Murder at the Green Mill

The Windy City

An incessant November rain bounced off the wide sidewalk of North Broadway, doing its best to head back the way it arrived. The massive drops jeweled the rainbow colours of the dazzling signs into a kaleidoscope of light that mirrored the dampness all around, trying to entice those who headed in their direction like flies to step inside for a never-to-be-forgotten evening.

Over on the other side of the road, a large queue of slightly-soggy people waited for the ornate doors of the Uptown Theatre to open, and allow them to escape the rain into the dry of its five-storey atrium. The place had made quite an impression since it opened the previous year, the punters loving the combination of spectacular live vaudeville, followed by movies.

A couple of doors down, on the corner of North Broadway and Lawrence, stood an establishment which had been there a while longer. The Green Mill had been around years before Prohibition, but since the insanity of the law banning liquor, had turned into what had become known as a Speakeasy.

Back in the day, I used to call in now and then, grabbing a whisky and a chat with Tom, the friendly owner. After prohibition I stopped going. Fruit juice with added illegal ingredients didn’t really float my boat.

But that wasn’t the real reason. When the bootleggers took over, and a hood called Jack McGurn supposedly became part-owner, neither Tom nor his establishment were the same. Not so much changed that anyone could see, except the clientele.

But behind closed doors, a lot more was going on. The trapdoor behind the bar that led to the cellar suddenly led to a lot more; secret tunnels to allow illicit liquor from Canada easy access from the lake, and the more infamous punters to escape if the need arose.

I shook my head as I threw a left into West Lawrence, walking quickly towards my office. Still I hadn’t left the early-evening nightlife behind. Further down from the office was the Aragon Ballroom, and although it was only seven in the evening, men in Fedora hats and pin-stripe suits were escorting slender, scantily-clad flappers towards its doors.

I paused a moment, trying for the thousandth time to understand what my city had turned into. There were no sensible answers.

If I wanted to blame something, prohibition was top of the list.

Prohibition. For sure the most damaging law Congress ever passed. Ok, my live-and-let-live attitude was subject to certain limitations, but the Protestant do-gooders had easily exceeded those, on the basis of a pure logic they clearly couldn’t see. If the government wanted to hand a free six-course meal ticket to the mobsters, that was the goddamn most sure-fire way to do it.

People had four staples in life. Air, water, food and liquor. The Temperance activists couldn’t take the first three away, so they blamed the fourth for every problem America had. Somehow, against the odds, prohibition was born. The Chicago underworld lapped it up, and the liquor ban is currently responsible for a hell of a lot more problems than it’s actually solving.

Problems like bringing one of our most unsavoury imports to the city. Our current most unsavoury resident, Johnny Torrio, invited him from New York, to be one of his lieutenants. Within weeks he was throwing his not-inconsiderable weight around, and when Torrio narrowly escaped death by bullet, and then decided he’d had enough, he gifted Al Capone control of his organization.

In a single year since that time, the man had changed the face of Chicago.

And if anything is more incredible that that, it’s the fact that six years after it was first made law, prohibition is still going strong.

I turned the key in the dingy doorway that led directly off the sidewalk next to the Mexican food parlor I rented the upstairs floors from. Then I closed it behind me, and shut my eyes to try and ward off the depression that watching all the seemingly-oblivious good-time folks had forced into my mind.

The flappers insisted they were doing what they did for the right of women to be individuals. It hid a more basic fundamental reality. When their appearance and their flirty manner attracted the guys, they were just as vulnerable as any other girl. Machine guns, shiny jewelry, and false promises still ruled Chicago.

One day, when the unsustainable decadence and frivolity finally comes to an end, which it surely will, the flappers will disappear along with the rolls of banknotes, most of which were acquired in a less-than-legal manner.

As I opened my eyes again, and glanced up to the bare wooden steps leading to my office, I found my head shaking despondently once more. The smile on my face lacked any hint of humour as another thought entered my head. Chicago got the nickname the Windy City for one of two reasons. No one really knows which is true, but I’m pretty certain I do.

Some say it was because of the prairie winds that whipped along the roads from time to time. Some say it was because of the hot air emanating from those who were supposedly in control of the city.

“Vote for me, and I’ll clean up this town…”

Yeah, right.

And my name is Calamity Jane.

______

Chapter 1

 My shoes clunked up the echoic steps from the tiny lobby that led nowhere but the stairs. My legs seemed heavy, exhausted. It hadn’t been the best of days, even leaving aside the depressing sight of the good-time guys and gals milling around outside.

I dragged my feet along the six feet of upper hallway to the opaque-glazed office door with my name etched into the glass, and slipped my key into the lock. It was already unlocked. I frowned, thinking the little guy who acted as my personal assistant had forgotten to lock it when he left.

As I walked in to the tiny lobby that pretended to be a reception area, I saw he was still there. He looked up, a little gratefully, but then pierced a blue eyed stare into me. ‘Where have you been, Sandie? Been waiting for ages.’

‘Waiting for what? You don’t usually stick around after end of shift, Archie.’

He shook his ginger head. ‘Well… um… you’ve got a visitor. So I had to wait.’

‘A visitor? What kind of visitor?’ I glanced through the opaque glass of the half-glazed door to my office. It seemed a bit foggy inside.

He looked slightly uncomfortable. Maybe that was an under-exaggeration. ‘She arrived a couple of hours ago. I told her you might be ages, but she said she’d wait. She… um… seems to have been chain-smoking since she got here.’

‘So I see… or not. Who is she?’

‘Um… she wouldn’t give the likes of me a name.’

‘The likes of you? Who the hell does she think she is?’

‘Well… she’s a bit… impressive. In a well-heeled way, I mean.’

‘So you don’t know anything about her?’

Still he looked uncomfortable, like he’d recently come face to face with a lioness. ‘She’s… taller than me…’

‘Everyone’s taller than you, Archie.’

‘No, I mean, a lot taller. And a little… haughty.’

‘And she’s here?’

‘Well, yes. And she ain’t going nowhere ‘til she sees you, apparently.’

‘I’m intrigued. Put your tongue away, it’s not a good look.’

‘My tongue isn’t… ok, point taken.’

I sighed, a little wearily. ‘Guess I’d better go see what she wants. Last thing I need right now.’

He looked at me, a little sympathetically. ‘The Mendes job didn’t go so well, then?’

‘Put it like this, Archie. A short while ago I left Joachim, after telling him the wife he thought was having an affair was indeed seeing another man… a Latin dance instructor, and a goddamn better looking guy than he is.’

‘Aw, but I guess that’s a result then?’

‘Not really. Turns out all she was doing actually was having lessons, in secret, so she could ask her husband to take her to the Aragon for their tenth anniversary, and not let him down on the dance floor.’

‘Ouch. He must have been relieved though, finding out his wife wasn’t having an affair?’

‘He might have been, if I hadn’t messed up.’

‘What, you?’

‘I’ll ignore that, seeing as you’re just the insignificant little squirt who works for me.’

‘Point taken. Go on…’

‘They caught me taking pictures of them, so I could show Mr. Mendes the truth. Mrs. Mendes wasn’t too happy when I had to explain, as you can imagine. And neither was her husband, when I reported back what had happened.’

‘Double ouch.’

‘You could say. He shook his head, and handed me the twenty dollar fee anyway. I told him to put it back in his pocket, and brace himself for when his wife got home.’

‘Triple ouch. All that and no pay.’

I threw my hands in the air, trying to express how helpless I felt. ‘What could I do? He was gonna need a lot more than that to keep his marriage in one piece.’

‘For sure. Not the best of days then.’

‘Prairie pig of a day, and it’s left a lousy taste in my mouth. Neither of them deserved that.’

‘And now you gotta go see what the Amazonian wants.’

‘Tell me about it. Go home, Archie. I’ll see if I can get rid of her, and then hit the illegal whisky.’

The office was a haze of smoke as I walked in. I could just about make out the shape of a well-dressed woman sitting in my chair behind the desk, a packet of cigarettes on its top.

In no mood for foggy offices, I headed straight for the outside wall. ‘Geez, can’t you open a window?’

The husky voice didn’t seem fazed by my irreverence. ‘It’s November. And anyway, the advertising says if I smoke Lucky Strikes, I stay slim.’

I threw open the single window, and heard the sound of the heavy rain suddenly get louder as the chilly but fresh air penetrated the fog. I had to shoot down the woman’s nonsense. ‘My husband is a heart and lung surgeon, and he says the only way smoking Lucky Strikes keeps you slim is by making you ill.’

‘Really.’

‘Nah, not really. Just making a point.’

The woman stood up and vacated my seat as the fog began to clear, and held out a hand. ‘Anyway, we talk of irrelevancies. My name is Daphne deMountford. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

 Chapter 2

I took the elegant lace-clad hand, and looked her over. She seemed to thunder into my brain in sections.

First it was the short black fringed bob, the style favoured by both the flappers and the well-heeled. Then the perfect white smile, her full lips framed by red lipstick, dazzling me from out of a brown face.

Then I noticed the long sable-coloured coat, its hems and collar trimmed with fox-fur that was clearly real, hanging open to reveal a sheer multi-coloured dress that seemed to cling to every slender but shapely shape she possessed.

Then came the legs, their flawless brown skin having no need for stockings. The goddamn things seemed to go right up to her chin, emphasized by shoes with three-inch red heels, that again she didn’t really need, taking her overall height to what must have been six feet.

I swallowed hard, trying not to let her see I had. ‘Pleased to meet you too, Mrs. deMountford,’ I said as steadily as I could. No one really fazed me these days, but for some reason, she surely did.

She sat down elegantly in the seat on the other side of the desk, and took a long draw from the cigarette in the holder between her slender fingers. ‘Please, it’s Daphne… deMountford is so… English. I realize it is late, and I apologize for keeping your man-friday from his evening. He seems a little… little.’

‘Archie? He’s a gem. And he works for peanuts.’

She cast her eyes around her not-very-salubrious surroundings. ‘Forgive me, but I can’t imagine you can afford to pay him very much anyway.’

‘No I mean, he works for peanuts… literally. He’s got an addiction to them.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, kind of. I do let him have a little cash on good days.’

She lowered her head, and hesitated a moment, like she didn’t want to say the words. ‘I needed to talk with you about something that is disturbing me.’

I opened my mouth to say words along the lines of being surprised anything could disturb her, but decided against it. Instead I said something equally inane. ‘Sure. I’m a little surprised though. I don’t get many AA’s in this office.’

She frowned. ‘AA’s?’

I realized as soon as the words left my lips it was almost as idiotic as what I’d originally intended to say, so tried to bumble my way through an explanation. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect. AA is private investigator speak for African-Americans… MX for Mexicans, GM for Germans, Iti’s for Italians, that kind of thing. It saves time when you’re writing up notes.’

‘I see. And what is the abbreviation for Chicago natives?’

‘Um… there isn’t one. We don’t get many of those.’

‘Then perhaps I have come to the right place. You were the only female private investigator I could find. The… situation is a little bit delicate, and I didn’t want an untrustworthy man involved.’

‘And what makes you think I’m any more trustworthy?’

‘You’re a woman, aren’t you?’

‘Last time I looked. Thank you.’

She shook her head. That seemed elegant too. ‘Don’t thank me. You don’t know what I want you to do yet.’

‘That’s true. But you still surprise me. We don’t get many people of your… status in here either.’

‘I see your private eyes have already led you to assume my standing in life.’

‘Um… it is a little obvious, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Not at all. In England my husband was a lord, with ancestral ties to the royal family.’

‘Was? Surely once a lord, always a lord?’

‘Not if you’re stripped of your title, no.’

‘I see. Well, I don’t. Perhaps you should explain?’

For the first time she looked borderline uncomfortable. Or what passed for it, given her elegant everything. ‘My parents moved to England from Ghana when I was a child. I met James… Mr. deMountford, when I worked as a servant at a function he was attending. To cut a long story short, we were attracted to each other, and began a secret relationship. After a while the newspapers started publishing speculative articles, which of course came to the attention of the royal family.’

‘Never did like George very much.’

‘I said we should end the relationship, but James refused. He stood his ground, but he was up against the entire English aristocracy, who took no prisoners. He said most of them were just jealous.’

I nodded, even though I really didn’t want to. ‘He was probably right.’

She lowered her head. ‘It didn’t really matter. He was ostracized, so we emigrated to America. On the Titanic, as it happens.’

‘Oh my god… you obviously survived.’

‘Indeed. Not exactly the ideal start to our new life. James had studied at Cambridge, so he became a bookkeeper… not because he had to, he managed to slip away with some of his fortune, but because he wanted to work, to be a normal man, I suppose. He made a success of himself, while we lived in New York. Then, a year ago, we moved here.’

‘Geez, what attracted you to this mob-infested place?’

She glanced up to me. ‘You surprise me. I would have thought with all the gangsters roaming around, and your line of work, you would have many clients amongst them?’

‘Hell no. The mob tends to sort out their own problems… but in truth, if anyone came through that door whiffing of hood, I’d send them packing straightaway. Not interested, in any shape or form.’

‘I see.’

‘So, you and James had a relationship made in heaven, and a small fortune to back you up… so just what is the problem you’re here about?’

Again she looked a little squirmy. ‘Perhaps it was a bad idea coming here.’

‘Hey. You sit waiting for two hours, stop my valued assistant from going home, while all the time polluting my office with smoke… the least you can do is tell me why you came.’

‘I think James is having an affair.’

‘Ok… sure didn’t see that one coming.’

Chapter 3

An awkward silence fell over the room, so I decided I had to be the one to break it. ‘On what grounds do you believe he’s seeing someone else?’

She didn’t answer for a moment, looking uncomfortable at the possibility of revealing facts she likely thought she’d never have to. ‘James and I know each other extremely well… inside out, you might say… so when someone you know that well starts acting out of character, you notice.’

‘Ok, so give me a few actual facts.’

‘He… just lately he’s been… disconnected. Like there’s something on his mind. I tackled him about it, but he just smiled and told me I was worrying about nothing.’

‘Perhaps you are worrying about nothing.’

‘I tried to tell myself that. But he’s lost his smile, and seems preoccupied…’

‘It doesn’t mean he’s having an affair.’

‘Not on its own, no. But a couple of times lately he’s made excuses, saying he had to work into the evening. The second time I phoned him at the office to ask what time he’d be home. Some cleaning woman answered, said no one was there.’

‘Maybe he was working somewhere else. Did you confront him about it?’

She shook her head. ‘No. When he got home I asked him if it was relaxing, working in the office when no one else was in the building. He said it was, and that he might have to do it a few more times. He lied to me, Sandie.’

‘Ok, so it kinda smacks of guilt.’

She nodded, and took an overly-long suck on the cigarette holder. It was clear she didn’t want to be doing what she was, and it wasn’t sitting easy. Again I was the one to break the awkwardness. ‘What do you want me to do, if I accept the assignment?’

‘I suppose… the next time he says he’s working late, follow him and see where he goes… or something? Whatever it is you private investigators do.’

‘I’m not sure, Daphne. Yeah, I could do with the work, but there’s only your suspicious mind to go on. I think I might need a little more than that.’

She reached into her beaded snake-skin reticule, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it onto the desktop in front of me. ‘Then allow me to give you more.’

I looked inside the envelope, and couldn’t help raising my eyebrows, even though I tried not to. ‘A hundred dollars?’

‘If you succeed, and tell me what I need to know, you will be paid the same again.’

‘Wow, you must be desperate, spending two hundred dollars of your money on a feeling.’

She smiled, dazzling me again. ‘Oh, it’s not my money.’

‘Then who’s is it?’

‘Why, James’s of course.’

‘Really? You want me to spy on your husband, and get him to pay for it?’ 

‘Oh, he’ll never miss it. And what price peace of mind, hey?’

‘Well, that’s one way of dealing the cards, I guess.’

‘That is the way I choose to look at it, Sandie. So will you do as I ask?’

My eyes fell to the envelope. It was tempting, a lot of money for a female private investigator who usually had to pick up the crumbs her male counterparts left behind. ‘I guess…’

‘Good.’ She stood up, her black bob, which was most likely a wig, close to the not-very-high ceiling. ‘The very next time my husband says he has to work late, I will telephone you. Perhaps if I could have your number?’

I hadn’t actually said a definitive yes, despite the obvious benefits. But the Amazonian Daphne had eagerly assumed I had, and it was a lot of money after all. It was obvious it had been extremely hard for her to even come to see me, something borne out by the fact she’d waited so long for me to get back to the office.

She was likely well aware if she’d left without spilling her guts to me, she may never have found the courage to come again. I handed her my card, and tried to smile reassuringly, as much for me as for her.

She was a fellow woman after all. And she was clearly cut up about the direction her life was taking. She and I were worlds apart in so many ways, and yet I still found myself feeling sympathy with her dilemma, and a grudging admiration for the fact she’d found the strength to even be in my office.

I promised her I would do all I could to set her mind at rest, or not, as the case may turn out to be. But I had to remind her there were no promises of definitive results.

She nodded, shook my hand, and left. I watched her walk quickly down the stairs, feeling a little like I was cheating her, even though it wasn’t actually her money paying me. In the world I moved in, it was a large fee for what could be just one night’s work, if James deMountford did the right things… or the wrong things, depending on which pair of eyes you looked at it with.

I locked the office door, a little voice in the back of my head wondering what I was getting myself into. As I headed up the second set of stairs to my tiny apartment on the top floor, I knew the only way to find out was to get myself into it.

Had I known then what I knew a week later, I would have shown Daphne deMountford the door straightaway, before she’d even had chance to take another fog-inducing draw on her cigarette holder.

But right then, I had no idea it was anything other than just another unfaithful-partner job.

Chapter 4 

Gut feelings are difficult to define. Hell, it’s hard enough to know if they even exist or not. But as I sat on the slightly flea-bitten sofa in my slightly flea-bitten apartment, sipping a glass of real whisky, they sure seemed to exist right then.

The whisky was an under-the-counter gift from a grateful client. God only knows where he got it from, but somehow it had made its way across the pond, all the way from Scotland. It sure beat the fake crap they peddled in the speakeasies these days. It was my occasional go-to comfort blanket, when the gut feelings depressed the hell out of me.

Like the feeling something massive was going to happen to kill the decadence and the frivolity of the flappers, and their brazen approach to life. Maybe not this year, maybe not next, but sooner or later some kind of drastic event would transpire to bring the current unsustainable era to an abrupt end.

I’m not a killjoy. Ok, I may be too old to be a flapper, but it was the last thing I wanted to be anyway. I like a bit of fun, even though there’s no one in my life to share it with. But putting yourself out there to attract the right kind of rich man was a risky business in Chicago.

You were just as likely to attract the wrong kind of rich man, and get drawn into the seedier side of city life.

Daphne deMountford had a gut feeling too. One that seemed to be dominating my thoughts. She never dreamt she’d be thinking the kind of things she was, and even though she was doing her damndest to hide it, her gut feeling was eating away at her.

An African-American who most people viewed as unfairly living above her station in life, she couldn’t have many friends of her own in Chicago. Those she knew were almost certainly ‘friends’ of her husband. If he was being unfaithful, and that subsequently resulted in a break-up, those so-called friends would instantly side with James.

She was far from stupid. She knew that harsh fact of life too. If her gut feeling proved correct, she would be ostracized, and suddenly find herself alone. It wasn’t a nice place to be. From what my gut was telling me, they’d both done what they had for love. Which might turn out to be a bad move for her.

If I discovered what could likely be a vindication of her gut, I might end up being all she had left.

I shook my head, emptied the glass, and headed to bed to try and dream of more pleasant things. They say if you have a conscience, you shouldn’t be a private investigator unless you can separate it from your working life.

Somehow I never could. But that’s just tough.

Just after lunchtime the next day, I did something I hadn’t done for three years. I visited the Green Mill.

I don’t know why. Actually seeing what it had become was likely to be as depressing as most other things these days. But my mind was still full of the immensely-tall Daphne, so maybe I needed an equally disturbing distraction to rid my mind of her.

And at that time of day it was unlikely any of the bar’s more unpleasant punters would be there anyway.

I was virtually alone as I walked through the side door. The Mill didn’t really open during the day, except for its own variation of coffee… it came alive, in all kinds of ways, after darkness fell. But it wasn’t really closed either, from lunchtime onwards.

I saw just one couple, sitting in the booth I’d been told was Al Capone’s favourite. It was the only one that had a view of both entrance doors, so he and his men could see danger approaching the moment it did. Whether that was from a rival gang or from a half-hearted token police raid, it wasn’t clear.

As I walked up to the huge mahogany bar top, which looked about as thick as the length of my forearm, I noticed the trapdoor in the floor behind it was open. Tom was likely down in the cellar, busy restocking his above and below-the-counter wares. While I waited for him to reappear, I took my own visual stock of the place.

Not much seemed to have changed in three years. At least, not on the surface. The crazily-long bar top, which curved at one end, still dominated the left side of the room. Joe E Lewis’s band were busy setting up on the low stage at the head of the room, and the statue of Ceres still stood proudly on her pedestal in the far corner.

The murals still dominated the upper half of the walls, shrouded by ornate-shaped frames. The curved booths still lined the bottom half, leaving enough floor room for those who wished to dance the night away to the live jazz… not that there was much space for frivolities like dancing when the room got full.

The Mill was a fraction of the size it was four years ago. Before Tom sold much of it off to what is now the Uptown Theatre, it had large sunken gardens, where guests could hold functions, and mooch away their celebrations in the Chicago moonlight.

It was quite a place back then, before the mobsters and vaudeville took hold. Now, despite the fact the gangsters were making it the place to be seen once again, somehow it just wasn’t the same.

Tom’s head appeared from beneath the floor. ‘Well, here’s a thing. The honorable Sandie Shaw, finally gracing us with her presence after, what… three years?’

I grinned. ‘I must have made an impression, Tom, if you remember how long it’s been.’

‘Part of my job, Sandie.’ He leant over, and we gave each other a hug.

‘How have you been, Tom?’ I asked, genuinely concerned. He looked alright enough, but bar owners often did, whether they were or not.

‘Well, y’know, Sandie.’

‘Actually I don’t. Maybe you should tell me?’

He lifted his hands from his sides, in a resigned kind of way. ‘Business changes, y’know. Especially for bar owners.’

I found my eyes narrowing, all on their own. ‘You mean speakeasy owners.’

‘If you like.’

‘I stopped coming because it just wasn’t the same, Tom. I prefer to keep my distance from the mob.’

He looked a little furtive, just for a moment. ‘Keep your voice down, Sandie. A couple of them are down below, overseeing the… latest deliveries.’

‘Booze made from engine oil, you mean.’

‘Hey, that’s a little unkind. Ok, but it works. Folks pull a face at the first shot, but then they ask for a second. By the sixth, they can’t get enough. That’s good business for me, in these times.’

‘That’s sad business, Tom.’

‘Yeah well, like I have a choice.’

‘You could have held out on them… but then no one else does, so why should you?’

‘No flies on you, huh?’

‘I hear you’re just taking on a partner, so someone must think it’s worth it.’

‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Sandie.’ I raised my eyebrows, so he shook his head. ‘So Mr. Capone, he’s taken a fancy to the place. That brings in the punters, and now I don’t have to pay no protection, if you get me.’

‘Mr. Capone? Such respect, Tom.’

‘Not something you seem to suffer from. And keep it that way, as long as you can. So why are you here, anyway?’ he asked, hastily changing the subject.

‘Aw, you know, just a change of scene from one depressing vista to another.’

He grinned. ‘You wanna drink?’

‘Sure. As long as it’s not engine oil.’

He reached somewhere below the counter, slid a secret compartment aside, pulled out a bottle of real gin, and poured me a large shot. ‘So why are you here, anyway?’ he repeated himself.

‘Got me a case, and it’s making my gut grumble. Just don’t ask me why, coz I don’t know.’

‘Geez… not mob-related?’

‘Nah… rich dude related.’

He laughed. ‘You telling me you’re nervous because of rich pickings?’ he asked incredulously.

‘I told you, I don’t know why I’m nervous. I just needed a few minutes of distraction.’

‘That’s the trouble with gut feelings. They ain’t specific enough.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Tell me about it?’

I sighed. Up until three years ago Tom had been my sounding board. Now, it looked like he was about to be again. ‘Yesterday, someone came to see me. A woman, with a possible infidelity case. Don’t ask me why, but that little voice in the back of my head is telling me to be careful.’

‘A woman? Kindred spirits then, surely?’

‘Maybe. But we couldn’t be more different. She’s AA, ten feet tall, and… impressive, according to Archie.’

He frowned. ‘She got a name?’

‘Daphne deMountford.’

He whistled, and shook his head. ‘Geez… the African Queen?’

My eyebrows shot into the air, genuinely this time. ‘You know her?’

‘Only because she and that husband of hers come in here sometimes. She’s…’

A head appearing at the trapdoor, and the curt shout emanating from it, interrupted whatever he was about to say to me. ‘Hey, Tom… we getting any help down here, or what?’

Suddenly he looked like a frightened rabbit. ‘Sandie, I gotta go. Just be careful, ok?’

The head poking out of the trapdoor disappeared again. I thought I recognized the face from the papers. ‘Is that Machine Gun McGurn, without his machine gun?’

‘One and the same. Take care, Sandie.’

He was gone. I finished my drink, left a dollar bill on the counter, and walked back to the office, just as depressed as when I first left it. The things Tom said, and didn’t say, had answered a few questions I didn’t know I was asking, but the one thing he hadn’t had the chance to say might have told me more.

I headed back up the stairs, the feeling in my gut turning into a butterfly boxing match. Not knowing why it was there wasn’t helping… again.

Chapter 5 

Archie grinned, inanely as usual, as I walked into the tiny reception. ‘Good drink?’

‘The drink was, yeah. The rest of it was just as depressing as this hellhole.’

He ran a hand through his ginger locks. ‘Aw, not sure I should pass on the news if you’re in this mood then.’

He made me smile, as he often did. ‘Just tell me, Peanut. It can’t be any worse.’

‘You had a phone call. That Amazon woman.’

My stomach did a somersault, even though I tried to stop it mid-way. ‘Quit with calling her an Amazon woman. She’s African.’

‘As you wish… Mrs. deMountford called to speak with you,’ he intonated in proper English.

‘Ok, now you’re just making a point. What did she want?’

I kind of already knew, but Archie’s words confirmed it anyway. ‘She wouldn’t say. Asked that you call her back as soon as possible.’

He handed me a slip of paper with her number on it. ‘Thanks, Archie,’ I said, almost reluctantly. ‘I’ll call her from the office.’

I slumped wearily into the chair behind my desk, and dialed the number. A voice I didn’t know answered.

‘Good afternoon. The deMountford residence.’

‘May I speak to Daphne please?’

‘Just a moment. Who is calling?’

I told her who I was, and there was silence for a minute. ‘Sandie… thank you for calling back. Wait a second…’

Again there was silence, while Daphne made sure she was alone. ‘James called, a little while ago. Said he had to work late again. I think this may be our opportunity.’

She sounded afraid, like she really didn’t want to part with the information. Again, although I tried not to let it, my heart went out to her. ‘Ok Daphne, do you want me to follow him, see where he goes?’

‘Can I come and see you, now?’

‘Sure, but there’s no need, unless you want to.’

‘I would like to. One hour.’

She killed the call. I sat back, unsure if wanting to see me was because she didn’t wish to talk on the phone, or if it was for another reason.

I saw the Model T taxi arrive. Maybe I was watching out of the window, perhaps it was just coincidence. She paid the driver, and walked elegantly to my door. Wearing a long red coat with black fur this time, she still looked every bit the statuesque Amazonian that Archie seemed to like to describe her as.

A minute later she was walking through my door, cigarette holder in hand straightaway. I’d already opened the window, in anticipation.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said, throwing me the dazzling but slightly unsure smile as she lit up. ‘I… I’m not sure why I came though.’

‘Maybe you just needed a little girl time.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘So do you want me to follow him, see where he goes?’ I asked again.

‘I… I suppose I do, if that’s ok.’

‘It’s really your call. You’ve already paid me a large sum of his money. I think we both need to know, don’t you?’

The voice hesitated a moment. ‘Yes, although it’s not sitting easily.’

‘That’s obvious by your tone, and not exactly surprising. But knowing is better than not knowing. It might all be perfectly innocent.’ I found myself trying to reassure her, even though I didn’t believe for one second it was innocent. ‘Are you ok?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I feel dirty, and sitting at home staring at the walls isn’t helping.’

‘I take it you don’t work?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. Back in New York I trained to be a dancer and actress, and when we arrived in Chicago I got a job in a vaudeville production. But after two weeks they fired me.’

‘Why did they do that? Were you a crap dancer?’

My irrelevance made her smile. ‘The official line was that I was too tall, and it made the other chorus girls look silly.’

‘But?’

‘The director whispered in my ear it was because they’d had a few complaints from well-heeled punters they didn’t want to be watching a black face.’

‘I doubt it was your face they were watching.’

‘Whichever bit, it was still black.’

‘Geez… small-minded bastards. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you. After that I auditioned for the new play that premieres next month, for the role of Mama Morton, but it was the same again. They didn’t want a black actress in the role.’

‘You’re talking about Chicago, written by that sensationalist Tribune reporter Maurine Dallas Watkins?’

‘She’s not a reporter anymore, now her play is about to hit the big time. I’m surprised you’ve heard of it.’

‘Everyone in Chicago has heard of it. She called the main character Roxie Hart, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. I think perhaps it will be a smash.’

‘Yeah. There’ll be a movie or two, no doubt.’

’I suppose it is a possibility.’

My heart went out to her, again. ‘I’m sorry, Daphne. Being a rich, black Englishwoman living in Chicago can’t be easy.’

She sucked a long draw from the cigarette, and glanced up to the ceiling. I swear there was a little mistiness in her eyes. ‘No, it isn’t. Having money becomes a burden after a while, so my only joy is James, and now…’

‘Hey, all hope is not lost. He might actually be working late. But tonight we find out for sure, ok?’

She nodded. ‘One way or another.’

 I tried to draw her away to practicalities. ‘I’ll need to know what he looks like, and where his office is.’

‘Yes, it’s in a downtown building. He rents an office on the fourth floor. I’ve written down the address.’

I took the photograph and the address she handed me. He looked every inch the handsome English aristocrat, and it was easy to see what the attraction was for a Ghanaian servant girl. And looking at the woman sitting a few feet away, easy to see what the benefits were from his perspective, if you didn’t possess an archaic bias against black skin.

I would have to follow him right from his office, and see where he went. After that… well, it depended where he went.

‘Ok Daphne, try and be as normal as you can when he gets back. If it’s late, maybe pretend to be asleep, even if you’re not. If there’s time before he makes it home, I’ll call you later tonight. If there isn’t, it’ll be first thing in the morning.’

‘Please don’t let him see you. I don’t need photographs or anything, your word is good enough for me.’

‘Ok, thanks. I’ll be careful, I promise.’

Daphne left, and I sat back and closed my eyes. She’d talked like a reluctant arch-criminal, but the hesitation she was feeling wasn’t justified. James deMountford was up to something, and he was keeping whatever it was from the woman he supposedly never kept anything from.

She had every right to know what that was. He might have the best reasons in the world for keeping it to himself, but he was still telling lies. At the end of the day, it was far better for everyone to know why.

Especially the both of us.

Somehow the job for Daphne I’d kind of accepted wasn’t really much different from most of the work I normally carried out. But it was getting to me. Deep inside my head I was worried about something, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t latch onto what it was.

Don’t get personally involved, my father had said before he handed over the business. For eight years I’d kept that faith, but this time I realized I was slipping. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to gain a foothold to climb back to indifference.

Maybe it was because my last job ended up a dismal failure. Maybe it was because a seemingly-perfect marriage had sprung a leak, and I wanted to prove to myself I could plug it once and for all.

For Daphne’s sake. For my own peace of mind’s sake.

There wasn’t much peace in either of our minds right then. The logistics of the job were simple enough. I knew James’s office building, and the fact that apart from the fire escape, there was only one entrance and exit. Once he left, an experienced investigator like me could follow him, and not let him realize I was… especially when a camera wasn’t involved.

But for some unfathomable reason, I needed to see where he went in the hope I could report back his dalliance was totally innocent. Having to tell Daphne he was seeing someone else was scaring the hell out of me.

Right at that moment, that was the most baffling thing of all.

I guess if I’d listened to my sense of reason instead of my heart, I would have heard different things. Like the fact the two of them had only arrived in Chicago just over a year ago, and the even more telling fact Tom at the Green Mill knew they existed.

If I had listened to practicalities, I would have realized Daphne wasn’t telling me everything. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew if she had, I would have shown her the door.

I didn’t know it, but my trip out that evening was the point of no return. Once I discovered where James was going, there would be no turning back.

For either of us.