. The men towered over their target as they stood on either side of him.
By way of introduction, I said, “Spence, these gentlemen want to have a word with you.”
“Cut the palaver, Tanner!” Carbone murmured roughly. “Truth is, friend, our boss wants to talk to ya. Let’s go pay him a visit,” he finished, as the pair each grasped one of the stunned fellow’s elbows, nearly lifting him from the floor. “And button your lip, if ya know what’s good for ya,” the thug whispered. Ludlow looked my way. I gave him an almost imperceptible head shake. His face went liverish. His chin dropped to his chest. With that, they more or less frog-marched the man through the atrium and out the door to the car.
“And button your lip, if ya know what’s good for ya,” the thug whispered.
On the return trip, I occupied the front seat with Skeezix, who again drove. His partner kept their captive company in the back seat. Silence hung in the air between us. As we sat at a traffic signal on Market, there was a sudden commotion behind me. I turned in time to realize Spencer had thrown his door open to escape. A luggage rack attached to the passenger-side running board thwarted his efforts. Santino had the gumshoe in a headlock, applying hard jabs to his head and face with his massive fists until Ludlow begged him to stop. I looked around to see if any pedestrians or motorists had noticed the ruckus. Fortunately, the vast majority of the retail merchants were closed on Sundays, and the foot traffic was sparse. Apparently, no one had seen or heard anything.
Carbone sat Spencer upright on the seat. The Chicagoan’s head fell over to a shoulder. His face was a welter of blood and abrasions.
My gaze shifted to the gangster beside him. “Mr. Bernoulli isn’t going to be happy with you, Santino.”
“Mind your own damned business, Tanner, or I’ll give you a taste of the same medicine.” He moved his eyes from me to Ludlow. “Besides, he asked for it. I had to keep him in line.”
Except for the occasional whimper from the abductee, we rode to in silence.
* * *
Carbone hauled Spencer up the warehouse stairs and sat him on a chair in the center of Carl’s office. When my client saw the kidnapped man’s face, he scowled at his underling.
“I said no rough stuff, Santino!” he thundered.
“It couldn’t be helped, Mr. Bernoulli,” the goon contended. “This stanna mabaych tried to escape in the middle of Market. There was nothing else I could do to keep him in the Buick.” The thug looked to his partner for corroboration. Skeezix nodded. When Carl glanced my way, I studied my shoes. I was uncertain what the next hour might bring. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to have any part in it.
A low moan from Ludlow refocused attention on him. “Can I have a gasper?” he mumbled through swollen lips.
When his boss jerked his thumb toward the injured man, Skeezix stepped forward to give Spencer a fag, then put a match to it. The private detective drew hard on the butt and let the smoke seep down into his lungs. Nobody spoke as we watched a pale gray tendril curl from his trembling mouth to the ceiling. His eyes, one of which was swelling shut, squinted above the tobacco fume.
Ludlow slowly surveyed the room. His two brutish captors hovered over him. I stood off to the side. He leaned forward wearily, with his hands on his thighs. “Can somebody tell me what this is about?” His gaze settled on the man behind the desk.
Bernoulli rose and walked around to face him. Hiking a hip onto a corner of the desk, he said, “First, allow me to apologize for the treatment you received from my people.” His eyes flicked disapprovingly to Carbone before returning to the beaten man. “Cooperate, and it won’t happen again.” Then he asked, “You are Spencer Ludlow?” His voice was firm but soft, calming. His ‘guest’ nodded. “I understand you are a private investigator out of Chicago, in our fair city to locate a young guy for his family.” Ludlow confirmed Carl’s statement. “You need to comprehend that I have an interest in this matter. I don’t think the guy wants his relatives to know his current circumstances. At least, not yet. Likewise, I am not eager for the information to get to them. Capisci?” The shamus waggled his head.
His eyes flicked disapprovingly to Carbone before returning to the beaten man.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Santoni and Skeezix exchange glances. The former’s expression told me he felt an inward joy at possibly playing a role in the violent demise of the man in the chair. The latter’s look convinced me that, while he was a loyal soldier in the mob, he hadn’t the killer instinct of his partner.
Bernoulli continued. “So tell me about yourself, Mr. Ludlow. Are you married?”
“Divorced. It was a brief love-hate relationship. She hated my drinking and loved to nag me about it.” His speech was labored, as though he’d had a great deal of dental work done recently. He tried to smile at the apparently often-used gag, but the grin lasted only the second before the pain it brought.
“Any kids? Any current love interests?” Spence shook his head slightly.
“Where do you live? I mean, a house, an apartment?”
“I got a cold-water, third-floor walk-up. Three weeks behind on the rent.”
“Doesn’t sound as though you have much to go back to in Chicago. And winter’s coming on. Before you know it, you’ll be up to your ass in snow.” The boss paused to light a cigar. “Have you ever considered the warmer climes of sunny Southern California?” Carbone appeared crestfallen.
Ludlow shot the man in charge a questioning, up-from-under look before Carl continued. “I mean, if you return to your hometown, you may be tempted to deliver or be pressured into delivering the news of what you’ve learned concerning his prodigal son to Mr. Beaufour, hoping for another payoff. And that would be against my interests and unwise. Likely, fatally so for you.”
As Bernoulli stood and returned to his chair, he added menacingly, “You see, I have many, shall we say, friends in Chicago? Especially on the south side. I’m sure you get what that means.” The man holding the floor sighed audibly. “Oh, you may think that you’ll be safe once you arrive in the Windy City. But not true. My tentacles reach far and wide. Not even the North Side Mob will be able to protect you. You’ll never know when one of my associates is standing next to or behind you on a crowded street or in a bar.” Carl glanced at me as he threatened this. Ludlow looked my way. I wasn’t happy with the implication that I’d been working for his mob the entire time, but was in no position to say anything.
“I ask you to recall two examples of men in Chicago who thought they were safe: Dean O’Banion and Charles ‘The Ox’ Reiser.” Bernoulli let that point sink in. “Now, I’m offering you an opportunity for a fresh start in, say, Los Angeles. I have colleagues there, too, who can help you set up a new private detective agency. And I’ll give you five hundred dollars to get you started there, and I’ll pay for your train ticket. Think it over. You’ve got ten minutes to decide.”
Spencer’s face convulsed. However, after scanning the room again, he didn’t need the full time to make up his mind. “Okay, okay.” He acquiesced, raising his hands slightly. “Can I at least get my suitcase from the hotel?”
Carl stubbed out his stogie. “Sure. You might as well take whatever clothes you brought with you along to your new home. My men will drive you to the Sumner Arms, help you gather your stuff, and put you on tonight’s West Coast Limited to Los Angeles.” The mobster wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. “This is the name and telephone number of the man you need to contact in LA. I’ll call him as soon as the boys tell me you’re on board.
“If my people there meet the train and you’re not on it, we’ll put a contract out on you. So don’t climb off at a stop somewhere for a coffee and fail to get back on. And the same thing will happen if you unexpectedly disappear from Los Angeles, say, six months or a year from now. Capisci?”
I was relieved, but not nearly as much as Ludlow was.
Spencer nodded as vigorously as his pain would allow. The two henchmen helped him to his feet. Bernoulli opened a desk drawer and removed a wad of cash. He counted out five hundred dollars and handed it to Santino, telling him to give it to the gumshoe as he boarded the train. The pair of roughnecks departed with their charge in tow. With Ludlow went my sincere hopes that he’d comply with the conditions set by the mobster and stay safe.
The pair of roughnecks departed with their charge in tow.
At the office window, we watched the Buick pull away from the warehouse. When the boiler disappeared around a corner, Carl turned to me. “Now, what Tanner?” he asked as he returned to his desk and sat.
I took the chair I’d occupied earlier in the day. “If it’s up to me, I propose Magda, Charles, you, and I meet somewhere on neutral ground and talk this situation over.” I felt myself slipping into that social worker mode again, but I was determined to see this thing through to its completion.
“To what end?”
“To allow them to explain how they feel. They want desperately for you to let them continue seeing each other openly and without fear of your intervention.”
“You’re a sharp mug on the angles, Tanner.” After a brief pause, Carl said, “I understand neutral territory. My associates and I have ‘negotiated’ a few things with our adversaries. So I get the notion of no home-field advantage. But why are you including yourself?”
“Because, with all due respect, Mr. Bernoulli, I want Charles and Magda to receive a fair shake. I think he already feels at a disadvantage. You can be pretty intimidating sometimes. These two are deeply in love. I’d like to see that relationship have a chance to grow.” I felt like a Daisy when I heard myself speak the words. But, so be it.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as my client processed my proposal.
“All right,” he blurted. “Our parish has a space for meetings we can use. Is that sufficiently neutral for you?”
“That’ll be swell. I just need to round up Magda and Charles.”
“You get Charles there. I’ll take care of Magda and reserve the room for six this evening at Our Lady of Peace.”
“Fair enough. But … no intimidation or pressure on your daughter in the meantime.”
His face reddened. “See here! What kind of father do you think I am?”
“Sorry, Carl,” I said contritely. But he knew the truth behind my statement. He huffed audibly. On that note, we parted.
* * *
It took no small amount of persuasion to convince Beaufour that the scheduled get-together was to be a friendly affair. At a few minutes before six, the four of us met on the steps of Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church.
Inside, we gathered around the table in a conference room. Magda spent the first few minutes stern-faced. She kept her arms folded across her chest, clutching her elbows while Carl expressed his concern about her relationship with the young man from Chicago. “I don’t understand why you felt the need to hide your identity with a phony name.”
“I didn’t want my family to interfere with my life, especially after I met Magda,” he explained, casting a loving look at the girl.
“But how did you get a job at the bank with a false name?” Carl demanded.
The young man stood his ground. He chuckled. “I’ve always been good with figures, with arithmetic. When I first arrived in the city, I began using my mother’s maiden name as my last name. Then, I learned the bank was hiring tellers. Figuring it was a starting point, I went to Mr. Goodman, the bank’s president, and laid my cards on the table regarding my background and my desire to work for him. He checked my story without alerting my family. Or so I thought until the private detective that Mr. Tanner warned us about appeared. Regardless, he told me he valued my math skills and was less concerned over me using an alias. I intend to succeed on my own with no help from my family and none from my father-in-law.
The young man stood his ground.
“This past year, I met Magda here one Sunday during mass. We started seeing each other and fell in love.” The girl laid a reassuring hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Recently, an assistant manager’s position has opened up. Mr. Goodman has promised the job to me. That’s when I decided to ask Magda to marry me.”
Miss Bernoulli suddenly slammed her hand on the table. Everyone froze. She had the floor. Addressing her father, she exclaimed, “I’m tired of being fearful regarding your knowledge of my relationship with Charles!” She paused before continuing in a calmer tone. “I love you, daddy, and want you to accept us as a couple. I love Charles and intend to marry him. Both fathers,” she emphasized, are going to have to accept the inevitable under our terms.” Mr. Bernoulli had nothing to say in response. His daughter had stated her case with concise determination.
The edge of apprehension seemed to leave Bernoulli. He visibly relaxed, drawing a long breath and letting it out silently. Carl’s expression slowly developed into one of admiration for Charles’s determination. I got the impression, for what it was worth, that the mobster understood working against the odds to get to where he wanted to be.
The discussion ended with plans to contact the Beaufours in Chicago and arrange a meeting between the two families, either there or in our city as Bernoulli’s guests. I left with Carl and Charles shaking hands, followed by Magda and her father hugging each other, their eyes filled with tears.
There wasn’t much drama to the conclusion of the case. Again, luck had played its hand in my work, but as I’ve said before, “All’s Swell That Ends Well.”
I drove to my boardinghouse, contemplating the moral ambiguities of my chosen profession: I’d burgled Charles’s flat and helped kidnap a fellow shamus. Both with no repercussions. Both to achieve my client’s objective. I asked myself how long my luck would hold on that trajectory?
Epilogue: A week or so after that Sunday night confab, I ran into Carl Bernoulli in Cappacino’s Restaurant. He was having dinner with what I suspected were three of his ‘business associates.’ He had Mama Cappacino ask me to join them. Since I was eating alone, I did.
My former client introduced me around the table, using only his companions’ first names. Then he told me how happy he’d been with my work for him. A get-together with Charles’s family had been planned for the following week in Chicago. He joked that he’d be combining pleasure with ‘business.’ The other men chuckled pointedly at his use of the word.
After a minute of small talk, Bernoulli divulged that there was a vacant office in the Belvedere Building on the corner of Washington Boulevard and Orchard Street. He told me the space, which wasn’t large, had been rented by a fellow who’d met with a sudden ‘accident’ and no longer needed it. The others present again chortled at the term accident. He didn’t elaborate on the story behind the guy’s ‘mishap.’ And I knew better than to ask. Carl advised me that the rent had been paid until the end of the year. It was mine if I wanted it, with the caveat that I’d start paying for the place after that time.
I hesitated. The idea of a guy with Bernoulli’s connections having any kind of leverage over me didn’t sit well. The gangster read my thoughts and assured me there were no strings attached. He felt that, since I’d done him such a good turn in reconciling him, Magda, and Beaufour, he’d reciprocate with the offer. After he put it that way, I recalled Abe Birnbaum’s words concerning Carl being a man of principle. I jumped at the chance to operate my private detective racket from a legitimate workplace. When I asked who I needed to contact, he explained he owned the structure, though he might sell it soon. But there was no need for any further action on my part. He guaranteed the lease would be renewed if I wanted it. He’d get the keys to the building and the office to me. We shook on it.
Several days later, Carbone showed up at my rooming house with the keys. Seeing him again was as welcome as finding a flour ball in the gravy.
My new accommodations were bare bones: a desk, a telephone, a filing cabinet, a freestanding hat rack, and a water cooler, all of which sat on a timeworn linoleum floor. It wasn’t anything glamorous, but it was mine. The place had one saving grace: a small bathroom. It’d work for the time being.
* * *
Nearly a year later, word came back from California that Spencer Ludlow had changed his name and landed a job with a major motion picture studio. He’d become a film mogul’s right-hand man for fixing and / or hiding problems in the movie colony. Rumors circulated he had dried out several marquee alkies, halted a drug-addicted rising star’s supply, and concealed news of at least two starlet abortions. As I said, they were only whispers. The full truth of Ludlow’s handiwork there is lost to history in boozy memories, sensationalized newspaper fiction, self-serving lies and half-truths, political ambitions, false statements made under duress, and facts twisted to fit pre-conceived notions. ©