Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “You saw her there? When she was in the room?”

  “Yes, just before we met in the mayor’s office.”

  “This was a fucking test, wasn’t it? You wanted to see how I’d react when I saw Kitty. You are a cruel bastard.”

  Roberts held out his hand for the vial. Alfano passed it to him, and he held it under his nose and inhaled.

  “I do not like to see women murdered,” Alfano said. “I don’t like to see anyone murdered, but this killing was calculated and if you want cruel, this is it. The murderer planned this out; a gun was brought to the room, she knew the killer, she let him in, there was no forced entry. Then she had a scarf tied around her neck after she was killed.”

  “What scarf? I didn’t see a scarf.”

  “The doc removed it. There was one wrapped around her neck.” Alfano took back the smelling salts. “From your reaction, I’m not sure you have the stones to do this.”

  “Sure about what?” Roberts said. “Whether I’m the killer? Last night I was in Evanston at the Varsity Theatre until almost midnight. I signed autographs and talked with fans. I took an early train back into Chicago. Right now, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three days.”

  “That why the bennies? Something to keep you awake?” Alfano said.

  “How the hell did you find those?”

  “When you fainted, I checked your pockets.”

  “I have a prescription,” Roberts said.

  “I don’t care. Was Melnik on the train?”

  “Not that I remember. He and Maxime left early, around eight o’clock after the movie was over. Probably took the limo. I hung around.”

  “Did you get lucky?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Just a guy question, big boy. A good-looking stud like you, girls three deep looking for a signature. Maybe some were there to count coup.”

  “Count coup?”

  Alfano shrugged. “There are women who collect things. Screwing a guy, especially a celebrity, puts a notch in their garter belt—so to speak.”

  The color quickly returned to Roberts’s face.

  “I suppose you don’t have a name to go with those rosy cheeks?”

  “Fuck you, Detective.”

  “Let’s be clear. I’m fairly confident you didn’t kill Kitty Hill, and after a call to the theatre in Evanston, your story has been confirmed. In fact, the woman my sergeant spoke with offered this little tidbit. She said to make sure I tell you: thanks for the magical evening.”

  “I’d slug you if I could,” Roberts said.

  “Now, there’s the actor I admire.”

  Alfano pulled the car up to the curb in front of the Palmer House. Without waiting for Henry, the doorman, Roberts climbed out and disappeared through the bronze doors.

  ✥✥✥

  An hour later, Alfano walked down the midway of the Century of Progress World’s Fair. The midway titillated and tempted those who traveled a thousand miles to see both the exotic future and the tempting fan dances of Sally Rand. A ticket to the fair was an escape from the dreariness of the Depression. The midway bisected the fair; along its flanks were concessions manned by American Indians, a roller coaster, and an overhead sky ride. There was a Living Freak Show with dwarfs, Siamese twins, fat ladies, tattooed men, and other sorts of weird humans, all on display for a nickel. There was even a woman who could swallow her own nose; Sergeant McDunnah was an unbeliever until Alfano showed him.

  Alfano hated the fair. On opening day, three months earlier, he’d saved both the fair and the mayor from being blown to bits by a mad woman and a bomber. That same day, his heart was blown to pieces when that same woman died right in front of him: she’d put a bullet through her own heart. Almost every strange thing that man could imagine could be found somewhere on the midway or in the hundreds of pavilions and halls spread along the Chicago lakefront.

  He liked Sally Rand; she was a true entrepreneur. She’d found a way through her stylish fan dances to both titillate and enrage. Well before the fair, she had commanded a following at the Paramount Club on Rush Street. Alfano had seen her dance there twice. She’d spit in the eye of the city, and a couple of gangsters, and survived. This publicity probably saved her career and even her life. She had her followers and imitators. The fair leadership, while publicly distancing themselves from the midway’s gaudy displays of nudity, certainly enjoyed the money rolling in through the fareboxes. When you got a piece of the action, morality was bent to fit the crime. And if it weren’t for the city’s tacit disregard of liquor laws and sexual displays, the fair would likely be a bust.

  It wasn’t Alfano’s place to object to the changes happening in the world. He had enough problems with the daily grind of gangs, thuggery, theft, and murder. He knew the city officials and the vice industry were linked more than financially; it was a rot that affected everyone. He’d sadly accepted the reality that if it didn’t kill the customer, it was probably acceptable. He hated himself for that. He felt like a priest who hated sin and what it did to people, and all he could do was manage the perverse outcomes. He could not offer forgiveness; all he could do was separate the worst offenders from society. He also hated to be taken as a fool, and the death of Kitty Hill was exactly that. Here, Detective, is my work. I have put before you my crime, my art, my solution to my problem. I dare you to find me.

  This evening, as he walked the crowded midway with its noxious sounds, barkers, and entertainments, he hated humanity more than usual. Fuck them all.

  The movie industry didn’t miss a beat at the fair. Alfano had read that Mary Pickford, the famous and now retired actress, had stopped at the fair just a few weeks earlier and met with her fans in the Hall of Religion.

  Hines Melnik and Sierra Films was showing Guns and Saddles at the Lagoon Theater tonight, which was why Melnik, Durant, and Roberts were there. The last time Alfano had been at the theater was to watch a boxing match; anything you could sell a ticket to was fair game.

  He sat in the last row, high enough to look out over the North Lagoon directly behind the theater. The dark expanse of Lake Michigan cut broadly across the horizon. Lights from the tour boats coasted through the night.

  Alfano wanted to walk away from the movie. It was a mishmash of Cimarron and The Big Stampede, lots of black hats and cattle running over the Oklahoma territory. While the story was awful in Alfano’s opinion, he admitted that Maxime Durant looked fetching in the low-cut checker shirt that she took from Roberts after he was staked out on the prairie by ruthless Indians. She saved his life. Later, after he returned the favor and saved her, she held him in her arms as he died from a gunshot wound in front of a white-steepled church.

  As the credits rolled on the screen, Hines Melnik walked to the center of the stage to a microphone.

  “Thank you for coming to my movie,” Melnik told the crowd. “We hope you enjoyed it. With me are the famous actors Maxime Durant and Adam Roberts. They are thrilled that you took the time from your holiday here at the fair to join us. We will be signing posters and autographs over at the Hollywood Pavilion. We look forward to seeing you there.”

  The smattering of applause was muffled by the sounds of the restarted fountain jets in the lagoon. The impressive waterworks, towering a hundred feet above the surrounding pavilions, were unleased several times a day.

  Alfano stood in the back and watched the crowd push out to the midway. Many were turning to cross the Science Bridge that led to the Hollywood Pavilion. As he lit a cigarette, he caught Durant looking at him. She was smiling. It was like the smile a spider would make as it crossed its web to the stuck quarry. She nudged Roberts and whispered in his ear; he looked up at Alfano and gave him a salute from the brim of his Alfano-like fedora.

  He’d told Roberts to be ready at nine o’clock the next morning. He’d pick him up out front of the hotel. He wanted to show the actor the Racine Street station, then the jail, and if there was time, the courts building. He watched as the trio left th
e stage and headed toward the pavilion. He turned and went the other way; he was bone tired.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, cold rain filled the street gutters; Alfano was glad the activities he’d planned with Roberts were indoors. The drive across the city from his apartment to the Racine Street station was both wet and slow. His intent was to review Doc Abrahamson’s report and refresh his memory of the crime scene. The last thing he wanted to do was run into Melnik or Durant, so he did not go back to the room where Kitty Hill had been found. His theatricals the day before with Roberts might prove fruitful now that the man had a chance to marinate over what he’d seen on the marble slab. Dead bodies did that to you, Alfano knew from experience. He had an hour and a half before he was due to meet Roberts at the Palmer House.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” Alfano said to McDunnah as he shook the rain off his slicker.

  “And the top of the morning to you, Detective,” Sergeant McDunnah said. “I brought in some muffins that the wife made—much better for you than the donuts.”

  “Thank her, will you? Did she make the coffee?”

  “No, I’m the criminal.”

  “Then I’ll have a cup. I want to talk to you, my desk.”

  The always-efficient sergeant had already set up the murder board, as they both had been calling the corkboard set up near Alfano’s desk. It was about four feet by eight feet, nice oak frame, thick cork surface. Four casters were mounted on the lower frame, allowing it to be rolled around. On the ledge was a box of thumbtacks to post pictures and notes. An identical backup murder board stood against the wall behind the primary board. McDunnah had one of his Irish friends make the two boards, which had become an integral part of their crime solving.

  A few photographs were tacked to the board: one of the deceased lying on the floor, one of the interior of the hotel room. Another photo, the pretty face of Kitty Hill that appeared to be a promotional photo, was posted alongside. A long strip of paper was secured above the photos; McDunnah had already noted the murder time and date on the left-hand end of the timeline strip. A square of paper displayed fingerprints; the name Kitty Hill was written along the bottom margin.

  McDunnah placed a cup of coffee on the desk and offered Alfano a muffin on a napkin. Alfano smelled orange.

  “How did she know? This is perfect for a day like this—I love your wife,” Alfano said.

  “She does know how to take care of you. She tells me you are her favorite cop. Pisses me off.”

  “You must treat her better, Sergeant. Look what she did for you when you were laid up after the shooting. She put up with you for weeks. She is a saint.”

  A few months earlier, McDunnah had been wounded during a shootout where he took down a gangland killer and his men. Alfano knew that today’s weather was playing havoc with his leg.

  “No argument. Just keep it between us,” McDunnah said.

  “Mum’s the word. What else do we have?”

  “The coroner has confirmed the gunshots. The body was posed after death. The recovered bullet in the body was confirmed as a .32 caliber, probably from a Colt or similar revolver. Flynn found pieces of the second buried in the headboard, went clean through the body. Flynn is sending the bullets to the crime lab on East Superior. The scarf was made in Japan. It will be difficult to track down. I’ll make sure it’s sent with the bullets; maybe the lab can find something. The champagne was from the Palmer House. It had been delivered to the room at ten thirty. A woman was in the room when the boy dropped it off. He remembers she gave him a five.”

  “Was the woman Hill?” Alfano asked.

  “From the boy’s description, yes. He said she was the whitest white woman he’d ever seen.”

  “Is this Flynn’s work?” Alfano asked.

  “Yes, he must be trying to get on your good side. He’s copying everything to us. You must have scared the bejesus out of him.”

  “He has an attitude problem. Anything else?”

  “The watch you left is a beauty,” McDunnah said. “Why didn’t you want Flynn to deal with it?”

  “I wanted this kept close. What did you find out from Jules?”

  He meant Jules Semitof, the sergeant’s go-to jeweler on State Street.

  “It is something special—a Cartier Tank Basculante, Swiss made. The face rotates within an armature that places the crystal face against a protective interior surface—all gold, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “According to Jules, it is a favorite watch of rich active men, polo players, fox hunters, golfers, and even tennis players.”

  “Right, for when you need to know the time when hitting a little white ball while riding a thoroughbred horse. I get it.”

  “And it isn’t cheap—in fact, very expensive. When I showed it to him, he whistled.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And he got all excited. He likes when I stop by.”

  “I’ll tell Moira; that will get you in trouble. And the punch line?”

  “The watch was bought during the last year. It’s only been out in this model since Christmas. The inside of the band is engraved with the name of a Los Angeles jeweler: Laykin et Cie. The engraving on the back of the watch, the face when the crystal face is closed, is the logo of the Will Rogers Polo Club in Santa Monica, California.”

  “How the hell does he know that?”

  “Will Rogers brought his West Coast polo team here to Chicago this summer for a match against the East team. Jules is a big polo fan and recognized the logo.”

  “Of course he does. Fascinating. You know the strangest people. You didn’t try to call this Los Angeles jeweler to find out who bought it, did you?”

  “Time differences—it is six o’clock in the morning in Los Angeles. I assume they open at ten West Coast time. I was going to call at noon.”

  “Excellent. Keep what you find to yourself for now. Not everything is a two-way street.”

  “Got it. Any ideas?”

  “A few, but too early to say.” Alfano nodded at the architectural sketch McDunnah had left on his desk. “Where did you get the hotel floor plan?”

  “I called Holabird & Root, the architects; they ran over a copy of the layout for the twenty-fourth floor.”

  “You are a wonder, and the muffin is even better.”

  “I’ll tell Moira.”

  ✥✥✥

  One hour and thirty minutes later, Alfano stood next to the Packard in front of the Palmer House.

  “You are beginning to scare away the customers, Detective,” Henry said. He stood just outside the bronze doors. “That looks like a goomba limo, hardly a police car. It has gangster written all over it.”

  “Do we have an attitude problem, Henry Bucci?” Alfano said, walking up to the man. The doorman stood his ground.

  “No, sir, just stating a fact. This is the third or fourth time you’ve parked here since the . . . unfortunate death of the woman on the twenty-fourth; everyone is talking about it.”

  “And what do they know about it, Bucci?”

  “This is a hotel, Detective. The staff watches, listens, talks, loves rumors; they even try to make a dollar or two.”

  “And who’d pay you?”

  “Well, let’s just say the free press likes to grease the wheels of those who ride the highway of truth.”

  “Tribune or Daily News? Neither of them wants the truth, but they pay well for salacious rumors. You know that and I know that, especially when it comes to celebrities. Besides, you and I go back a few years. What’s been going on?”

  Henry glanced around; he and Alfano were the only ones near the doors. “My memory ain’t what it used to be this early in the morning,” Henry said.

  “Your memory was never good, Henry. And, if I remember, it is always thirsty. Would a cup of coffee help?”

  “A large cup might.”

  Alfano slipped the man a five-dollar bill. “Better?”

  “Could use some sugar.”

  “Later
.”

  Henry looked mildly disappointed, but his memory came back. “Both papers are sniffing around—big deal when an actress is murdered,” he told Alfano. “The story in this morning’s paper_mostly the truth, as I was told by those that read it. You should read it. Seems that actress was from around here.”

  “Now you are an investigator?”

  “Nope, just the guy up front.” As if to illustrate, Henry went to the curb and helped a couple out of a cab. He turned back to Alfano. “Who you waiting for? That guy from yesterday, Melnik, and the rest of his armada?”

  “The word is entourage, Henry. More particularly, Adam Roberts.”

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  “Why?”

  “This morning, just after I came on at six, Roberts, that classy actress dame, and Melnik came down with a bellman. They wanted a taxi; I loaded their luggage, and they left.”

  Stunned, Alfano said, “Do you know where they went?”

  “Melnik told the driver Chicago Municipal Airport; they had a seven-thirty flight.”

  Alfano looked at his watch: 9:32 am. “Shit. Anything else?”

  “Melnik was a lousy tipper. Roberts said, ‘Tell Detective Alfano I’m sorry.’ Then he slipped me a twenty.”

  “You know Melnik? He been here before?”

  “Nope. Till now, I just seen his movies—go to them a lot. But he went in and out a dozen times while his armada was here. As I said, bad tipper.”

  “Watch the car, Henry. I’ll be right back.”

  Alfano walked into the lobby of the Palmer House, went to the front desk and talked with the hotel manager, Claude Dubonnet. He then went to the bank of pay phones in the vestibule off the main lobby and placed a call to McDunnah.

  “Find out which plane left from Chicago Municipal at seven thirty this morning. Find out who was on the plane and where it was headed. I’ll be there in ten minutes. And get Flynn there, too. And get the morning Tribune—they got something on Hill.” He hung up before McDunnah could answer.

  As promised, ten minutes later, Alfano pushed his way through the station doors and went straight to his desk. McDunnah followed. In their wake was Detective Flynn.