Dead in Chicago: Thriller

By Neal Chadwick

Historical crime novel from the time of Al Capone
Some cold day in Chicago. It was 1929, a bad year, a bad day.
But I don't want to complain, after all I am still alive, otherwise I could not tell this story at all...
Detective novel - set in Chicago in the 1920s .

Neal Chadwick (Alfred Bekker) is a well-known author of fantasy novels, detective stories and books for young people. In addition to his great book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Commissioner X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, Sidney Gardner, Jonas Herlin, Jack Raymond, Adrian Leschek, John Devlin, Brian Carisi, Robert Gruber and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfredbooks
• Release date: Nov 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9783745211023

Book preview

Dead in Chicago: Thriller

By Neal Chadwick

Historical crime novel from the time of Al Capone

Some cold day in Chicago. It was 1929, a bad year, a bad day.

But I don't want to complain, after all I am still alive, otherwise I could not tell this story at all...

Detective novel - set in Chicago in the 1920s .

Neal Chadwick (Alfred Bekker) is a well-known author of fantasy novels, detective stories and books for young people. In addition to his great book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Commissioner X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, Sidney Gardner, Jonas Herlin, Jack Raymond, Adrian Leschek, John Devlin, Brian Carisi, Robert Gruber and Janet Farell.

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints by

Alfred Bekker

© by Author

© of this issue 2019 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia in arrangement with Edition Bärenklau, edited by Jörg Martin Munsonius.

The imaginary persons have nothing to do with actually living persons. Identical names are coincidental and not intended.

All rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

[e-mail]

Follow on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred

Get news here:

https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/

1

Some cold day in Chicago. It was 1929, a bad year, a bad day.

But I don't want to complain, after all I'm still alive, otherwise I wouldn't be able to tell this story at all.

2

There are days when everything goes wrong. And that's exactly the kind of guy I was just behind me when I went to Clunky's Speakeasy, one of those illegal liquor stores that sprout out of the ground like rotten mushrooms in Chicago and elsewhere.

I now needed a drink, said the password at the entrance and was admitted.

When I stepped up to the bar Clunky, without losing a superfluous word, put something high-proof in front of me. The first sip still burned a bit in the throat, but to flush some of my problems down with it, it was enough. I put the emptied glass on the counter and Clunky gave it back.

On that cursed day, I had shot a man after he had killed my client.

I found that I had earned the right to a bad mood, took my drink and went to the farthest corner. For once, I didn't feel like bar talk today.

If I wouldn't be able to drive my 1924 Plymouth later, which I had parked nearby, it wasn't so bad. My 1-room-apartment was only four blocks away and until then I managed it in any case still on foot.

I closed my eyes for a few moments and was alone with myself and my thoughts.

A man named Zach Allister approached me a week ago. He had cheated a member of the Irish syndicate for a lot of money and now he feared for his life. He couldn't go to the police because they asked him some unpleasant questions. So he turned to me, Pat Boulder - private investigator and if necessary bodyguard. One week I managed to keep my client alive. I told him better get out of town. After what he had screwed up, the Windy City was simply no more plaster for him, but unfortunately he didn't want to see that.

Who doesn't want to hear has to feel or sometimes gets a bullet.

The conversation we had in my office in the corner of South Franklin/Monroe Street went through my head at that moment.

I have urgent business here, Mr Boulder!

Little rendezvous with the physical - or what kind of business are these?

Don't get cynical, Boulder!

You're as dead as a pair of feet if you don't get out of here soon. The people you've been messing with don't burn for long!

We'll see about that!

They'll make a sieve out of you!

What you're going to prevent, Boulder! I'll pay you twice your usual rate! Look, I know you're good. But I also know you need money.

We had both been right and now Zach Allister was lying in the city morgue, pumped full of lead. It happened at a diner on Washington Road. My client had got up to complain to the manager about the quality of the coffee, a guy with an MPi in his hands had stormed in and just mowed him down.

But this hit man hadn't been happy about it for a long time. A shot fired from my.38 was the end for him.

It wasn't the subsequent interrogations with the police that had cost me the last nerve, but the prospect that history was getting around. A man I should have protected was dead. It wasn't exactly good publicity. What other client would have confidence in that?

Are you Mister Boulder? a female voice ripped me from my thoughts. Mister Pat Boulder, she repeated, stressing my first name in a way that was very powerful.

I opened my eyes and saw a woman in her late twenties. The hair was dark, her finely cut face was dominated by two green-blue eyes, and the silhouette that could be seen under the tight-fitting dress was breathtaking. In one hand she held a half-empty glass, in the other a cigarette which was not yet on fire.

May I sit with you, Mr Boulder?

You may. But you picked a bad day to toast with me.

Oh, yeah?

Don't expect me to spray you with jokes today, or that you could talk to me in wit!

Don't worry, Mr Boulder! But you must still have fire, right?

I reached into the side pocket of my jacket and pulled out the matches. She bent over so I could give her fire. Then she sat down and I lit one for myself.

After taking the first train, I drank my glass empty and distorted my face. Real bourbon's different than this fusel...

Mister Boulder...

Let's talk turkey now. Who are you and who told you my name?

Somewhere someone laughed very shrill and attracted everyone's attention. For the young lady who had taken a seat at my table this meant that she had a few more seconds to think of a sensible answer.

She bent slightly over the table and then spoke in a muted voice.

My name is Jessica Rampell. And I know who you are from Clunky.

Don't tell me he's talking to you!

Yes, introduce yourself!

Apparently you have that certain something!

She smiled a little mockingly. I guess that's it.

I grinned back. "I'm not standing at the bar for once, but rather, contrary to my other habits, I'm pulling myself together at a table and already missing a historical event: the moment when Clunky makes small talk!

I wouldn't call it that.

So?

I asked him for someone to help me with a pretty delicate matter!

I pulled on my Lucky Strike and was suddenly as sober as a Reformed preacher.

What's it about?

Clunky told me you were a good private investigator.

"I'll take 25 bucks a day plus expenses. If you can afford it, I'll do almost anything for