I made my way back to Clark Street and walked five blocks north, to a steam shop called Frances’. It had been in business since 1938, which was long enough for me. I ordered a bowl of chicken noodle soup, the old-fashioned kind, with thick noodles, real chunks of chicken, and broth that warmed from the inside out. I loaded it up with pepper and enjoyed. When I was finished, I stepped to the back of the shop and found one of the few pay phones in existence on Chicago’s North Side. I dropped a quarter and called in the body on Hudson to the police. Then I went back to my table and ordered a corned beef sandwich on marble rye and coffee. Whatever Johnny Woods was up to, it wasn’t good. I didn’t think, however, it added up to murder. Then again, there was at least one corpse in a house on Hudson that might beg to disagree.