by Don Satalic
***
Staying about one hundred yards behind, Ludko saw Polina's cab blow right past 71st Street and continued heading north. Okay, change of plans. Wait'll Joe hears this. The cab stayed on Stony Island Avenue right past the jazz clubs and then past the Southmoor Hotel. The cab jogged over to Lake Shore Drive into the Hyde Park neighborhood. They cruised by the Museum of Science and Industry, one of the largest science museums in the world, a gleaming white limestone Beaux Arts facade saved from ruin by a Sears, Roebuck and Company president, originally part of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Ludko promised himself he would visit that place someday, but he never would. He accelerated to keep up with Polina's cab. After a few blocks, they breezed past the University of Chicago, home of Enrico Fermi and Edward Teller, godfathers of the atomic bomb. Beneath the west stands of the abandoned Stagg Field stadium, in the racquets court, the world's first nuclear chain reaction was set off by Fermi at Chicago Pile-1.
Just a few years later they built the atomic bomb, and the world would never be the same, neither would Joe for his role in that mission, which is why Ludko was so relieved that Joe even took this case. It wasn't safe. It wasn't a domestic snoop job for a quick buck. It was formless. It was twisted. They were back in pursuit.
Polina ended her cab ride at The Drake Hotel, right off Michigan Avenue. Ludko thought: Far cry from South Chicago. He’d have to get back to Joe with this as soon as he could. He parked the Lafayette in the first open spot and hurried into the hotel.
The entrance was clad in Carrera marble with oversized glass doors encased in brass with double brass push bars. Ludko entered the marble-floored foyer. Straight ahead was a carpeted staircase that led to the main lobby. He reached the top of the stairs just as Polina picked up what looked to be some mail and headed for the elevators.
She was the only one who entered the elevator, so Ludko calmly sat in one of the many upholstered chairs in the lobby and noted the floor it stopped at. He was delighted he didn’t have to run up the stairs or work a scam on the concierge. She stopped at the seventh floor. Ludko waited for the elevator to return. It was empty, except for the operator. He took the same elevator up to the seventh floor, but when he emerged no one was in the hallway. A bellboy walked by and Ludko grabbed an envelope from his coat pocket and asked him: “Miss Polina dropped this on her way out the elevator. Would you give it to her?”
“Sure,” he said and walked directly down the carpeted corridor, inspecting the mail casually. He disappeared into a niche, the entrance to Room 706. For a terrifying second, Ludko thought he’d given the bellhop his electric bill. He frantically checked all his pockets, then laughed without a sound.
A man answered the bellboy’s knock. “What’s this?”
“Miss Kemidov dropped this in the hallway, sir,” he said as he handed him the folded up form.
The man glanced at it and closed the door. Ludko was already down one flight of stairs by the time the bellboy scratched his head, trying to remember Ludko's face. He shrugged his shoulders and headed toward the elevator.
In the lobby, Ludko phoned Joe’s office. "Hey, Murph, give me Joe quick."
Wilma Murphy switched the call to Joe's line. "Joe, it's Ludko. Sounds important."
Joe picked up. "Yeah, Lud."
“Hey, listen. This Polina ain’t nowhere on 71st Street. She’s at The Drake of all places. Hey, hold it… the bellboy’s looking straight at me.”
“You are handsome, Lud. Maybe he wants a date.”
“Knock it off, Joe. The kid thinks he recognizes me. Nope, he just turned away. Ha…”
“Is she visiting somebody?”
“Nah, she’s registered here, but there’s a guy in her room.”
“You got all that in just this time?”
“What can I say? I'm a professional."
“No more money, Lud; but nice tap dance. I’ll put that in your record.”
“Where to from here, boss?”
“See if you can get a name on her guy, but don’t make it obvious. Be creative and call me about nine tonight at Vookie's." Just as Joe hung up, Benny came nonchalantly into the office. His hand was still on the receiver, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Joe, I was talkin’ ta this girl at Vookie’s and– " Benny was halted mid speech.
“Look, I want you to go downtown to Western Union and send this telegram. Exactly as I’ve worded it. Don’t screw it up. You got that?” said Joe.
“Yeah, sure, Joe,” said Benny looking over the message. “Wow this is like nuts. Is it supposed to read like this?"
"It's an old code, Benny, that I use to keep things private."
"Gotcha. And it's going to London, England, huh? Cheerio old chap and all that crap.”
“All right. Get going... and thanks.”
Benny the Hat left the office with a certain lightness of foot and caught a bus to downtown South Chicago with his homburg hat firmly on his rounded head. Depending on the day, the mood, or even the hour, it might be a black hat or blue or brown with feathers or sometimes without, maybe even a trilby. Benny liked today's choice.
Ludko went into the men’s room off the lobby at The Drake and combed his hair a little differently, added a little wave to the front, dipping it slightly forward, but not quite a forelock. Satisfied with his new look, he walked out and down the hall to just off the main lobby into one of Chicago's favorite watering holes, a hangout for newspaper reporters and politicians and sometimes Outfit guys.
The bar had a ruffled valance right above with a dozen or so stools, like so many soldiers standing at attention. The floor was carpeted with a small square grid pattern of floral scrolls all but obscured by a dozen square tables with four chairs each. Ludko grabbed a stool across from the large arched mirror with fluted molding behind the bar on the far right-hand side. In the mirror he watched the entrance and the lobby beyond. If that guy shows up anywhere, it'll be here. Ludko ordered a drink and listened to the radio.
This episode was "The Secret Menace Strikes" on the Adventures of Superman Show sponsored by Kellogg's foods. It was about half over, but Ludko listened as Perry White, editor of the Daily Planet, is missing and in possible danger. A mysterious individual has telephoned Jimmy Olsen saying that he has a message from Perry for Clark, Lois, and Jimmy; but he will have to go to the Newspaper Club to pick it up and....
Polina looked at the racing form with a delicate curl at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t understand what this is.”
“It’s a racing form, my dear. You betting on the horses these days?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No…I picked up the mail at the desk. It must have been in there by mistake.”
“Look, I’ve been cooped up in here all day. I’m going down for a drink. Want to come along?”
“No,” she said. “I’m a little tired; you go ahead.” She walked over to the sofa by the faux fireplace and dropped the racing form onto the glass coffee table and sat down and opened a magazine.
The man rose from the upholstered chair across from her and headed out. He walked down the hall to the elevators and pressed the down button. A few moments later it arrived, and he ambled in and told the operator, "Lobby."
When he entered the lounge, Ludko caught him in the mirror and recognized him immediately. Even though he saw Ludko briefly in the hallway, there wasn’t a glimmer of it on his somber face. He just sat down and ordered a Scotch. On the radio now was The Quiz Kids, the announcer was just introducing Joe Kelly, the quiz master. Then, the kids introduced themselves one by one. “I’m Lonne Lunde. I’m 13 years old in the eighth grade at Lincoln Junior High School... I’m Joel Kupperman. I’m 12 years old in eighth grade……..”
Ludko said to no one in particular: “Them kids are really sharp. They’re all local, yuh know." The bartender smiled and nodded. "And last week they were up against some colleg
e professors. They really slammed ‘em.”
“I never listen to that show,” the man said.
“Well, let me tell ya’ about this question they had." Ludko laughed uncomfortably, "It goes something like: If a hen and a half can lay an egg and a half in a day and a half, in 5,347 days how many eggs per dozen would 26 hens lay in four days?”
“How would I know?” the man answered as he reached for his drink. His suit was a deep blue with a purple undertone. His black hair was neat with part that looked like it was shot in with a bullet. His eyes were dark brown and dead, and Ludko almost choked when he remembered who this guy was.
“Hey, buddy, it’s just a joke. See? There’s always 12 eggs in a dozen. Get it?”
The man snickered, and Ludko knew he had him. He began talking about everything: baseball, football, and his favorite topic– horses. After a few minutes discussing the highs and lows of horseracing, it hit him: Damn... that racing form. “You staying here at this hotel?” the man asked Ludko.
"Nah, I'm supposed to meet a guy here tonight."
SOUTH CHICAGO
Western Union Office
Benny the Hat got off the bus, walked about a block, and went straight into Western Union. “I want to send this overseas, to London. That's in England,” he said proudly. It wasn’t everyday someone in this neighborhood wired London.
Dubious, mostly of Benny, the clerk looked up over his glasses. He shuffled some papers around and then curiously scrutinized the message.
Frustrated, he shuffled more papers around, some landing on the floor. “Western Union has clear, concise rules concerning what is and what is not properly a part of the full address and signature. Is this the proper address?”
“Yeah, that’s it all right: the Hotel Cavendish, 75 Gower Street, Bloomsbury, London.” said Benny.
“But this message doesn’t make proper sense," decried the clerk. The body of the telegram read:
EBENEZER ANGELESEA
OFFENCE ILLIMITABLE LHEU WAYUXBI MISINFORM MOORED BOIL
SQTSYZES JUROR.
GANZER
“Just send it. Just like it is. Okay?"
“That will have to be full rate, then.”
“Naturally.” Benny paid the clerk and left. He headed for a phone booth across the street and called Joe. "Hey, I sent off that telegram like yuh said, and you owe me some money."
"Yeah, sure, drop the receipt off at the office when you get a chance. Look, Benny, I might need you later to help me out with something. Will you be around?"
"I'm goin' down to the Trianon Ball Room. When do yuh need me?"
"Not sure– maybe tomorrow afternoon, maybe sooner. That good?"
Benny had planned a late night. "Sure, I should be home by then. Just gimme a call," he said. "And, hey, Joe, that telegram clerk... he gave me some funny looks, like I was nuts or somethin'."
"Maybe it was the hat. Anyway, thanks, Benny." And he hung up and looked at the clock. It was early evening, just about half past seven, but that made it after midnight in London. No chance for Lawrence Hamilton to make inquiries. No chance for the telegram to reach him for at least a few more hours.
Hamilton had worked closely with Joe during the war, a delicate piece of counterespionage centered around the Manhattan Project, Chicago, and Los Alamos. Hamilton had been Joe's counterpart in MI5. Now Hamilton was posing as an international antiquities dealer, using his contacts throughout Europe as part of a counterintelligence scheme in concert with Interpol.
Hamilton could locate anyone anywhere in Europe, much less London. Joe suspected, from what Polina told him, that General Kemidov might be fleeing the Soviets or had already been picked up by their agents in London, which might explain why Polina hadn't received any more correspondence from him.
Hamilton could help. He would know what Joe had suspected simply by his name and title in the telegram: ILLIMITABLE LHEU WAYUXBI (General Yuri Kemidov). A Russian general making his way to Canada or possibly the US could have aroused Soviet intelligence, especially if he were of some importance.
But perhaps the "General" thing was self-appointed, to impress his niece, and he was nothing more than another displaced person, another DP, trying to get to the States. The answer would have to wait until morning.
Joe locked up and headed downstairs, got into the Chevy, and drove to the West Side. He was working a divorce case. He always checked out each side of his domestic cases, regardless of who hired him. His client, a recently wealthy businessman, made his money running an Army post exchange in southern England during the war.
He started out as a thirteen-week wonder in the Army, just like everybody else, but he made them believe he knew mathematics, which got him into Officer Candidate School. Later, the Army found out he had some managerial expertise and immediately assigned him to a PX in the south of England for the replacement men that were coming over. Joe discovered that his client had barber shops, shoe repair, beer, and he even had control over all the Zippo lighters in England. At the end of the war, he parlayed all his PX profits into one of the biggest auto-supply houses in Chicago. Now, for some reason, he didn't trust his wife.
Women usually cheat during the week, not on weekends. It was early in the week, so Joe sat on their house waiting for the wife to leave. This had been the third time. He was almost convinced there was nothing to his client's mistrust. For once he thought there might be someone with some virtue left.
She headed out of their driveway in a new 1946 Lincoln. Joe kept a bunch of different hats in his car. When he tailed someone, he would change his hat every so many miles. The other driver rarely picked up on it, never suspected a thing.
From experience, Joe had to be careful tailing women. Call it intuition or keen perception, but women had an uncanny knack for spotting a tail. He held back almost a block and a half. At one point he almost lost sight of her Lincoln, but noticed her making a turn.
He picked her up again. She eventually made a rendezvous at an elegant motel on Cicero Avenue. Joe used his Contax 35mm camera, the same camera used on Omaha Beach by Robert Capa on D-Day. Joe snapped photographs of her meeting a man in the parking lot, kissing him "hello," entering a room. That's all that a rich man's lawyer would need. Joe headed back to the office to develop the film and print the pictures that would end a marriage.
Traveling down Ashland Avenue, he turned on the radio. "Ole Buttermilk Sky" by Kay Kyser was playing. Later, as he got closer to South Chicago, Frank Sinatra was singing "Five Minutes More." After a few cigarette commercials, they played the Ink Spots' hit "The Gypsy." Bill Kenny opened the vocals with that beautifully clear and emotive voice...
In a quaint caravan
There's a lady they call The Gypsy
She can look in the future
And drive away your fears
Everything will come right
If you only believe The Gypsy
She could tell at a glance
That my heart was so full of tears
She looked at my hand and told me
My lover was always true
And yet in my heart I knew, dear
Somebody else was kissing you
But I'll go there again
'Cause I want to believe The Gypsy
That my lover is true
And will come back to me some day
Some of them can't come back. Joe switched the radio off and continued heading back to Commercial Avenue, with only the warm night air softly mumbling through the side vents.