CHAPTER 7

I took a look up and down Hudson before I approached the house. The street was empty, quiet except for a few birds having some fun next door. I slipped on a pair of leather gloves, eased my gun off my hip, and held it by my side as I walked up the stairs. The front door was still ajar. I pushed it open with my foot. Nothing. I walked inside and found myself in a small parlor, a greeting area with a coat stand against the wall. It held a trench coat on a hook and a wooden-handled umbrella. Underneath, I noticed a pair of men’s boots. They were dry and looked like they’d been that way for a while. I crept out of the parlor and into a large sitting room. Sun streamed through the stained glass and threw a rainbow of color across walls washed in cream. The floor and furniture were made of lightly varnished wood, thick, shiny, and smelling of soap and lemon. To my left, a grandfather clock ticked away the morning. Softly. To my right, a mahogany banister leisurely carried a flight of stairs to the cottage’s second floor. All in all, it was peaceful, pleasant, a nurturing sort of place—that is, until my eye reached the top of the stairs. It was there I saw the old man, hanging from a well-crafted bit of railing by what appeared to be a good strong length of rope.

I took the stairs one at a time, got to the top, and moved past the body. There was one bedroom and what looked like a study upstairs. Both empty. I went back downstairs, checked the kitchen and a small basement. Also empty. I put my gun back on my hip and went upstairs a second time. The old man was hanging against a run of turned balusters. The rope was looped under his shoulders and tied off back under the railing. I crouched down, reached through the wooden pegging, and turned the body, just enough to get a look at the face. It was a refined face. A face of education. Of culture. Probably the face of a grandfather. At least it had been. Now the face was tinged with blue, which told me whoever I was looking at had died from a lack of oxygen. I didn’t think it was the rope, however, that did it. Mostly because it wasn’t looped around the corpse’s neck. Also, because the dead man’s mouth was stuffed to overflowing with sand.

I hadn’t seen anyone suffocated with sand before and wasn’t quite sure how a detective should proceed. I sat back for a minute and considered. The corpse didn’t seem to mind the wait. His eyes were open when he died. Now he just looked at me and dangled. I took a letter from my pocket. It was actually an electric bill, overdue by at least three months. The hell with ComEd. I slipped a little bit of the sand out of my new friend’s mouth and into the envelope. Then I gently reached over and went through his pockets. In his shirt pocket, I found a set of reading glasses. The rest were empty. I thought about searching the house. Then I thought about Johnny Woods. Maybe he ran away. Maybe he ran to the nearest phone and dialed up Chicago’s finest. I figured my work here was done and headed for the exit.

The street was as quiet as I’d left it. No cops waiting at the curb. No neighbors peeking through the shades. I decided to push my luck and took a quick turn around the yard. The back door was locked. The windows looked undisturbed. Facing into the alley, I found a garage with a Lexus parked inside. Near a corner of the building, I saw what looked like fresh scratches in the dirt. The soil underneath was loose and quick through my fingers. I pulled out the envelope and checked the sample I’d taken from the crime scene against the soil from the yard. Close, but no cigar. My victim had been suffocated with what looked like beach sand, which meant whoever killed the old man had come prepared for the job. I walked back to the front of the house and was about to step onto the sidewalk when I noticed a small plaque. It was set a few feet off the ground, just to the right of the porch. I moved close and read the inscription.

THIS IS POLICEMAN BELLINGER’S COTTAGE.
SAVED BY HIS HEROIC EFFORTS FROM THE CHICAGO FIRE. OCTOBER 1871.

I made my way back to Clark Street and walked five blocks north, to a steam shop called Frances’. It had been in business since 1938, which was long enough for me. I ordered a bowl of chicken noodle soup, the old-fashioned kind, with thick noodles, real chunks of chicken, and broth that warmed from the inside out. I loaded it up with pepper and enjoyed. When I was finished, I stepped to the back of the shop and found one of the few pay phones in existence on Chicago’s North Side. I dropped a quarter and called in the body on Hudson to the police. Then I went back to my table and ordered a corned beef sandwich on marble rye and coffee. Whatever Johnny Woods was up to, it wasn’t good. I didn’t think, however, it added up to murder. Then again, there was at least one corpse in a house on Hudson that might beg to disagree.