Chicago Max

by Gary Inbinder

Table of Contents

Chapter 13: The House in Austin

part 1

In the early afternoon, Max walked from the Central Avenue station southeast toward Nora Iverson’s Pine Avenue address. Austin was a respectable, middle-class enclave on the far West Side that resembled the village of Oak Park, Austin’s next-door neighbor. In spring and summer, the sidewalks were shaded by towering oaks, elms, maples and pines. Here and there, a more exotic tree — catalpa, honey locust, and horse chestnut — asserted its individuality among the local flora.

In contrast to the bustling inner city, there was an almost stifling quietude about the place, which was broken intermittently by the rumbling of an automobile, the rattle of a bicycle chain, the clip-clop of a horse-drawn delivery wagon, a dog bark or the laughter of children. The broad lawns now resting beneath a blanket of snow were, in the balmy months, well-tended and dark green from the moist atmosphere. Around every corner, the sweet fragrance of lilacs interfused with the earthy odor of freshly turned soil and the sharp scent of manure.

The better homes were mostly Midwestern Victorian clapboard confections, replete with turrets, gables, stained glass windows and gingerbread. Among them, Max spotted his objective. He stopped a moment to admire the place. He had never seen anything quite like it. The house’s low lines merged with the encircling trees and hedges — shallow sloping roof, almost flush chimney, concealed entranceways, leaded glass widows and muted earth-tone exterior walls — asserting its unique identity without aggressively intruding upon its environs. The place reminded Max of a picture he had seen of a Japanese temple ensconced in a garden. Beautiful without being showy, the place seemed an unlikely hideout for one of the Everleigh sisters’ former “butterflies.”

He proceeded up a well-swept path to the front door and pressed the doorbell button. He waited half a minute and rang again. Then he tried the brass knocker. Silence. Max waited a couple of minutes before returning to the sidewalk. He scanned the area around the house for some sign of life. He noticed a woman standing and staring at him from the front porch of the house next door. He approached a few steps, smiled and lifted his hat.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you know if Miss Iverson is home?”

The woman, who appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, said nothing in reply. Instead, she shook her head indicating “no” and then gestured for him to come over to her porch. Max opened a gate, walked up the shoveled pathway, climbed the porch stairs and introduced himself.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Max Niemand. I’m a detective. I’d like to speak to Miss Iverson concerning a case I’m investigating. Do you know where she is or how I might contact her?”

The woman’s face wrinkled as though she smelled something nasty, betraying her distaste for the subject of his inquiry. “It’s cold out here, Mr. Niemand. We’d best go inside.”

Max followed the woman through the outer door and entered a vestibule where she invited him to remove his galoshes. He stepped out of his dirty overshoes. Now satisfied he would not soil her carpet, she opened the frosted glass and oak inner door that led to the interior hallway.

Max crossed the threshold and immediately sized up the surroundings. The furnishings were modern mass-produced reproductions of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century English originals, the rugs good imitation Persians, the art on the walls inexpensively framed chromolithographs of sentimental domestic scenes and bucolic landscapes. He got a better look at the woman. She was plain but well-dressed though not ostentatious. Her graying brown hair was neatly coiled and pinned-up above her pale, oval face.

“Please wait here,” she said. Then she walked over to a sliding door that led to the front parlor. She knocked, slid the door open a crack and called out, “We’ve got company, Walter. He’s a detective asking after Miss Iverson.”

A man in shirtsleeves emerged from the parlor. Bald, gray, baggy-eyed and stout, he had the look of someone halfway between retirement and the grave. The man adjusted a pince-nez on his thick, purplish nose and squinted skeptically at the visitor. “My name’s Walter Johnson. My wife Nellie says you’re a detective. Are you with the police?”

Max smiled and kept his tone pleasant and respectful. “I was with the Chicago police for several years, Mr. Johnson. Now, I’m a licensed private investigator with an office downtown.”

Still skeptical, Johnson asked, “May I see your credentials?”

Max reached into his wallet, removed one of his cards and handed it to Johnson. Johnson examined it for a moment before stuffing it into his pants pocket for future reference. “All right, Mr. Niemand. What’s your business with Miss Iverson?”

“I’m trying to locate an individual, an acquaintance of Miss Iverson’s. I was hoping she could provide some information that would assist in my search. But it appears she’s not at home. I was hoping you or Mrs. Johnson might have seen her recently, or perhaps know where she is.”

Johnson frowned and shook his head. “We don’t know much about that woman. She don’t talk to us, and we don’t talk to her, which I guess is fine as long as she don’t make any trouble. But I’ll say this much: she’s a pretty girl living alone in a fancy new house, and she has a gentleman friend who comes calling once a month. In fact, he came round today, not more than an hour ago. Ain’t that right, Nellie?”

Mrs. Johnson directed her answer to Max. “That’s right, Mr. Niemand. He came by in that big automobile of his. You can hear that thing coming from a block away.”

“An automobile, you say. He must be well-to-do. Can you describe the vehicle?”

“I can,” Walter said. “It’s a new, Pope-Toledo touring car, dark blue with plenty of brass trim. Cost a pretty penny, all right. You won’t see too many motor cars like that, except maybe on Lake Shore Drive. I know, ’cause a former business associate of mine bought one, and he’s done all right for himself the last few years.”

“I see,” said Max. “Can either of you give me a description of Miss Iverson’s ‘gentleman friend’?”

Nellie provided that information: “I’ve gotten a good look at him once or twice. He’s tall, good-looking and very well-dressed.” She continued with a description that fit the man who had shadowed Max on the “L.”

Max stored the information; a couple of pieces had been added to the puzzle. “Thank you both. You’ve been very helpful. Now, Mr. Johnson, you said this individual comes calling once a month. Do they usually go off like that and, if so, about how long is it before they return?”

The Johnsons looked at each other before Walter answered. “Sometimes he stays for a while, sometimes they go off together. When they do, it might be for a day or two before she comes back. And then sometimes after that, she has visitors.”

“Visitors, you say? Are they men, women, or both? About how many at a time?”

“Men mostly, but women, too. Maybe three or four of them, and not always the same people. They stay a few hours in the evening, and then leave before midnight. They don’t make a disturbance, so we don’t complain.”

“Would it be too much of an imposition if I telephoned you tomorrow or the following day just to see if Miss Iverson has returned?”

Walter frowned and thought a moment before answering. “I guess that would be all right, if you leave it at that. This is a quiet neighborhood, Mr. Niemand. Good, honest church-going folks. We don’t know what goes on next door, and we sure don’t want to be mixed up in her business. Like I said, as long as she don’t make trouble, we leave her alone, and that’s pretty much the view of all the other people hereabouts. Frankly, I doubt most of them would even talk to you.”

“I understand, Mr. Johnson. I’ll certainly keep you folks out of it. I appreciate your time and won’t impose on you any longer.”

The Johnsons smiled with relief. Mrs. Johnson said with some hesitation, “Would you like a nice hot cup of coffee before you go?”

Max knew she was just being polite. He guessed the Johnsons would be glad to see the back of him. “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Johnson, but I really must go. Thanks again for your help.”

Walter returned to the parlor; Nellie saw Max out to the vestibule. He sat down on a bench and pulled on his galoshes. With her husband out of earshot, Nellie said:

“I do worry about that girl, sometimes. I’ve thought about going over and talking to her, neighbor to neighbor. After all, the Bible says, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Then, I suppose it wouldn’t do any good. To get involved, I mean.”

Max looked up and smiled pleasantly. He thought about the people who had helped him at the settlement house, especially Miss Wells. Most people, good folks at that, would not have been so charitable. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said.

* * *

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2015 by Gary Inbinder