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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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of the Congress, is what it had.
I wasn't home when Miller came calling on me, of course, but evidently somebody- Cermak's fabled espionage system. I supposed- had known enough about me to gather I'd be at Barney Ross' speak. After all. somebody had known enough about me to know where I'd be yesterday afternoon. I was starting to feel like an open book. A well-thumbed one.
It wasn't much of a walk from Barney's building to the Congress; just follow the El up Van Buren a few blocks- the wind off the lake seemed more cool now than cold, the powderlike snow blowing around a little- then down State Street, past Congress and up Harrison, past my hotel, all three less-than-luxurious stories of it, and on to Cermak's.
As we walked, I was thinking about how my hotel didn't have a lobby, just a narrow stairway that hesitated at a check-in window at the right as you came in. But the Congress, now that was a hotel; the lobby was high-ceilinged, ornate, lots of red and gold with plush furniture to sink down into while you waited for some society girl. Or while you waited for somebody to pick somebody else's pocket, because that was the only reason
I'd
ever had for being in the Congress lobby before. Of course I'd also done some pickpocket duty in the corridor of fancy shops in the Congress, Peacock Alley. But this time I was going in to go up to a penthouse. Even though I hadn't been given much choice, it wouldn't be so bad, going first class for a change.
We went in the alley way.
And I don't mean Peacock. Just the alley; in the service entrance.
In a narrow vestibule, rubbing shoulders with some mops and buckets, hobnobbing with a couple of refuse cartons, I reached a hand out to push the button on the service elevator and Miller batted it away casually.
"Well walk," Miller said.
"Are you kidding? What floor is he on?"
"Three."
"Oh."
We walked the two flights; evidently it wasn't enough for the rich folks in the lobby not to see me. I was even persona non grata to the hired help who might ride the service elevator.
The exchange at the elevator, incidentally, was the extent of conversation between Miller and myself since leaving the blind pig. Miller seemed distant behind his Coke-bottle glasses; about as personable as a potted plant. He wasn't somebody I particularly wanted to know any better, so I didn't press it.
Miller knocked twice and the pale gold door opened and a detective I'd seen around but whose name I did not know answered with a gun in hand. He was a skinny guy with a pencil-line mustache and a dark brown suit that hung on him like it had been a good buy but they didn't have his size. His hat was off and his mouth hung open; he wasn't the brightest-looking sort I ever saw, and my guess was he was temporary Lang would be back as soon as the finger healed.
We went in. Miller first, and he pointed me to a sofa that looked, and was, about as plush and comfortable as the furniture in the Congress lobby. This was a sitting room or living room or whatever, with chairs and a couple of sofas, a fireplace and a glass chandelier, and various furniture that was probably named for some French king with numbers after his name. The only light on in the room was a standing lamp over in one corner, and it was consequently a little dark in there, like a cloudy day.
Across the room from me were windows looking out on Grant Park and Michigan Avenue; the south corner suite, this was. In front of me was a coffee table, a low marble-topped one, with a silver champagne bucket full of ice and brown bottles. Beer. The only thing between me and the view of the park was an empty chair, not a soft-looking, plush chair, but a wooden one with a curved shape to its back, like a captain's chair, or a throne. It was not a chair that had come with the room.
Miller parked himself over by the window, leaned against the sill, and looked out; he was miles away. The other guy, who introduced himself as Mulaney, sat as far away from me as he could
I wasn't home when Miller came calling on me, of course, but evidently somebody- Cermak's fabled espionage system. I supposed- had known enough about me to gather I'd be at Barney Ross' speak. After all. somebody had known enough about me to know where I'd be yesterday afternoon. I was starting to feel like an open book. A well-thumbed one.
It wasn't much of a walk from Barney's building to the Congress; just follow the El up Van Buren a few blocks- the wind off the lake seemed more cool now than cold, the powderlike snow blowing around a little- then down State Street, past Congress and up Harrison, past my hotel, all three less-than-luxurious stories of it, and on to Cermak's.
As we walked, I was thinking about how my hotel didn't have a lobby, just a narrow stairway that hesitated at a check-in window at the right as you came in. But the Congress, now that was a hotel; the lobby was high-ceilinged, ornate, lots of red and gold with plush furniture to sink down into while you waited for some society girl. Or while you waited for somebody to pick somebody else's pocket, because that was the only reason
I'd
ever had for being in the Congress lobby before. Of course I'd also done some pickpocket duty in the corridor of fancy shops in the Congress, Peacock Alley. But this time I was going in to go up to a penthouse. Even though I hadn't been given much choice, it wouldn't be so bad, going first class for a change.
We went in the alley way.
And I don't mean Peacock. Just the alley; in the service entrance.
In a narrow vestibule, rubbing shoulders with some mops and buckets, hobnobbing with a couple of refuse cartons, I reached a hand out to push the button on the service elevator and Miller batted it away casually.
"Well walk," Miller said.
"Are you kidding? What floor is he on?"
"Three."
"Oh."
We walked the two flights; evidently it wasn't enough for the rich folks in the lobby not to see me. I was even persona non grata to the hired help who might ride the service elevator.
The exchange at the elevator, incidentally, was the extent of conversation between Miller and myself since leaving the blind pig. Miller seemed distant behind his Coke-bottle glasses; about as personable as a potted plant. He wasn't somebody I particularly wanted to know any better, so I didn't press it.
Miller knocked twice and the pale gold door opened and a detective I'd seen around but whose name I did not know answered with a gun in hand. He was a skinny guy with a pencil-line mustache and a dark brown suit that hung on him like it had been a good buy but they didn't have his size. His hat was off and his mouth hung open; he wasn't the brightest-looking sort I ever saw, and my guess was he was temporary Lang would be back as soon as the finger healed.
We went in. Miller first, and he pointed me to a sofa that looked, and was, about as plush and comfortable as the furniture in the Congress lobby. This was a sitting room or living room or whatever, with chairs and a couple of sofas, a fireplace and a glass chandelier, and various furniture that was probably named for some French king with numbers after his name. The only light on in the room was a standing lamp over in one corner, and it was consequently a little dark in there, like a cloudy day.
Across the room from me were windows looking out on Grant Park and Michigan Avenue; the south corner suite, this was. In front of me was a coffee table, a low marble-topped one, with a silver champagne bucket full of ice and brown bottles. Beer. The only thing between me and the view of the park was an empty chair, not a soft-looking, plush chair, but a wooden one with a curved shape to its back, like a captain's chair, or a throne. It was not a chair that had come with the room.
Miller parked himself over by the window, leaned against the sill, and looked out; he was miles away. The other guy, who introduced himself as Mulaney, sat as far away from me as he could
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