by Holly Baxter
Supply and demand, her cousin Hugh had said last night. “That’s what governs price, Ellie. Supply and demand. There were gangs in Chicago long before Prohibition came in. But they weren’t organized the way Torrio and Capone have done it. Now crime is a business, run on business lines. If Prohibition is repealed, then they’ll soon find other games to play, believe me, because the structure is already there, waiting to be used. They’ll never go away.”
Hugh was a newspaper reporter, and a hardened cynic at twenty-eight. His job on the Tribune gave him plenty of support for his attitude, as he mostly covered crime these days, and the bootleggers were the major contributors to that particular beat. Ever since the shooting of a minor Tribune reporter named Jake Lingle, the Tribune had been on a crusade against the Syndicates, even though it later emerged that Lingle had been in their pay as well as the paper’s. Crime and corruption were endemic in Chicago. The city had become famous for it. Or infamous.
Elodie loved to hear Hugh’s stories—the ones they couldn’t or wouldn’t print for fear of angering the “wrong people.” In her eyes, Hugh was just about as glamorous as a man could get, even though she had known him all her life. Somehow in the last few years he had acquired a patina, a gloss of knowingness that fascinated her. She felt quite naive by comparison, and wasn’t sure if it was natural or if Hugh deliberately made her feel that way. He did like to show off a bit, she reluctantly conceded. Still, he was fun, and he took her to places she would never see otherwise. But she sometimes wished that people would realize that Chicago was a very big city, also populated by good people, nice people, ordinary people. Not everybody was into crime, although it sometimes seemed like that. There were still legitimate businessmen, still happy families, still a reasonable life to lead without being involved with Them.
“Okay, I’ll help out at Mr. Lee’s party.” Elodie felt suddenly brave. There was surely more to life than meatloaf twice a week and writing copy for wart removers. And it would help her to forget all about what might have happened on the tenth floor last night. “Do we have to dress up in maid’s uniforms or anything?”
“No, just wear black.” Bernice grinned at her friend in the mirror, and Elodie grinned back. Elodie never wore anything but black. People assumed she was trying to be mysterious and glamorous, but the fact was, black didn’t show dirt, and was the cheapest material to buy because people needed it for mourning. And there had been a lot of mourning in Chicago the past few years. Her sister Marie made all the family’s clothes, and all four of the sisters had a weekly dry-cleaning session in the basement that left them reeling from the gasoline fumes. But it saved a lot of money. And it meant they were always well turned-out.
She hardly minded at all that some wags in the office referred to her as “The Widow.” In fact, she rather liked it. It made her feel special, which she definitely knew she wasn’t. In contrast, Bernice’s taste in clothes ran to the flamboyant and colorful. Indeed, today she was wearing a silk crepe dress in green with lots of little dots and arrows in red and purple. It had a cross-over ruffle-edged collar and long fitted sleeves. It must have cost her at least eight dollars, Elodie thought. She was a little envious because Bernice didn’t really need to work. Her father was an undertaker and people would always be dying. Bernice could spend all her earnings on herself, and did. Her claims to poverty were valid solely because every cent she earned went onto her back.
Elodie Browne and Bernice Barker made an odd pair. Their friendship had begun when they ran into one another in the lobby one morning. They had attended the same high school, but had been mere nodding acquaintances there—now they each had found one friendly face in the huge population of the Gower Building. Bernice had many acquaintances, but surprisingly few friends. She seemed to find some sort of anchor in Elodie’s serious outlook on life, but spent most of the time trying to tease her out of it. For Elodie, Bernice had an air of almost frenetic excitement that amused and stimulated her. This party, for instance. A little bit of wickedness was just what she needed in her life. She had always been a “good” girl, working hard and seriously. Bernice was full of gossip and had a robust sense of humor that secretly tickled Elodie. She wished that she could be more buoyant and carefree, like her friend, but something had always held her back. Now she felt quite brave in taking on this extra job for the mysterious Mr. Lee and his rich friends. What would it be like?
They took the stairs to the lobby and waited for one of the many elevators banked on either side of the entrance hall. The elevator doors and their surrounds were one of the famous features of the Gower Building. They were of pale brass, elaborately engraved to the design of a famous French artist. They and the other golden decorations in the entrance were kept immaculately bright, and people often snapped pictures of them.
While the upper floors of the building were relatively austere, albeit lined in the best marble, the echoing C-shaped lobby of the Gower Building was bright with expanses of glass behind which were exclusive shops offering wares far beyond the reach of the thousands of employees who actually worked in the building. Despite the Depression, there were still wealthy women who could afford to sweep in and shop in the Gower lobby and concourses. For the moment it was quite fashionable to do so.
That was why, in the central area of the main entrance, there was an electrically rotating podium that held constantly changing displays of things of interest to these high-spending visitors. Today there was a splendid white Lagonda on show, with deep red leather seats, big bug-eyed headlights, and highly polished chrome trim. A pair of equally polished and beautifully dressed models with marcelled silvery-blonde hair moved around the car, pointing out its finer features to any who enquired. Last week the display had been a stand of fine china from England watched over by a real butler in tails, and the week before that some odd shiny metal sculptures that nobody understood but which were supposed to be the latest thing on the Continent. Elodie found these displays both fascinating and annoying—they might amuse the rich, but they made her feel poorer than ever.
Bernice got off on the tenth floor. (Elodie sneaked a quick look through the open elevator doors and, sure enough, there were the dark red leather chairs she’d seen the night before. But no dead bodies.) She continued on up to Fifteen, which was fully occupied by Adcock and Ash Advertising Agency.
Elodie’s job was junior copywriter there. She mostly did “dealer blocks” and catalogues, but had recently received kudos for naming a new brassiere and giving it a snappy slogan: THE BANDIT—LATEST THING IN HOLDUPS. Indeed, she was also gaining the wary attention of senior copywriters as in meetings she exhibited a quick wit and a way with words that put them on their guard. She had ambitions, most of which presently centered on the work she had come in so late the previous evening to deliver.
She had a very small office in the back of the floor, while the Creative Group heads and the top copywriters had big offices just off the main lobby. This carpeted area was open in the center, with the offices lining each side. Every time she walked through to her little cubbyhole, she would make a fresh choice as to which office she would like for her own. All were paneled in dark wood with pebbled glass above on the interior side, and each had a window that looked out over the lake. Her office had no windows and no proper door. But it was hers, and she was grateful. The secretaries had to sit out in the open, outside each senior copywriter’s or group head’s office. As she walked on, the lush burgundy carpet gave way to dull grey linoleum. She was back where she belonged. She slipped into her rather unsteady typist’s chair, looked at the framed picture on her desk, and sighed.
“I’m doing this for you,” she said to the faces that looked back at her. “Otherwise, I swear I would run away to the circus.”
Elodie Browne was the third eldest of four sisters. She was the first one to go to college—the oldest, Marie, had only finished high school, and the next oldest, Maybelle, had chosen to go to secretarial school. The youngest, Alyce, was still in high
school. Their late father had left enough money in trust for them all to be educated, but only Elodie had been able to take full advantage of it. He had died in 1927, far too young, but had left them seemingly well provided for. Then the Depression hit, and there was no longer enough to send Alyce to university. Mrs. Browne was a teacher, and Marie ran the house. Maybelle worked at a fancy studio style magazine as personal assistant to a Very Important Man. Alyce mostly giggled and was adored by them all.
Fortunately, their house on Kercheval had belonged to their grandparents, and there was no longer a mortgage on it, so they were spared that particular burden. But the running and upkeep of it was expensive. There were three sets of wages coming in now, but for a while there Mrs. Browne drew no salary because the city couldn’t afford to pay its teachers. She, like many of her colleagues, had gone on teaching, just the same. Maybelle and Elodie contributed all they could, but the old house was slowly deteriorating. So much needed to be done. On the outside it needed paint—on the inside it was shabby but familiar, and filled with warmth and laughter. Well, most of the time.
Elodie shook herself out of her reverie and picked up her pencil. Outside in the hall people were laughing and talking, coming back from lunch, putting off the afternoon’s work just a little longer. She had half a catalogue still to finish, and was about to settle down to it, when she heard someone speaking as coworkers passed by.
“Did you hear about the fuss on the tenth floor?” Elodie stiffened.
There was a murmur of other voices as the first one continued. “Some guy got robbed or something. Some kind of small-time importer who had one of those offices at the back? Place was a mess and there was blood on the floor. Nobody’s seen him today, and they can’t find him. They’re covering it up, but I know one of the security guys, and he told me all about it. The police are pretending not to be on hand, but they’re there all right, keeping their heads down. It looks pretty funny. Like maybe there’s something more about the guy they want kept quiet. Damndest thing.” The other voices murmured on, their tone both shocked and fascinated. Slowly the voices died away as whoever they belonged to moved down the hall.
Elodie stared at her hands. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of her desk. She had been right. Something had happened on the tenth floor. Something terrible. If they were covering it up, that’s why Bernice hadn’t heard anything about it. She said she had worked in the mimeographing room all morning, printing out inventory sheets for Mr. Lee, so she wouldn’t have been as privy to rumors as usual. Elodie remembered seeing the purple inkstains on her fingers at lunch. Normally Bernice, like all the other secretaries in the building, was among the first to know everything that was going on. There was a reception desk opposite the elevator banks on each floor, and it was a clearing house for gossip. The floor receptionists were the queens of information, both accurate and inaccurate. Poor Bernice, she would be livid when she realized she had missed something.
Elodie wished she had missed whatever it was. She definitely had been on the tenth floor last night. She had heard angry voices, the crash of furniture, the frightened cry and then the footsteps and the dragging sound. And when the elevator doors had finally opened to her panicky summons, she had been perfectly visible in the light that poured out.
Had she been seen?
Chapter Two
All the way home on the streetcar, Elodie was worried. She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell the police what she had heard? But it was nothing, nothing at all. Just noises, a muffled word or two, a cry. They would demand to know why she had been there, maybe they would grill her like in the movies, suspecting she knew more than she did.
Maybe they would think she had something to do with it.
She would just have to pretend it had never happened. When Bernice found out, as she would eventually, Elodie would swear her to silence. Bernice would understand. One of the voices outside Elodie’s office had said the missing man was an importer. That could mean anything. It certainly could mean Them. Capone, Moran and the rest. Everybody in the city was afraid of Them. Their tentacles were everywhere, nobody knew who worked for Them and who didn’t, not for sure, anyway. And people died violently every day, she knew that, died for no obvious reason. Machine guns. Knives. Beatings. Secrets. Whispers.
Should she tell Hugh? Some of the stories he had told her came into her mind, terrible stories about terrible people. People who might seem very ordinary, and yet were involved in drugs, gambling, prostitution, bootlegging. It could be anyone. A neighbor, even a friend, familiar on the outside, but hiding another secret personality, greedy for easy money, willing to do anything for it in these days of deep Depression. Suddenly she felt hot, sweaty, then cold and shaky. What if someone on this very car was watching her? Maybe that man, or that woman. Maybe she had been seen last night, even identified. Maybe even now somebody was giving the order to—
“Kercheval, Union, and Trenton,” called the conductor, ringing the bell as the streetcar slowed to a stop with a screech of metal on metal. Elodie stood up and took a deep breath, lifted her chin. She was being perfectly silly. Nobody was watching her. She knew most of the people on the streetcar by sight, travelling the same way as they all did most mornings and evenings. There was no sinister new face hiding behind a newspaper. Nobody looking anything but tired and worried at the end of another hard day. As she was.
She stepped down and walked across the road to the sidewalk, turning down her street and passing the familiar houses she knew so well. The Addisons’, the Schmidts’, the Vanderwalls’, the Kloskys’, the Lomaxes’, the Pellinis’, the Andersons’. Were there secrets within? But each house had the windows open to catch the first fresh warm breezes of spring, and from every single one of them came the sound of the same show. “Amos and Andy.” She found it hard to believe that crooks listened to that amiable pair of “black” men who supposedly owned and mis-ran the Fresh Air Taxi Company, so called because its lone taxi had no windshield. But hearing it meant Elodie was late—she usually got home about ten minutes before “Amos and Andy” came on. Like many folks, she kept time by what was on the radio.
Radio filled the air these days, gave entertainment and solace to all who listened. She loved it just as much as her little sister Alyce did. Indeed, Alyce organized her after-school hours and weekends around what was on the radio, and in the Browne household it was never really off. Whether it was music with the Chase and Sanborne hour, or the adventures of Fu Manchu, the humor of the bickering Easy Aces, the scary mysteries of The Shadow, or the household tips of Aunt Sammy on the Housekeeper’s Half Hour, the whole family had their favorites.
And it was free.
In 1931, all you needed to escape from the harsh reality of hard times was a radio and an imagination.
Elodie longed to get into radio. Writing advertising copy for rubber boots and headache remedies was not the height of her ambition. That was why she had been so eager to take part in the agency’s in-house competition to dream up a program idea for their biggest client, Leatherlux Luggage. And she had come up with a pip. Or, at least, she thought so. She would know on Friday, when Mr. Herschel announced the winner.
She reached their front path and turned in, mounting the wooden steps to the porch slowly, trying to catch the last few minutes of “Amos and Andy.” The living room windows were open, and she could hear Alyce giggling beyond the curtains. Elodie opened the front door to the closing theme tune, and grinned at Alyce, who was sitting beside the radio.
“Was it good?”
“Sure. They’re always good. The Widow Parker is after Andy, again. That woman is a menace, somebody ought to shoot her.” Alyce took the radio very seriously.
Elodie took off her hat and coat and hung them up. Closing the closet door she looked around. The green flowered curtains, the worn blue velvet of the armchairs and sofa, the battered side tables, the lamps that Alyce was now turning on were all so wonderfully, comfortably familiar. The
re was singing upstairs—probably Maybelle getting ready to go out on a date. Something smelled wonderful, so Marie was making dinner, and she could see her mother, head bent over some papers as she checked essays on the dining room table under the big shaded light.
Elodie sighed. She was home. She was safe.
Everything was going to be just fine.
***
The room was dark, but darker still were the shadows of the men standing around their victim as he sat under the glare of an overhead light. The atmosphere was pungent with strange smells that penetrated every time he tried to draw breath through his bloodied nose. Before him stood the small man the others called Junfa.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.” For the twentieth time or more. “I don’t know.”
The Junfa struck again, hard and fast. More pain. More blood. More despair.
“You arranged it. We have confirmation.”
“I made the initial contact. After that it was up to the General.” The words were slurred through his swollen lips and broken front teeth.
“And where is the General now?”
Wearily, “I don’t know.”
Again and again, the blows, the pain. He was not a brave man, and he knew that if he had information for them he would by now have willingly given it just to stop this terrible beating. For it was not only the Junfa who struck, but others had struck the previous night in his office. His entire body ached, straining involuntarily against the ropes that tied his hands behind the chairback, pulling against them with every blow. The Junfa leaned forward, every vicious word carried on foul breath, the sheen of sweat on his cheekbones gleaming under the light. His pleasure in causing pain and fear was very evident. “If you know nothing, then killing you will lose us nothing.”
The man in the chair closed his eyes, but did not speak.
The Junfa straightened. “Take him away, I am sick of the sight of him. Put Soo to guard him, he’s good for nothing else. And bring me a pipe, I want to think.” He turned away and stared down at the altar. Behind him he heard them dragging the now unconscious man out.
