And found a leaflet tucked inside the back cover saying it was closed. The whole floor was out of commission. It had been shut down for some kind of emergency repair work, reading between the lines. So people were expected to settle for an alternative vantage point they were offering, on a lower floor.
Or find somewhere else to go.
The guidebook gave plenty of alternatives. It showed pictures of animals in the zoo. Paintings, at the Art Institute. Models of ancient Mexican cities in the Field Museum. Various exhibitions about planes. Trains. Cars. Ships. Body parts. And a submarine. A German U-boat. A genuine World War II relic. It had been captured off the coast of Africa, brought back to the States—complete with its pair of fully functional Enigma machines—then transported to Chicago in the fifties. Recently moved underground, into a reproduction concrete wolf-pen. Still loaded with torpedoes. And the sort of icon that no one from any navy would willingly ignore.
My coat was on and I was halfway down the corridor when I started to wonder about what kind of state the sub would be in. It was more than sixty years old. It had stood outside in the rain for maybe forty years. That would have called for some degree of restoration. Even German steel would be unable to weather that kind of neglect, unscathed. Plus, it must have been adapted somewhat to allow museum visitors to wander safely around inside. And with all those feet passing through, it would need regular cleaning. Which means its original character would have been changed. The marks and scratches and pieces of everyday detritus left behind by the original crew—dozens of guys crammed into the tiny space for weeks on end, like sweaty sardines—would have gone. They’d have been painted over. Swept aside. Or rusted away and replaced with fiberglass.
I was disappointed. I considered just staying in my room. But then thoughts of the U-Boat triggered off another realization. I’d also been disappointed with the Chicago police report that Fothergill had sent me. In particular, the file on McIntyre’s apartment. It had been little more than a list of contents. There’d been no serious attempt to interpret or analyze. And now it hit me why not. Mcintyre wasn’t the kind of individual they were used to dealing with. He wasn’t an ordinary criminal. They weren’t on the samewavelength as him. In the same way as you’d need to be in the navy to fully appreciate the submarine, you’d need to be in the same line of work as McIntyre to look at where he’d been hiding and see any sort of significance. And the only other person around here in that line of work was me.
So I did still leave the hotel. But I changed my destination.
I told the guy at the front desk I needed a cab to O’Hare, but once we were under way I told the driver we had a new heading. Lincoln Park Zoo. I’d seen a sign for it yesterday when I was zigzagging around the city behind Rollins, so I knew it was in the right general area. The guy took it well at first. He was happy as long as I let him talk. But he was less impressed when I pulled him up short on Clark, just shy of Fullerton. I got out of the taxi, turned the corner and walked past the building McIntyre had been using, staying on the opposite side of the street. There were cars parked on both sides. I checked carefully, but none of them were occupied. I suppose the city’s budget didn’t run to stakeouts in the way ours did. Either that, or they were less thorough. But either way, I didn’t risk approaching the place from the front. I followed round to Geneva Terrace and made my way back down the alley at the rear. Only this time I didn’t have to worry about gates or fences. I guess the police had taken care of those, when they responded to the “shots fired” call yesterday. There were splintered remains lying around everywhere, so I just picked my way through the debris and walked up to the side door.
Three lengths of
Or find somewhere else to go.
The guidebook gave plenty of alternatives. It showed pictures of animals in the zoo. Paintings, at the Art Institute. Models of ancient Mexican cities in the Field Museum. Various exhibitions about planes. Trains. Cars. Ships. Body parts. And a submarine. A German U-boat. A genuine World War II relic. It had been captured off the coast of Africa, brought back to the States—complete with its pair of fully functional Enigma machines—then transported to Chicago in the fifties. Recently moved underground, into a reproduction concrete wolf-pen. Still loaded with torpedoes. And the sort of icon that no one from any navy would willingly ignore.
My coat was on and I was halfway down the corridor when I started to wonder about what kind of state the sub would be in. It was more than sixty years old. It had stood outside in the rain for maybe forty years. That would have called for some degree of restoration. Even German steel would be unable to weather that kind of neglect, unscathed. Plus, it must have been adapted somewhat to allow museum visitors to wander safely around inside. And with all those feet passing through, it would need regular cleaning. Which means its original character would have been changed. The marks and scratches and pieces of everyday detritus left behind by the original crew—dozens of guys crammed into the tiny space for weeks on end, like sweaty sardines—would have gone. They’d have been painted over. Swept aside. Or rusted away and replaced with fiberglass.
I was disappointed. I considered just staying in my room. But then thoughts of the U-Boat triggered off another realization. I’d also been disappointed with the Chicago police report that Fothergill had sent me. In particular, the file on McIntyre’s apartment. It had been little more than a list of contents. There’d been no serious attempt to interpret or analyze. And now it hit me why not. Mcintyre wasn’t the kind of individual they were used to dealing with. He wasn’t an ordinary criminal. They weren’t on the samewavelength as him. In the same way as you’d need to be in the navy to fully appreciate the submarine, you’d need to be in the same line of work as McIntyre to look at where he’d been hiding and see any sort of significance. And the only other person around here in that line of work was me.
So I did still leave the hotel. But I changed my destination.
I told the guy at the front desk I needed a cab to O’Hare, but once we were under way I told the driver we had a new heading. Lincoln Park Zoo. I’d seen a sign for it yesterday when I was zigzagging around the city behind Rollins, so I knew it was in the right general area. The guy took it well at first. He was happy as long as I let him talk. But he was less impressed when I pulled him up short on Clark, just shy of Fullerton. I got out of the taxi, turned the corner and walked past the building McIntyre had been using, staying on the opposite side of the street. There were cars parked on both sides. I checked carefully, but none of them were occupied. I suppose the city’s budget didn’t run to stakeouts in the way ours did. Either that, or they were less thorough. But either way, I didn’t risk approaching the place from the front. I followed round to Geneva Terrace and made my way back down the alley at the rear. Only this time I didn’t have to worry about gates or fences. I guess the police had taken care of those, when they responded to the “shots fired” call yesterday. There were splintered remains lying around everywhere, so I just picked my way through the debris and walked up to the side door.
Three lengths of
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