West End Street was one ritzy part of Chicago, and Sanford Arms, building number 1212, was the swankiest place on the block. Two decorative pillars adorned the entrance to the polished granite skyscraper, informing all passer-bys that its tenants were rich enough to live in a place with marble columns. Oh, how I love high society.
"You mind waiting for me?" I asked the taxi driver after I had paid my fare.
"No problem, but I'll have to tack on a 5 cent fee for each minute you keep me out here. Company policy."
"Is that so? You know, buddy, I'm sure there are plenty of cabbies who would love to have a passenger at this hour of the night. Maybe I should take my business elsewhere."
The driver opened his mouth as if about to say something, but just rolled his eyes and turned away with a sigh. The waiting fee was never mentioned again. Do I know how to haggle, or what?
If you thought the exterior of Sanford Arms was showy, you should've seen the lobby. The gigantic room, well-lit thanks to the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, had its marble walls decked out with rows of fern-filled planters. There was even a red velvet carpet running across the tiled floor, stretching from the entranceway to the elevator. Talk about the celebrity treatment. I was sure glad that the staff wasn't around to see me; they were probably trained to detect and remove anyone who didn't have at least 200 bucks in their pocket.
The lobby elevator was different from the one at Joe's Bar; instead of having buttons to press, this one only had a slot. The elevator doors refused to budge without first being fed a key or something. I thought I had reached a dead end until I remembered the card I'd found in the "J.S." monogrammed wallet. Printed on it were the words "PRIVATE ACCESS CARD - PENTHOUSE SUITE - SIEGEL." It certainly looked like J.S. was the same person as Joseph Siegel, but why did I have his stuff? I'd have to figure that out later.
The doors slid open on command as I pushed the hole-punched card into the slot. Inside the elevator was the exact same type of receptacle for a card, no buttons at all. One reading of the card later and I was on my way to the penthouse, courtesy of Mr. Siegel. Lucky bastard had the entire top floor to himself; the elevator even went straight to his digs instead of bringing you to a hallway or something.
If Siegel was the same fellow who had snuffed it at the bar, I could safely say he deserved it, if only for his apartment; that place was so goddamn ostentatious I practically felt sick. With his plush carpeting and furniture that just screamed "ladies' man," you could tell he was trying to fashion himself as playboy of the century. He even had a leopard-print sofa, for crying out loud! What the hell would possess a guy to buy a leopard-print sofa? And what kind of woman would want Siegel on that thing, the very epitome of all that is tacky?
His apartment may have been the visual equivalent of ipecac, but that didn't mean it was useless to me. On top of Siegel's fireplace sat a picture of a dame, her lips curved into a half-smile. She was quite the looker, and an address was scribbled on the back of her photo: 520 South Kedzie. That address was the only thing I had going for me, and thus, another stop was added to my scenic tour of Chicago. I hightailed it out of Sanford Arms (had I stayed there a moment longer, I probably would've vomited all over Mr. Leopard-Print-Sofa's precious upholstery) and returned to the waiting cab.
"I've gotta make a stop at 520 South Kedzie," I announced as I opened the taxi door. "Good with you?"
The driver chuckled.
"Okay, mac, but just remember: I ain't responsible for anything that happens to you once you get there."
I began to wonder what he was talking about, but it didn't take long for the meaning behind his words to become apparent. As we neared our destination, I couldn't help but notice the changing scenery. And believe me, the scenery changed a lot. I swear, you could be staring out the window, and each time you blinked, you'd find things looking more and more dilapidated. By the time we reached South Kedzie, the surroundings had morphed into the slum to end all slums.
"So we're good with the free waiting thing, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," grumbled the driver in reply. "But I really oughta be getting hazard pay just for being in a five-mile radius of this place…"
I stepped out of the cab and found myself in front of a run-down bungalow, the number 520 crudely carved into the rotting wood of the front door. No reply came from within to answer my knocking, but I refused to let that stop me. On the contrary, it meant that I'd be free to investigate the bungalow in peace if I could just find a way inside.
What to do, what to do? I didn't have a lock pick, but I had a mighty fine substitute: a revolver. I grabbed the .38 special, aimed for the doorknob, and one gunshot later, I was inside the bungalow; the bullet had cut through the rotting door like butter, and the doorknob was blown clean off. My method, as crude as it was, had worked like a charm. Maybe I oughta moonlight as a locksmith.
I hadn't thought it was possible, but that bungalow looked even worse on the inside than the out. The groaning floorboards seemed ready to collapse at any minute, and the damp wooden walls looked weaker than cardboard. A tattered rag, which I can only assume was supposed to be a curtain, hung over a grime-covered window. The place probably would've reeked of mold if it weren't for the lingering scent of cheap perfume. In fact, it smelled a lot like the secretary's room at Joe's Bar.
The bungalow was pretty much devoid of anything that would make a home livable. In fact, there were only two items of furniture in the entire place: a tiny cot, and a wooden table with a single drawer. After extensive deliberation, I came to the conclusion that the drawer just might have been a good place to search. I know, I know: that deduction was nothing short of genius.
The contents of the drawer turned out to be a key and a diary. The unmarked key looked different from the other ones I'd found; something about it seemed new, freshly made. I wondered if it was a duplicate.
As for the diary, it shouldn't surprise you to learn that I had no qualms over looking through it. And let me tell you, it was one gripping diary. I couldn't stop myself from poring over every seedy detail in that thing. The writer hadn't signed the bookplate with her name, but whoever she was, she lived quite the interesting life. She mentioned an affair with "John Sternwood," a married man with "money out the ass" and a "goddamn bitch of a wife" who aspired to "crushing his balls in the palm of her hand." She wrote multiple times of her wish to run away with John: as she so eloquently put it, "He's got the hots for me, and I've got the hots for his bank account." The writer even mentioned the name of her jealous employer and one-time lover, the man himself, Joseph Siegel. Boy, Siegel was popping up everywhere I went.
I would've spent more time reading that diary if it weren't for the fact that I could barely stay conscious by that point. Whatever I had been drugged with, it was pretty damn potent. I didn't care if Doc Brody wasn't at his office; I was going to find a remedy with or without his help. I checked over the address on Brody's bill and stumbled my way back to the taxi.
"934 West Sherman," I muttered to the driver.
"I'm on my way. You know, mac, you ain't sounding too good."
"I've noticed."
The cab stopped in front of a plain-looking brick office building in a plain-looking area of Chicago. The front door was open, but I didn't see anyone around as I walked inside. A sign above a nearby locked door read "Dr. Brody." I had found the doc's office, but was he in? Knock knock. No answer. Time for plan B.
I was just about ready to let my revolver do the unlocking, but then I remembered the unmarked key I had picked up at the bungalow. Hey, it was worth a try. I slid the key into the lock and gave it a turn: click! It actually worked! But what, precisely, had Madame Bungalow been doing with the key? I didn't have time to worry about stuff like that just yet; I was on the fast track to turning into a zombie, and I'd have to act soon.
Vials filled with all sorts of drugs were stacked inside Brody's wooden cabinet. Of course, I had no idea what a single one of them was for. Maybe the doc had some documents to help me out. His file cabinet seemed a likely place to look, but a combination lock hindered my snooping around. I thought about trying the stethoscope method (after all, there was no shortage of stethoscopes in a doctor's office) to unlock it, but I figured that the Ace method would be just as effective and twice as fun. A bullet from my revolver did a swell job at cracking Brody's combo. Sorry, doc, but if you didn't want amnesiacs blasting apart your file cabinet, you shouldn't have kept it locked.
I checked through the files to see if there was anything on Sodium Pentothal and Diethanol Trimene, the drugs from the bill. Found a paper…"Sodium Pentothal - Brings subject to a state of altered consciousness in which a total lack of inhibitions makes them liable to speak truthfully. Subjects under the influence of Sodium Pentothal tend to divulge their deepest secrets without thinking anything unusual of it." So I had been spilling my guts to whoever had drugged me? How embarrassing.
Another one stood out…"Diethanol Trimene - A drug that, when administered, effectively blocks the memory of the subject. Memory loss will become permanent if the antidote, Bisodiumitis, is not taken within several hours of injection." Yeesh. Serious stuff. I knew what I needed to look for.
I ransacked the doc's stash of concoctions: Sodium Bicarbonate, Chemopapin, Medrezine…Bisodiumitis! I grabbed a syringe, filled it with the contents of the vial, and jabbed it into a vein in my arm. Boy, getting your memory back was one hell of a sensation. I could practically feel a wave sweeping through my mind, clearing away the fog that had kept me in the darkness.
Everything started coming back to me…I was Ace Harding, private investigator extraordinaire. And Brody wasn't just any doctor; he was mine. He even let me rent the office upstairs from him. We shared the same key…and apparently, someone had made a duplicate of it. I felt my chest begin to tighten. I needed to keep my guard up; I didn't know who was in the building with me.
Moving as quietly as possible, I made my way to the second floor. A door stood in front of me, bearing an opaque window with the words "Ace Harding: Private Eye" printed across it. I could just barely make out the silhouette of someone standing behind the window. I wasn't one to shoot first and ask questions later, but this time, I couldn't afford to be cautious. I aimed my revolver at the silhouette's head and pulled the trigger, firing the final bullet in the cylinder. A gunshot pierced the air as a bullet hole formed in the window, blood droplets spattering on the other side of the glass. The silhouette stood no more.
The duplicate key unlocked the door, just as I suspected. Ah, my office. Nice and plain. I never much cared about office decor, but I was quite happy with the new addition to my room: a dead hit man. He lay sprawled out along the wooden floor, a pool of blood forming at his head. Sitting to the left of his body was a fedora; to the right, a revolver. A word of advice: if you're gonna be a hired gun, you probably shouldn't reveal your presence to your quarry. If you do, the underground world will find itself short one inept hit man. It's Darwin's Law in action, baby.
I rummaged through my desk, hoping for any clues I might have left myself. I came across a typewritten letter, just as intriguing as the bungalow lady's diary.
"Ace,
You know how you've been begging for more time to pay off your debts? Do this right, and you can consider yourself off the hook. We're talking a simple kidnap job here. All you have to do is pick up a wealthy woman and drop her off where I tell you to go. Unless you start coughing up the dough you owe me, this is the only way for you to kiss your debts good-bye. Give my darling secretary a call if you don't want to end up sporting a toe tag in the Chicago City Morgue.
-Joe Siegel"
Such a magnanimous guy, that Siegel. Memories of my gambling predicament came flooding back. I was thousands in debt to Siegel (who was indeed the bullet-riddled owner of Joe's Bar, by the way) thanks to a nasty habit of spending my free time in his casino, gambling away everything I owned. I was still a boxer then, and I let Siegel rig my fights as a way to pay off my debts. Word got out that I was taking dives, and my boxing career was ruined. Worst of all, that bastard Siegel still said my debt wasn't fully paid off. I tried my luck as a private eye with the hopes of getting the money for him, but business had been slow.
I could vaguely remember getting that letter, as well as doing some sort of job for somebody, but that's where my memories went all fuzzy. Then I recalled the photo of the fat woman I had found in Siegel's dashboard. It all came back to me…she was the same "wealthy woman" from the letter! Her name was Mrs. Sternwood, and I remembered how her husband, John, had approached me a few days earlier. He said she had been kidnapped, and according to the ransom note, I was the bagman. John Sternwood…the same guy mentioned in the diary! Jeez, things were getting complex.
Had I kidnapped Mrs. Sternwood on Siegel's orders? I couldn't be sure. That part of my memory was still kinda hazy, but I had a hunch where I might find her. And if I was right, she wasn't going to be in any mood to help me out. It was time to head back to Joe's Bar. I could easily recall the address of that place now: 1060 South Peoria Street. Hell, I practically used to gamble there every night. Before I left to call on Mrs. Sternwood, though, I grabbed a syringe and some Sodium Pentothal from Brody's office. You know what they say: it ain't over 'till the fat lady sings.