The following morning, Eugene stepped into his dimly lit office, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hanging in the air. He rasped out, “Mornin’, Molly. Anythin’ new on the wire?”
Molly, his weary secretary, replied in a husky voice, “Mornin’, Mr. Leftowicz. Evelyn Monroe called, wonderin’ if there’s been any progress on findin’ her sister.”
“Patch her through, Molly. I’ll take it from here.”
“She’s holdin’ on the line. I’ll transfer the call to ya.”
Eugene picked up the phone, his gravelly voice cutting through the line. “Mornin’, Miss Monroe. I’ve been tracin’ a few leads. Any word from Amelia or a ransom note, perhaps?”
“Nah, nothin’ yet. What’s the word on the street, Mr. Leftowicz?”
“The bartender over at Chumley’s Speakeasy spilled the beans. Says he spotted her chattin’ up Franky ‘The Fist’ Martino and later with Gianni ‘Three Fingers’ Moretti. Both of ’em are bad news, connected to the five major crime families. They dabble in bootleggin’, gambling, protection, dames and whatever shady business tickles their fancy.”
“What do you mean by ‘dames,’ Mr. Leftowicz?”
“I mean they’re knee-deep in the prostitution racket, Miss Monroe.”
“Oh, dear. I was hopin’ it wouldn’t come to that. Amelia’s always been a good girl.”
“I’m thinkin’ if she overheard somethin’ sittin’ at Franky’s table and let it slip to Gianni, that’d be enough to put her in hot water. Franky and Gianni are sworn enemies.”
“I see. I’m countin’ on you to find her, Mr. Leftowicz.”
“I will not let ya down, Miss Monroe. There are a couple more trails I need to follow. I will keep ya posted.” Eugene hopped in his battered Ford and cruised over to 17 Grove Street, the house linked by an underground tunnel to Chumley’s. He rapped on the door, and an elderly couple with silver hair welcomed him inside. “I am Gladys Anderson, and this here’s my old man, Henry. Take a seat in the parlor. We ain’t used to havin’ visitors. What can we do for ya?”
“Thank ya kindly. I’d like to have a word ’bout the tunnel under your house and its connection to 200 Bedford Street.”
“We’re aware of the tunnel, but we ain’t got much use for it. Chumley’s staff gives us a holler when they got a delivery lined up, and we oblige. Parkin’ ain’t easy on Bedford Street, ya see. They’re decent folks over there. Wish our other neighbors were as swell.”
“Y’know, transportin’ and sellin’ hooch is against the law, right?”
“Sure thing, but it’s a laughable law,” Henry chuckled. “Gladys and me enjoy a sip every now and then. We drop by Chumley’s regularly, though we always use the front entrance.”
Eugene scrutinized the Andersons, a hunch tellin’ him there was more to their tale than met the eye. He took a sip of his tea, lettin’ the silence hang heavy in the room before speakin’ again. “The heat’s crackin’ down on them bootleg joints, ya dig? And anyone caught rubbin’ elbows with ’em can end up in a whole lotta trouble.”
Gladys shot a concerned glance at Henry, her eyes flashin’ with worry. “We know the risks, Mr. Leftowicz. We’re simple folks lookin’ for a little pleasure now and then. We ain’t lookin’ to get mixed up in nothin’ deeper than that.”
Eugene nodded, takin’ in their story. He was no stranger to a stiff drink, but he also understood the perils of the bootleggin’ racket and the illicit trade in connections ain’t just a convenient way to move booze. There might be bigger mob operations at play, ones that could put innocent folks like yerselves in harm’s way.”
Henry leaned in, his voice dripping with curiosity and concern. “What’s the danger, Mr. Leftowicz? How could our link to Chumley’s spell trouble?”
Eugene stared the Andersons down, weighin’ his words carefully. “There’s a chance that Chumley’s might be knee-deep in more than just servin’ drinks. The underworld of organized crime often ties itself to the liquor trade durin’ prohibition. There could be rival gangs, illegal gamblin’, or even smugglin’ goin’ on under the surface. My job’s to uncover the truth and keep the innocent outta harm’s way.”
Gladys and Henry exchanged worried glances. “So, what do we do, Mr. Leftowicz?” Gladys asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Do ya let guests from Chumley’s come through them tunnels?”
“Once in a while, if they give us a heads-up. Gianni Moretti brought a dame with him last week. Name was Amelia, a real looker. She had an interest in the history of this here house. They seemed like a swell couple.”
“Amelia’s sister hired me to find her. She’s gone missin’, ain’t showin’ up for college, and her friends ain’t got a clue where she’s at. They’re worried sick.”
Mrs. Anderson chimed in, her voice filled with concern. “We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Leftowicz. We’ll do whatever we can to help. Ya don’t think that nice Mr. Moretti had somethin’ to do with her disappearance, do ya?”
Henry spoke in a gravelly voice, his words laced with a hint of suspicion. “As for that link to 100 Bedford Street, it’s a two-story joint, standin’ all alone just across the backyard. Downstairs, there’s a sittin’ room, a dinin’ room, and a kitchen. Upstairs, there’s an office and a bedroom. It’s empty now. Maybe the previous owners used it. Perhaps they had a big family and needed the extra space.”
“Mind showin’ me the joint? I reckon it might hold some clues as to what’s gone down.”
“Sure thing, I will fetch the keys. You can snoop around but bring ’em back when ya leave.”
“Well, Murphy, this here’s a swell hideaway. Let’s take a look-see and reconnoiter what we can sniff out. You check this floor, I’ll head upstairs.” Eugene came back down holdin’ a round container. “Recognize this, Murph? It’s a drum magazine for a Tommy gun, also known as a Chicago Typewriter. The mobsters use these babies to rub out their enemies. At 900 rounds per minute, it takes care of a whole lotta enemies in the blink of an eye, ya see? This fella, he’s dead serious ’bout his pieces. Seen these babies in action back in the war, they were called ‘trench sweepers.’ Sounds like there might be a gang war brewin’.”
“Why they call it a Chicago Typewriter?”
“Well, I reckon there’s a couple of reasons. First off, when this bad boy fires, it goes rat-tat-tat, just like the clickety-clack of a typewriter. Second, nicknames were handy for passin’ messages without prying ears catchin’ on. ‘Chicago Typewriter’ sounds harmless, y’know? But ‘Thompson sub-machine gun,’ now that’s somethin’ more ominous.”
“Eugene, looks like someone’s been holed up here. There’s grub in the ice box, empty hooch bottles, a fancy shopping bag from a boutique, a dame’s clothes hangin’ in the closet, and a bottle of Chanel Number 5. Think this might belong to Amelia, our client’s sister?”
“Seems like we gotta pay a visit to Evelyn Monroe, see if she recognizes them duds and the scent. But first, let’s return them keys to the Andersons and see if they remember anythin’ ’bout Gianni ‘Three Fingers’ or Amelia.”
After knockin’ on the door at 17 Grove Street and handin’ back the keys to Mr. Anderson, Eugene spoke up, “There’s signs someone’s been crashin’ at 100 Bedford Street. Found vittles, empty booze bottles, lady’s threads, and a bottle of perfume. These hints might point to Amelia Monroe.”
“Well, that’s a shocker. ‘Cept for you, we ain’t handed them keys to nobody. How the hell did they get in?”
“These fellas we’re dealin’ with, they got ways to get past any lock. A door wouldn’t have slowed ’em down none. After they split from here, you got any clue where Amelia and Gianni were headin’?”
“Ain’t got a clue. Saw ’em jump in a big ol’ black ride, think it was a Packard. Headed west, if that means anythin’ to ya. They seemed like a swell couple, ya know.”
“Amelia’s kinfolk been searchin’ for her. She’s gone missin’, ain’t been seen by nobody, and she ain’t reached out to her pals or her sister. Can’t even imagine how fretful they are.”
Mrs. Anderson chimed in, her voice tinged with sympathy. “Aw, Mr. Leftowicz, that’s mighty sad to hear. We’re here to lend a hand in any way we can. Ya reckon that nice fella, Mr. Moretti, had anythin’ to do with her vanishing?”
“We ain’t sure what went down. I’ll leave ya my card, just in case somethin’ jogs your memory ’bout her whereabouts. Give me a ring, day or
“Thank ya kindly for your cooperation, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”
…
The next day, Eugene met with his partner Paddy Murphy, a hardened detective with a nose for trouble. Paddy was a man of few words but possessed an uncanny ability to sniff out lies and deceit. They met at a rundown diner on the outskirts of town, a dimly lit place The next day, Eugene met with his partner Paddy Murphy, a that served as their unofficial headquarters.
Over a cup of black coffee, Eugene recounted the events of the previous night, the encounter with Franky Martino, and the discovery of the secret passage. Paddy listened intently, his sharp eyes focused on Eugene’s every word. When Eugene finished, Paddy let out a low whistle, a sign that he was intrigued.
“This case keeps getting stranger by the minute,” Paddy muttered, his voice gruff and weathered. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s that secrets have a way of unraveling themselves. We just need to follow the breadcrumbs, Eugene.”
Eugene nodded, a steely resolve in his eyes. “We start with Gianni ‘Three Fingers.’ Franky mentioned him as the last person seen with Amelia. If anyone knows her whereabouts, it’s him.”
Paddy smirked, a flicker of excitement dancing in his gaze. “Gianni’s known to frequent the local jazz clubs. Let’s pay a visit to The Blue Note. Maybe we’ll catch him there, drowning his sorrows in a glass of bootlegged whiskey.”
The Blue Note was a dimly lit joint, where the sultry tunes of a saxophone blended with the clinking of glasses and hushed conversations. Smoke hung in the air, casting an ethereal glow over the patrons who sought solace in the jazz-infused melodies.
Eugene and Paddy took a seat at the bar, ordering two bourbons on the rocks. From their vantage point, they observed the crowd, searching for any sign of Gianni. The bartender, a weathered man with tired eyes, approached them and poured their drinks.
“You boys looking for someone in particular?” the bartender asked, wiping the bar with a faded cloth.
Eugene leaned in, his voice low and gravelly. “We’re looking for Gianni ‘Three Fingers.’ Heard he’s been causing a stir around here. Any idea where we can find him?”
The bartender’s eyes flickered with a mix of caution and wariness. He leaned in closer, ensuring no one else could overhear their conversation. “Gianni’s a slippery one, but I’ve seen him leave with a redhead a couple of nights ago. Had a classy dame vibe about her. They might be heading to his hideout. If you’re smart, you’ll tread lightly. Gianni doesn’t take kindly to unwanted visitors.”
Eugene slipped the bartender a folded bill, his way of expressing gratitude. “Thanks for the tip, pal. We’ll be sure to keep our guard up.”
The partners made their way through the labyrinthine streets, guided by the flickering glow of neon signs and the distant sound of jazz. As they approached Gianni’s hideout—a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town—their footsteps fell silent, their senses heightened.
With each creaking step on the worn wooden floor, Eugene and Paddy descended into the heart of darkness. The air was thick with anticipation, and the scent of danger hung heavy. They knew they were walking into a lion’s den, but they had a damsel in distress to save.
As they pushed open the rusted door, the scene before them unfolded like a noir painting. Gianni stood in the center of the room, a cigar hanging loosely from his mouth, surrounded by his loyal henchmen. Amelia, disheveled and bruised, was tied to a chair, her eyes filled with both fear and hope at the sight of her rescuers.
Eugene’s hand tightened around his revolver, his grip steady and resolute. Paddy stood by his side, his presence a silent reassurance. They were ready to face the devil himself if it meant saving Amelia.
Gianni’s eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Well, well, if it ain’t Leftowicz and his faithful sidekick. You boys just made the biggest mistake of your lives.”
Eugene’s voice cut through the tense silence, his words laced with a newfound determination. “Gianni, you messed with the wrong dame this time. We’re here to collect what’s owed and put an end to your reign of terror.”
The room erupted in chaos as bullets flew and fists swung. The symphony of violence danced to the rhythm of justice, echoing through the warehouse like a tragic melody. In the end, justice prevailed, and Amelia was freed from her captors.
As Eugene watched the sun rise over the city, its golden rays piercing through the darkness, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Another chapter closed in the city’s shadowy underbelly, but Eugene knew that the streets would always breed new mysteries, new cases to solve.
With his fedora pulled low and his trench coat billowing in the wind, Eugene walked into the horizon, ready to face whatever awaited him in the heart of noir. The world may be a dark place, but he was its beacon of light—the last bastion of justice in a city that thrived on shadows.
…
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