And that was my logical first stop. I took the El over to the hospital, a block-square graystone at Harrison and Ogden; this job was strictly a West Side affair.
Dr. Catherine Wynekoop was a beautiful woman. Her dark hair was pulled back from her pale, pretty face; in her doctor’s whites, she sat in the hospital cafeteria stirring her coffee as we spoke.
“I was on duty here when Mother called,” she said. “She said, ‘Something terrible has happened at home…it’s Rheta…she’s dead…she has been shot.’”
“How did she sound? Hysterical? Calm?”
“Calm, but a shocked sort of calm.” She sighed. “I went home immediately. Mother seemed all right, but I noticed her gait was a little unsteady. Her hands were trembling, her face was flushed. I helped her to a chair in the dining room and rushed out in the kitchen for stimuli. I put a teaspoonful of aromatic spirits of ammonia in water and had her drink it.”
“She hadn’t called anyone bt you, as yet?”
“No. She said she’d just groped her way up the stairs, that on the way everything went black, she felt dizzy, that the next thing she knew she was at the telephone calling me.”
“Did you take charge, then?”
A half-smile twitched at her cheek. “I guess I did. I called Mr. Ahearn.”
“Mr. Ahearn?”
“The undertaker. And I called Dr. Berger, our family physician.”
“You really should have called the coroner.”
“Mother later said that she’d asked me to, on the phone, but I didn’t hear that or understand her or something. We were upset. Once Dr. Berger and Mr. Ahearn arrived, the coroner’s office was called.”
She kept stirring her coffee, staring into it.
“How did you and Rheta get along?”
She lifted her eyebrows in a shrug. “We weren’t close. We had little in common. But there was no animosity.”
She seemed goddamn guarded to me; I decided to try and knock her wall down, or at least jar some stones loose.
I said: “Do you think your mother killed Rheta?”
Her dark eyes rose to mine and flashed. “Of course not. I never heard my mother speak an unkind word to or about Rheta.” She searched her mind for an example, and came up with one: “Why—whenever Mother bought me a dress, she bought one for Rheta, also.”
She returned her gaze to the coffee, which she stirred methodically.
Then she continued: “She was worried about Rheta, actually. Worried about the way Earle was treating her. Worried about all the…well, about the crowd he started to run around with down at the World’s Fair. Mother asked me to talk to him about it.”
“About what, exactly?”
“His conduct.”
“You mean, his girl friends.”
She looked at me sharply. “Mr. Heller, my understanding is that you are in our family’s employ. Some of these questions of yours seem uncalled for.”
I gave her my most charming smile. “Miss Wynekoop…doctor…I’m like you. Sometimes I have to ask unpleasant questions, if I’m going to make the proper diagnosis.”
She considered that a moment, then smiled. It was a honey of a smile, making mine look like the shabby sham it was.
“I understand, Mr. Heller.” She rose. She’d never touched the coffee once. “I’m afraid I have afternoon rounds to make.”
She extended her hand; it was delicate, but her grasp had strength, and she had dignity. Hard to believe she was Earle’s sister.
I had my own rounds to make, and at a different hospital; it took a couple of streetcars to do the job. The County Jail was a grim, low-slung graystone lurking behind the Criminal Courts Building. This complex of city buildings was just south of a West Side residential area, just eight blocks south of Douglas Park. Old home week for me.
Alice Wynekoop was sitting up in bed, reading a medical journal, when I was led to her by a matron. She was in the corner and had much of the ward to herself; the beds on either side were empty.
She was of average size, but frail-looking; she appeared much older than her sixty-three years, her flesh freckled with liver spots, her neck creped. The skin of her face had a wilted look, dark patches under the eyes, saggy jowls.
But her eyes were dark and sharp. And her mouth was a stern line.
“Are you a policeman?” she asked. Her tone was neutral.
I had my hat in hand. “I’m Nathan Heller,” I said. “I’m the private investigator your son hired.”
She smiled in a business-like way, extended her hand for me to shake, which I did. Surprisingly strong for such a weak-looking woman.
“Pull up a chair, Mr. Heller,” she said. Her voice was clear and crisp. Someone very different than the woman she outwardly appeared to be lived inside that worn-out body.
I sat. “I’m going to be asking around about some things…inquire about burglaries in your neighborhood and such.”
She nodded, twice, very business-like. “I’m certain the thief was after narcotics. In fact, some narcotics were taken, but I keep precious few in my surgery.”
“Yes. I see. What about the gun?”
“It was my husband’s. We’ve had it for years. I’ve never fired it in my life.”
I took out my small spiral notebook. “I know you’re weary of telling it, but I need to hear your story. Before I go poking around the edges of this case, I need to understand the center of it.”
She nodded and smiled. “What would you like to know, exactly?”
“When did you last see your daughter-in-law?”
“About three p.m. that Tuesday. She said she was going for a walk with Mrs. Donovan…”
“Who?”
“A neighbor of ours who was a good friend to the child. Verna Donovan. She’s a divorcee; they were quite close.”
I wrote the name down. “Go on.”
“Anyway, Rheta said something about going for a walk with Mrs. Donovan. She also said she might go downtown and get some sheet music. I urged her to go out in the air, as it was a fine day, and gave her money for the music. After she left, I went for a walk myself, through the neighborhood. It was an usually beautiful day for November, pleasantly warm.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I returned at about four forty-five p.m. I came in the front door. Miss Shaunesey arrived from school about six o’clock. I wasn’t worried then about Rheta’s absence, because I expected her along at any minute. I prepared dinner for the three of us—Miss Shaunesey, Rheta and melf—and set the table. Finally, Miss Shaunesey and I sat down to eat…both wondering where Rheta was, but again, not terribly worried.”
“It wasn’t unusual for her to stay out without calling to say she’d miss supper?”
“Not in the least. She was quiet, but rather…self-absorbed. If she walked by a motion-picture marquee that caught her eye, she might just wander on in, without a thought about anyone who might be waiting for her.”
“She sounds inconsiderate.”
Alice Wynekoop smiled tightly, revealing a strained patience. “She was a strange, quiet girl. Rather moody, I’m afraid. She had definite feelings of inferiority, particularly in regards to my daughter, Catherine, who is after all a physician. But I digress. At about a quarter to seven, I telephoned Mrs. Donovan and asked her if she had been with Rheta. She said she hadn’t seen her since three o’clock, but urged me not to worry.”
“Were you worried?”
“Not terribly. At any rate, at about seven o’clock I asked Miss Shaunesey to go and get a prescription filled for me. She left the house and I remained there. She returned about an hour later and was surprised that Rheta had not yet returned. At this point, I admit I was getting worried about the girl.”
“Tell me about finding the body.”
She nodded, her eyes fixed. “Miss Shaunesey and I sat and talked in the library. Then about eight thirty she asked me to get her some medicine for an upset stomach. I went downstairs to the examination room to get the medicine fr
om the cabinet.” She placed a finger against one cheek, thoughtfully. “I recall now that I thought it odd to find the door of the examination room closed, as it was usually kept open. I turned the knob and slipped my hand inside to find the electric switch.”
“And you found her.”
She shuddered, but it seemed a gesture, not an involuntary response. “It is impossible for me to describe my feelings when I saw Rheta lying there under that flood of light! I felt as if I were somewhere else. I cannot find words to express my feelings.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I knew something had to be done at once, and I called my daughter, Catherine, at the county hospital. I told her Rheta was dead. She was terribly shocked, of course. I…I thought I had asked Catherine to notify the coroner and to hurry right over. It seemed ages till she got there. When she did arrive, I had her call Dr. Berger and Mr. Ahearn. It wasn’t until some time after they arrived that I realized Catherine had not called the coroner as I thought I’d instructed her. Mr. Ahearn then called the authorities.”
I nodded. “All right. You’re doing fine, doctor. Now tell me about your son and his wife.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t a happy union, was it.”
Her smile was a sad crease in her wrinkled face. “At one time it was. Earle went with me to a medical convention in Indianapolis in…must have been ’29. Rheta played the violin as part of the entertainment, there. They began to correspond. A yr later they were wed.”
“And came to live with you.”
“Earle didn’t have a job—you know, he’s taken up photography of late, and has had several assignments, I’m really very proud—and, well…anyway. The girl was barely nineteen, when they married. I redecorated and refurnished a suite of rooms on the second floor for my newlyweds. She was a lovely child, beautiful red hair, and of course, Earle…he’s as handsome a boy as ever walked this earth.”
“But Rheta was moody…?”
“Very much so. And obsessed with her health. Perhaps that’s why she married into the Wynekoop family. She was fearful of tuberculosis, but there were no indications of it at all. In the last month of her life, she was rather melancholy, of a somewhat morbid disposition. I discussed with her about going out into the open and taking exercise. We discussed that often.”
“You did not kill your daughter-in-law.”
“No! Mr. Heller, I’m a doctor. My profession, my life, is devoted to healing.”
I rose. Slipped the notebook in my pocket. “Well, thank you, Dr. Wynekoop. I may have a few more questions at a later date.”
She smiled again, a warm, friendly smile, coming from so controlled a woman. “I’d be pleased to have your company. And I appreciate your help. I’m very worried about the effect this is having on Earle.”
“Dr. Wynekoop, with all due respect…my major concern is the effect this going to have on you, if I can’t find the real killer.”
Her smile disappeared and she nodded sagely. She extended her hand for a final handshake, and I left her there.
I used a pay phone in the visitor’s area to call Sergeant Lou Sapperstein at Central Headquarters in the Loop. Lou had been my boss on the pickpocket detail. I asked him to check for me to see what officer in the Fillmore district had caught the call the night of the Wynekoop homicide.
“That’s Stege’s case,” Lou said. Sapperstein was a hardnosed, fair-minded balding cop of about forty-five seasoned years. “You shouldn’t mess in Stege’s business. He doesn’t like you.”
“God you’re a great detective, picking up on a detail like that. Can you get me the name?”
“Five minutes. Stay where you are.”
I gave him the pay phone number and he called back in a little over three minutes.
“Officer Raymond March, detailed with squad fifteen,” he said.
I checked my watch; it was after four.
“He’s on duty now,” I said. “Do me another favor.”
“Why don’t you get a goddamn secretary?”
“You’re a public servant, aren’t you? So serve, already.”
“So tell me what you want, already.”
“Get somebody you trust at Fillmore to tell Officer March to meet me at the drug store on the corner of Madison and Kedzie. Between six and seven.”
“What’s in it for Officer March?”
“Supper and a fin.”
“Why not,” Lou said, a shrug in his voice.
He called me back in five or six minutes and said the message would be passed.
I hit the streetcars again and was back on Monroe Street by a quarter to five. It was getting dark already, and colder.
Mrs. Verna Donovan lived in the second-floor two-flat of a graystone three doors down from the Wynekoop mansion. The smell of corned beef and cabbage cooking seeped from under the door.
I knocked.
It took a while, but a slender, attractive woman of perhaps thirty in a floral dress and a white apron opened the door wide.
“Oh!” she said. Her face was oblong, her eyes a luminous brown, her hair another agreeable shade of brown, cut in a bob that was perhaps too young for her.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Donovan?”
“Yes, I am.” She smiled shyly. “Sorry for my reaction—I was expecting my son. We’ll be eating in about half an hour…”
“I know this is a bad time to come calling. Perhaps I could arrange another time…”
“What is your business here?”
I gave her one of my A-1 Detective Agency cards. “I’m working for the Wynekoops. Nathan Heller, president of the A-1 agency. I’m hoping to find Rheta’s killer.
Her eyes sparkled. “Well, come in! If you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen while I get dinner ready…”
“Not at all,” I said, following her through a nicely but not lavishly furnished living room, overseen by an elaborate print of the Virgin Mary, and back to a good-size blue and white kitchen.
She stood at the counter making cole slaw while I sat at the kitchen table nearby.
“We were very good friends, Rheta and I. She was a lovely girl, talented, very funny.”
“Funny? I get the impression she was a somber girl.”
“Around the Wynekoops she was. They’re about as much fun as falling down the stairs. Do you think the old girl killed her?”
“What do you think?”
“I could believe it of Earle. Dr. Alice herself, well…I mean, she’s a doctor. She’s aloof, and she and Rheta were anything but close, of course. But kill her?”
“I’m hearing that the doctor gave Rheta gifts, treated her like a family member.”
Verna Duncan shrugged, putting some muscle into her slaw-making efforts. “There was no love lost between them. You’re aware that Earle ran around on her?”
“Yes.”
̶
“Well, that sort of thing is hard on a girl’s self-esteem. I helped her get over it as much as I could.”
“How?”
She smiled slyly over her shoulder. “I’m a divorcee, Mr. Heller. And divorcees know how to have a good time. Care for a taste?”
She was offering me a forkful of slaw.
“That’s nice,” I said, savoring it. “Nice bite to it. So, you and Rheta went out together? Was she seeing other men, then?”
“Of course she was. Why shouldn’t she?”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Her music teacher. Violin instructor. Older man, very charming. But he died of a heart attack four months ago. It hit her hard.”
“How did she handle it?”
“Well, she didn’t shoot herself in the back over it, if that’s what you’re thinking! She was morose for about a month…then she just started to date all of a sudden. I encouraged her, and she came back to life again.”
“Why didn’t she just divorce Earle?”
“Why, Mr. Heller…she was a good Catholic girl.”
She asked me to stay for supper, but I declined, despite the tempting aroma of her corned beef and cabbage, and the tang of her slaw. I had another engagement, at a drugstore at Madison and Kedzie.
While I waited for Officer March to show up, I questioned the pharmacist behind the back counter.
“Sure I remember Miss Shaunesey stopping by that night,” he said. “But I don’t understand why she did.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, Dr. Wynekoop herself stopped in a week before, to fill a similar prescription, and I told her our stock was low.”
“She probably figured you’d’ve got some in by then,” I said.
“The doctor knows we only get a shipment in once a month.”
I was mulling that over at the lunch counter when Officer March arrived. He was in his late twenties and blond and much too fresh-faced for a Chicago cop.
“Nate Heller,” he said, with a grin. “I’ve heard about you.”
We shook hands.
“Don’t believe everything Captain Stege tells you,” I said.
He took the stool next to me, took off his cap. “I know Stege thinks you’re poison. But that’s ‘cause he’s an old-timer. Me, I’m glad you helped expose those two crooked bastards.”
“Let’s not get carried away, Officer March. What’s the point of being a cop in this town if you can’t take home a little graft now and then?”
“Sure,” March said. “But those guys were killers. West Side bootleggers.”
“I’m a West Side boy myself,” I said.
“So I understand. So what’s your interest in the Wynekoop case?”
“The family hired me to help clear the old gal. Do you think she did it?”
He made a clicking sound in his cheek. “Hard one to call. She seemed pretty shook up, at the scene.”
“Shook up like a grieved family member, or a murderer?”
“I couldn’t read it.”
“Order yourself a sandwich and then tell me about it.”
He did. The call had come in at nine-fifty-nine over the police radio, about five blocks away from where he and his partner were patrolling.
“The girl’s body was lying on that table,” March said. “She was resting on her left front side with her left arm under her, with the right forearm extending upward so that her hand was about on a level with her chin, with her head on a white pillow. Her face was almost out of sight, but I could see that her mouth and nose were resting on a wet, crumpled towel. She’d been bleeding from the mouth.”
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