Shadow of the Bomb (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Well, go easy on the poor fella," I said. "He'll be feeling none too cheerful tomorrow."

  "I can gloat at least a little, though, can't I?"

  "Of course, that's what being a fan is all about, especially in a big rivalry. Just remember that some day he may be the one doing the gloating."

  "Okay, but I'll worry about that some other time."

  "Sounds like a good plan to me," I told him as we walked back to my apartment to celebrate with some ginger ale and chocolate chip cookies.

  Chapter 5

  Back in the Police Headquarters press room Monday morning, I regaled the crew with a running commentary on the Bears' victory, and I had what seemed to be an enthusiastic audience. In the eleven months since Pearl Harbor, we, along with many other Americans, craved excuses to avoid talking about the war–especially given that our military and naval victories were more than offset by our setbacks. With Chicago's superb pro football team, though, some of us could find an escape, however illusory.

  As I reached the point in my narrative where Sid Luckman intercepted a Green Bay pass and dashed for a touchdown, I was interrupted by one Packy Farmer, who had leaned back with his feet on his desk.

  "So, oh noble Malek," he intoned between drags on one of his hand-rolled smokes. "You have the power of the mighty, yea omnipotent, Tribune behind you so you can spend a Sunday afternoon reveling in the autumnal splendor of the Wrigley coliseum while the rest of us mortals can only dream of seeing first-hand the gladiators from our fair metropolis do pitched battle in said arena against the boys from the north country."

  "Oh, button it up, Packy," Dirk O'Farrell snapped. "Let the man finish. You sound like a frustrated sportswriter who's had one too many bottles of Budweiser–and at nine-thirty in the morning, for God's sake!"

  "Oh, all right, I yield the floor," Farmer sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Let the fellow rant on."

  "No, no, it's too late," I said, feigning hurt feelings. "The moment is gone; the balloon of excitement has been punctured by the cruel barbs of sarcasm. Just to set the record straight, however, I got those Bears tickets after making a charitable donation."

  "That's telling him, Snap," Eddie Metz chortled. "He's just jealous."

  "Indeed I am–I don't deny it for a moment," Packy responded. "Would that I were with a paper that has the vast resources of Col. Robert R. McCormick's majestic Tribune, which is, as we all know, 'The World's Greatest Newspaper.' We know that because they print those very words on Page 1 every single day."

  "Lest we forget them," Anson Masters put in. "I much prefer my own employer's front-page motto, which as you all are aware is: 'An Independent Newspaper.'"

  "In this case, 'Independent' equates with wishy-washy," O'Farrell of the Sun observed. "If your rag ever took a strong editorial stand on anything, half its readers would pass out from shock."

  Masters scowled. "This from a man whose new employer, one Marshall Field III, just started publishing a newspaper late last year. And would anyone present like to remind our Mr. O'Farrell just who prints his newspaper?"

  "You do, Antsy," Packy Farmer piped up. "That is, the Daily News prints the Sun on its presses."

  "And why, pray tell, is that?" Masters asked.

  "Because Marshall Field doesn't own any presses of his own," Eddie Metz said, enjoying the byplay.

  "Just so," Masters responded, looking smug. "Now be nice, Dirk, or we'll evict you from our building over at Madison and Canal. We're doing you a favor by keeping you in business, propping you up as it were."

  "Hah–you're doing yourselves a favor," O'Farrell fired back. "Your erstwhile publisher, the eminent Colonel Knox, now FDR's Secretary of the Navy, hates the Tribune and its own Colonel–McCormick, that is–so much that he'd do anything to see another morning paper go up against them. Don't pull that 'high-and-mighty' crap on me."

  Just as Anson Masters was about to respond, my phone rang and I never heard his retort.

  "Hey, Snap, Pickles here."

  "What's going on, my poker-playing friend?"

  "Probably nothing, but I like to keep you fully informed at all times."

  "Of course you do–especially if I'm likely to slip you a few bucks or buy you a few beers."

  "Now, Snap, our friendship goes far deeper than money or lager, you know that. Anyway, here's the skinny. The last three nights, I've gone back to that bar in Hyde Park."

  "The University Tavern."

  "Right. Seems like a convivial place, and I know you were interested in that Bergman chap."

  "Go on."

  "He hasn't been there three nights running."

  "So? Maybe he's got other things to do, like grading papers or some such. After all, it sounds like he's on the faculty down there on the Midway."

  "Except I mentioned it to the bartender, Chester, and he was puzzled, too. Said he couldn't remember when the guy had missed even two nights straight. Said he's the most regular customer the U.T. has. Not a heavy imbiber or a troublemaker, just likes to nurse a few beers."

  "Your new pal Chester have anything else to add?"

  "Just that Bergman, first name Arthur, comes in alone, usually keeps to himself, but occasionally starts chatting with somebody else at the bar, like he did when I first saw him and also when you were there the other night."

  "Try going back a couple of more times–that is if it doesn't cramp your other nocturnal pursuits too much. And if Mr. Bergman still hasn't turned up, let me know," I instructed Pickles, figuring that's the last I would hear of this business except for possibly having to slip him a few dollars to cover his beer expenditure. I figured wrong.

  Chapter 6

  Three days passed before I heard from Pickles again. He rang me late one afternoon in the press room.

  "Checking in as ordered, Mr. Newshound. Thought you'd like to know that our Professor Bergman still has not put in an appearance at his favorite watering hole. And Chester, bless his stoic soul, seems more than a little concerned about the absence."

  "Has anybody phoned Bergman at home?"

  "Ah, I thought you would ask, being the bulldog that you are. The aforesaid Chester says he has called him twice and has received no answer."

  "Is our good professor married?"

  "Another question that I knew was coming. According to the barkeep, he's been divorced for a year or so, and that one was his second marriage. He lives alone, over on Cornell east of the campus. I looked him up in the phone book," Pickles said proudly.

  "You have the makings of a reporter. But Bergman must be showing up for his classes, or the university would have raised some sort of alarm about his absence by now."

  "Once again, I'm on top of things, Snap. He's not teaching this term. Again, this came from Chester, who's getting suspicious about all the questions I've been asking."

  "Pickles, I'm damned if I know why I'm concerned about the whereabouts of one Arthur Bergman, given that I met him just the once and we exchanged only a few words. But he intrigues me–him and that line of his, 'At the place where we surrendered…that's where we shall rise again.'"

  "From what little I saw, he seems confident and not shy about expressing opinions," Pickles said. "But then, professors are supposed to be smart, right?"

  "So I've been told. But then, I've had the same amount of college as you–exactly zero."

  "Yeah, but the college of hard knocks counts for something, too."

  "We'd better hope so. Do you have plans for this evening, Pickles?"

  "Nothin' I can't change. What did you have in mind?"

  "How about meeting me at the U.T. Say seven-thirty?"

  "You've got yourself a deal. I'll be at the bar with a cold draught."

  "I'm simply shocked. But since you feel you must imbibe, run a tab–I'll pick it up."

  "God bless you, my son," he said with feeling.

  For the second time in a week, I rode the electric train down to Hyde Park with the post-rush hour commuters. True to his word, Pickles sat hunched ov
er the bar with a sweating stein of beer. The saloon was about half-full and half-noisy, and I pulled up a stool next to my trusted South Side informant. He nodded and waved Chester over. "One of these for my friend," he said, nodding in the direction of his beer. The bartender nodded.

  "You make it sound like you're treating," I told him. "Damn fine of you."

  "Hey, I was just being helpful," he said, trying without success to sound hurt.

  "Of course you were. Did you ask Chester again about Bergman?"

  "Nah. Like I said on the phone, he already acts like I'm being too nosy about him, so I just came in here tonight and kept my yap shut, other than to order. And he didn't speak to me, other than to say 'Here's your Pabst.'"

  "All right–this is the plan: We're going over to Bergman's place on…where is it–Cornell?"

  "Yeah, I've got the number. What do you expect to find?" Pickles sounded dubious.

  "Probably nothing. He may be holed up in there writing an academic treatise or something like that, which has caused him to break his usual routine. Or he may be too sick to bother answering the phone."

  "But wouldn't you think he's got friends who might look in on him?"

  "Beats me, maybe they have. But my curiosity is itching and I need to scratch it."

  "Okay, scratch away. But then can we come back here for another beer?"

  I told him we could, and I paid the check. We left the bar, walking east on

  55th Street for several blocks. Passing under the Illinois Central Railroad viaduct, we came to Cornell and turned south. "It would be this one," Pickles said, consulting the crumpled piece of paper on which he had scribbled the address. He pointed to a three-story U-shaped brick structure with a grassy courtyard that is such a common design for Chicago apartment buildings.

  "Snap, what if the guy's at home and answers the door?" Pickles asked. "What do we say then?"

  "Well…we can tell him that, uh, the folks at the U.T. were worried about him, and that we volunteered to check on him. How's that?"

  "A little lame, considering that neither one of us knows him very well."

  "What the hell, Pickles. What's the worst thing that can happen? He'll probably tell us to mind our own business, and that'll be the end of it."

  The street door to the small entryway was unlocked. Inside, we found Bergman's name and apartment number, 1-D. I pushed the buzzer above the mailbox and waited. Nothing. I held it in a second time, longer. Still no response.

  I tried the inside door. "It's locked," I said to Pickles.

  "Of course it's locked," he said mockingly. "This is Chicago. What did you think? Let me give it a try."

  He pulled a ring with at least a dozen keys from his pants pocket and began trying them in the lock without making a sound. On about the third key, the door opened.

  We went up the creaky, carpeted stairs the half-flight to 1-D and rapped on the wooden door. Again, no response.

  "Now what?" I whispered, mainly to myself.

  "Want to get in?" Pickles asked in his own version of a half-whisper.

  "As in breaking and entering?"

  "Well, you said yourself that the guy may be in there sick or something. He'd thank us."

  He pulled out the ring again. This time, it took about five keys before the bolt slid and Pickles eased the door open, again soundlessly.

  The stench hit us immediately, reminding me of some other murder scenes where I had been present. I quickly pressed a handkerchief to my mouth and nose. Pickles did likewise.

  We sidled into the darkness as I groped for a wall switch. It was where it should have been, and the sudden brightness showed that we were in a drably furnished living room–yellow-striped wallpaper, gray carpet, sofa, three chairs, two floor lamps, one overhead light fixture, two end tables, a floor-model radio, and a desk in one corner covered with papers. The curtains and window shades were drawn.

  With Pickles at my heels, I tried to ignore the oppressive malodor and tiptoed across the room to a hallway that led to the rest of the apartment. A tiled bathroom was on the right, empty, a small kitchen on the left with dishes stacked up in the sink, also empty. Straight ahead was the half-open door to what had to be the bedroom.

  Associate Professor Arthur Bergman was sprawled on the floor just inside the door, face up. Or rather, what remained of his face, which was eggplant-hued, his mouth frozen open in the death rictus and his coal-black eyes popping out like marbles, staring, unseeing at the ceiling. Sunk deep into his neck was what looked like clothesline, knotted. I retched but stifled the vomit. Pickles retreated to the living room, groaning.

  After another cursory look at the body and the room, I joined him. "We're getting out of here right now, you first," I said, still using the near whisper. "Did you touch anything?"

  He shook his head vigorously, keeping the hanky pressed against his nose.

  "Okay, I'll wipe down the light switch and the doorknobs, now out!" I gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the door and, using my own handkerchief, turned out the light.

  Our luck held. The hall was empty and there was no sound from behind the other apartment door on the landing as we made our way silently down the half-flight of steps to the lobby. Out in the welcome air of a Hyde Park night, we walked rapidly away from the building and did not encounter another pedestrian until we were almost a block down Cornell. Only then did we break the silence.

  "Terrible, terrible," Pickles keened. "My God, Snap, how did you know? How did you know?"

  "I didn't know. But it seemed awfully strange that the guy had just dropped out of sight. You're sure you didn't touch anything in there?"

  "No, God no, I was too busy trying to keep from smelling that…"

  "Okay, okay. You've got a record, Pickles. You can't afford to be placed in that apartment, even if the killing happened days ago. With me, it's not as important, although I don't plan to let the law know that I was there."

  "You're just going to…leave him?"

  "Yes and no," I said, gesturing to a phone booth on the corner under a streetlight. I stepped in, dropped a nickel into the slot, and dialed the police switchboard. When a voice answered, I affected a raspy tone. "I want to report a murder at…I gave the Cornell address…in apartment 1-D." The voice at the other end had begun asking questions as I eased the receiver into its cradle.

  "All right, I have fulfilled my duty as a citizen," I told Pickles. "Now I will put on my reporter's hat." I picked up the phone again and dialed the Tribune number in the Police Headquarters press room, getting our night man, Ellis, on the second ring.

  "Malek here," I told him. "But to you, I'm an anonymous caller. Got that?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Anonymous Caller, yes sir. And just what can I do for you?"

  "It's what I can do for you, Ellis–and for the dear old Trib. The police just received a telephone tip that a body had been found in an apartment on South Cornell, not far from the University of Chicago campus. Are you with me so far?"

  "Yep, got it down. And I suppose the cops' tip also came from an anonymous caller?"

  "That's a good supposition. The dead man is one Arthur Bergman, although the cops likely don't know even that yet. He was apparently on the U of C faculty, probably a physics professor, but I'm not sure. You'll have to check that." I gave Ellis the address and apartment number.

  "What else?" he said.

  "Mr. Bergman had apparently been strangled with a rope. The body was just inside the bedroom on the floor, fully clothed except for a shirt. He did have his undershirt on, though, which probably means he wasn't expecting anyone. The apartment itself seemed to be pretty much undisturbed, as though there hadn't been a struggle. From a quick look-see, it didn't look like the place had been gone over. All of this is just for your information, of course. The police will probably give out a lot of the same information."

  "Sounds suspiciously like you were on the scene. Besides the neck, any other signs of injury?"

  "None that were apparent. And by the way,
as far as you're concerned, we of course haven't even talked to each other tonight."

  "Goes without saying, sir. You anonymous callers must live an interesting after-hours life," Ellis observed dryly.

  "Far too interesting on occasion. Have you got everything you need for now?"

  "Enough to start making some phone calls around the building."

  "Needless to say, I'm curious as to what you learn," I told him, cradling the booth's receiver for a second time.

  I stepped out and took two deep breaths. "Now, Pickles, do you still want that second beer?"

  "More than ever," he said hoarsely, passing the handkerchief across his forehead. "And a third one, too."

  "Sounds good to me. But let's try a different saloon this time. My two visits to the U.T. have been more than enough to last me awhile." Little did I know that I'd be spending a lot more time in the joint in the weeks ahead.

  Chapter 7

  In fact, Pickles and I put away four more draughts in a small and uncrowded saloon on

  53rd Street before we called it a night. I calmed down and stopped shaking before he did, but neither of us had truly unwound until the third stein. "Geez, Snap, I wasn't expecting to find that. I've seen a few stiffs before, but never one whose face was that color," Pickles said, shaking his head. "What's your take?"

  I shrugged and took a long drag on my Lucky. "I don't know. I don't think it was a robbery, because the place didn't look like it had been rifled, although we weren't around long enough to know much."

  "Too damn long for my taste. Think it could have been a homo thing?"

  "Possible, but I'd say unlikely. The bartender said the guy had been married twice, although that's no guarantee of anything when it comes to sex. But if he was queer, I doubt that he'd be a regular at the U.T., which hardly seems like it's that kind of a joint."

  "Well, with all due respect, Snap, I think I'll go back to my quiet games of chance down in Englewood. The only violence there is when Benny Kaplan gets pissed off about his lousy cards and throws the deck across the room."