"Never ran into him myself," Dirk O'Farrell put in. "And he was probably around before your time, eh, Snap?"
"Actually, I did know him, mainly after his retirement," I answered, not wanting to go into detail. Four years earlier, I had occasion to visit Lemuel "Steel Trap" Bascomb at his house in Oak Park. I was quietly digging up background information on Lloyd Martindale, a potential reform candidate for mayor of Chicago who had been murdered. Even in a state of senility, Steel Trap had lucid moments, and he remembered events from years earlier that helped explain why Martindale had been bumped off.
Indeed, Steel Trap had been part of a chapter in my checkered newspaper career. I came close to getting a scoop on the Martindale case and subsequent events–including three other deaths–but that's another story. It's one I had never shared with the others in the Headquarters press room, since I didn't deal them in on my digging.
Joanie continued reading the Trib obituary. "It says this Steel Trap guy was with City News for thirty-nine years. If he was supposed to be so darn good, why didn't he end up working for one of the dailies?"
I waited for Masters to respond, but he just shrugged. Joanie turned toward me. "Couldn't tell you," I said, although I knew Steel Trap had felt the dailies killed stories that reflected badly on their advertisers, and he couldn't abide that. I had learned that from his daughter.
His daughter. I hadn't seen Catherine Reed in more than four years, not since my last visit to Steel Trap. I had almost called her two or three times, but always held off…I can't explain why.
I read the obituary in my own copies of The Tribune and the Sun. They both gave it nice play, and the Trib had a picture of him that must have been taken before World War I. There was to be a visitation in Oak Park that night.
After wrapping up an uneventful day at Headquarters, I hopped a northbound streetcar and grabbed a quick supper at a Harding's in the Loop, then took the Lake Street Elevated west to Oak Park. The mortuary was just two blocks from an El stop in the town's main business district.
I hadn't expected a large gathering, even with the extensive obituaries in all the papers, and I was right. About a half dozen people were clustered at the front of the parlor near the casket. Catherine, wearing a simple black dress, had her back to me as she talked to an elderly couple.
I've never been a fan of open caskets, and here was yet another reason why. Even the undertakers couldn't do much for poor old Steel Trap. He hadn't been in all that good shape when I'd seen him a few years ago, but the end of his life had not been kind. His face, even after the embalmers' efforts, had shrunk to beyond what I remembered, and his skin made him seem like a wax museum exhibit.
I stood before the casket, thinking back to my visits with Steel Trap and his struggles with questions about events from decades earlier–questions he once would have answered without a pause. I started to turn away when I felt a hand on my sleeve.
"Hello, Steve," she said softly. "It's very nice of you to come." She looked as fresh-faced and appealing as she had been those years ago, and I wondered yet again why I had walked away from what seemed like a relationship with so much promise.
"I was so sorry to hear about…" I let it hang, turning my palms up. People have called me glib, but none of them have ever seen me at a visitation or a wake. If there's a right thing to say, I've never found it.
"Thank you, Steve. These last months have been particularly bad for Daddy. I finally had to move him to a nursing home." She teared up, but took in a couple of deep breaths and composed herself.
"I'm sure that you had no choice."
"I simply couldn't take care of him anymore. Twice he wandered away from the house, and one time the police found him more than six blocks away, sitting on a curb and holding his head in his hands, muttering something about having to get to the Criminal Courts Building in the city to cover a case. It might be sacrilegious to call this a blessing, but Steve, I'm not saying that because of myself. I never felt that caring for him was an imposition. It's just that his safety became an issue."
"You made the right decision, Catherine, as hard as it had to be for you."
She nodded. "Two weeks ago, he slipped into a coma, and the doctor told me that he'd never come out of it, which turned out to be true. He was six weeks short of his 76th birthday."
"That's a damn good run," I told her. "You have a lot to be proud of. He was one hell of a guy. He deserved the play the papers gave him today."
"Thank you, Steve. He really did have a good run. You know, he was born the year after Lincoln was shot. And one of his earliest memories–he told us this story many times at home–was of watching the Chicago Fire. His parents had a place on the Far North Side of the city, it was really almost out in the country then. From where they lived, they could see the flames and red sky to the south, and smell the smoke. It made quite an impact on a five-year-old."
"Well, I was glad for the chance to have met him, even though he'd…slowed down a good deal by then."
"And I know he really enjoyed your visits, too. They seemed to perk him up quite a bit. I'll never forget that night at dinner when you swapped those crazy stories about the pickpockets who each had six fingers on one hand."
"Crazy stories, but true. I enjoyed those visits, too. I'm only sorry I didn't make more of them. Are you still working at the local public library?"
"You've got a good memory," she said with a hint of a smile. "When Daddy's situation got really bad, I took a leave of absence, but after he went into the nursing home, I went back to working three days a week. When the head librarian heard about Daddy's death, she said she'd like to have me on the staff full-time. So that starts after the first of the year, and I'm very happy about it. It's a pleasant place to work."
"That is wonderful news," I said, meaning it. "I think it's worthy of a celebration. And I can think of no better way to celebrate than with a dinner. What about next weekend?"
She gave me a look that I interpreted as half puzzled and half surprised. "A sympathy meal, Steve? I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but it's not necessary. Thank you, though."
"Catherine, it is not a sympathy gesture," I said, starting to raise my voice but then lowering it as another couple entered the parlor and started walking toward us. "I think it would be nice for us to get together."
"I'm not sure…"
I grinned. "Say yes, or I'll cause a scene, right here, right now." That brought a full-fledged smile, along with the hint of a blush, unless I was flattering myself.
"I'll…all right, call me and we'll set up a time. And Steve…thank you." She took my hand and squeezed it, then turned to greet more arriving mourners. I took a last look at the remains of Steel Trap Bascomb and vowed that when my time to depart drew near, I would insist upon cremation.
Chapter 11
The next morning, I had been at my desk in the headquarters press room for only five minutes when I got a call from the Tribune's South Side police reporter, Al MacAfee.
"Snap, I need a favor from you, a big one."
"Okay, what have you gone and done, Mac? Do I have to bail you out? Were you caught in a crap game? Or a raid on a brothel?"
"No, no, you know me better than that." He sounded flustered.
I did indeed know MacAfee fairly well. He was honest, earnest, hard-working, and a decent, thorough young reporter, if somewhat on the excitable side.
"Okay, try me," I said. "Of course I make no guarantees."
"Of course not, Snap, I wouldn't expect you to. Well, here's the situation: My wife, Flora–I think you may have met her at a party one time a couple of years back–anyway, Flora has been pregnant for seven months. She's been having a lot of problems with this one–it's our second. The first one, Liam, he's almost two now, was a breeze. But this time, it's been rough right from the start."
"Sorry to hear that, Mac. But where do I come in?"
"I think you know that we live in Rogers Park, Snap, almost to the Evanston border. It takes me more th
an an hour to get from our apartment to even the nearest South Side precinct, Hyde Park. Streetcar, Elevated, Illinois Central train–most days my commute, morning and evening, is three hours, sometimes a little more."
"Go on."
"Well, the doctor doesn't think Flora should be alone for almost twelve hours every day, not the way things have been going."
"Why don't you come to the point, Mac."
"Well…I was wondering if you might be willing, just for two months to, well, to switch places. I swear, Snap, I'm not looking to take over your beat. But if we could swap, just temporarily, it would cut my time away from home by more than one hour, maybe closer to two. And you live a lot farther south than I do, so it wouldn't be a great imposition for you."
"Have you talked to anybody else about this?"
"Not a soul. I know it would have to be approved by Mr. Maloney himself, but I wanted to ask you first. If you don't want to do it, I'll try something else."
"South police, eh? I haven't done it in years, not since '29 or '30. You still divide your time among the Hyde Park, Englewood, Grand Crossing, Gresham, and Kensington station houses?"
"Pretty much, with occasional swings by Chicago Lawn, Deering, and South Chicago. But I spend most days at Hyde Park and cover the other precincts from there."
"And why not–better restaurants, right? And better transportation downtown?"
"Well, yes. And nicer cops, by and large. What do you think, Snap?" MacAfee sounded tense.
"In my very limited experience with him, Pat Maloney seems like a pretty decent guy, as managing editors go. He's no Edward Scott Beck, but then who is? They threw away the mold with Beck. Tell Maloney that it's jake by me if we do a two-month switch, and I'll bet you three-to-one that he gives it his stamp. Let me know what he says."
MacAfee let out a sigh. "Thank you, Snap, thank you. I will call Mr. Maloney tomorrow."
"Mac, you are aware, are you not, that you will be spending a good deal of time seeking information in the office of Homicide Chief Fergus Fahey?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess so. I do know that you guys hit it off pretty well."
"That's because I work at it. Fahey can be a tough customer sometimes, but always fair. And he loves Lucky Strike smokes, if you get my drift."
"I do. I smoke Camels, but I'm willing to change."
"Good strategy. And there's a reward. When you're in his office, which will be often, you will be drinking the very best coffee in the building, brewed by the comely and charming Elsie Dugo, Fahey's Girl Friday. But you're a married joe, so her appearance shouldn't matter to you, right?"
"Uh, right, absolutely right." MacAfee was a good man, but he didn't have much sense of humor, and he didn't know when he was being kidded. I knew he'd do fine if Maloney okayed the switch. I wasn't worried that Mac would try to take over the Headquarters beat permanently. The truth is though, that I might not have been so willing to make the switch if I hadn't come across this Bergman business. This seemed like a good time to be a reporter in Hyde Park.
The next day, a little before noon, I got a phone call in the Headquarters press room from J. Loy "Pat" Maloney, who had been managing editor of the Trib since 1939, when he took over the post on the death of Bob Lee.
"Mr. Malek," he said, "I understand from Alvin MacAfee that you have agreed to switch beats with him during the last weeks of his wife's difficult pregnancy. Is that the case?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I must say that's very generous of you. This is a little out of the ordinary, but I met with the city editor, and he has no objections. And neither do I."
"I'm happy to help Mac, Mr. Maloney," I told him, hoping he would remember my gesture the next time I requested assignment as a war correspondent.
"Good, good. After the baby comes, you can of course return to Headquarters. Everyone seems happy with your work, and I hear, again from the city editor, that you have particularly good sources in the Homicide area."
"I like to think so. And one of the things I plan to do on Mac's first day is to introduce him to Fergus Fahey and get him set up there."
"Excellent, I'm glad to hear it! I know he can count on you to show him the ropes."
So it was that two days later, I introduced Mac to all the members of the Headquarters press room and told them about the switch.
"Hah! Don't give us that 'temporary' hogwash, Snap," Packy Farmer gibed. "The truth is that the high muckety-mucks up in Tribune Tower finally caught on to your slothful ways and decided to replace you with this fine young fellow. He will indeed be a welcome addition to our intrepid band of warriors."
"Mac," I said, putting an arm over his shoulder, "beware of this questionable specimen. He will be all over you for information every time you come back from Fahey's office. He can't even spell 'homicide' without my help.
"This room is a den of rogues and rascals," I went on, "with the exception of this fine lady, Joanie, who nobly represents the City News Bureau of Chicago. Would that these reprobates had her dedication to duty and to the high principles that exemplify our profession."
"Quick, get the man a soapbox," Dirk O'Farrell rasped. "He's delivering one of his sermons."
"You wouldn't know a sermon if you heard one, Dirk," I riposted. "I'll wager you haven't seen the inside a church in thirty years. Come, Mac, let us leave these knaves to their nefarious devices and call upon the estimable Chief of Detectives, Fergus Sean Fahey."
We went down two floors and stepped into Fahey's small anteroom, occupied as usual by Elsie Dugo. "Hello, you vision of loveliness. Is the high panjandrum in his sanctum?"
"Watch your tongue around here, mister," she sassed. "We don't allow that kind of language. Who's your good-looking friend?"
"This, Miss Dugo, is Alvin MacAfee, an outstanding and intrepid reporter who is going to be replacing me for the next several weeks while I go on a super-secret spy mission. You must promise to be polite to him at all times."
"Hah! I'm always polite–at least to those who are polite to me," she said with a smirk.
"I'll remember that. Can you announce us to his eminence?"
Elsie gave a toss of her head. "Mr. Malek and a gentleman to see you," she pronounced into her intercom.
"I believe the proper phrasing is 'Mr. Malek and another gentleman,'" I tossed off as we went into Fahey's cluttered office.
"Morning, Fergus, I'd like to have you meet Alvin MacAfee, known at the paper as Mac. He's going to be the Tribune's man here for the next several weeks."
"So they finally got wise to you," Fahey said, rising and shaking Mac's hand.
"Funny, that's about what the others in the press room said, too," I replied, trying to sound hurt. "This is only temporary, honest it is, but you'll find Mac to be a first-rate reporter. Try to treat him with more respect than you've treated me over the years."
"And you say that after all I've done for you," Fahey fired back, dropping into his chair and turning his palms up. "All the exclusives I've handed to you on a platter."
"No need to go on, Fergus. I've already told Mac all about you."
Fahey nodded. "Then he must know my favorite smokes are–"
"Luckies," Mac snapped, whipping a pack out of his pocket and slapping it down on Fahey's blotter.
"This boy has promise, no doubt about it," the chief said, beaming. "So, Snap, what's to become of you while this fine gentleman fills your chair?"
"We're doing a temporary swap, Fergus. I'll be covering the South Side police beat."
"Really?" Fahey's Irish face registered interest. "Mind if I ask whose idea this is?"
I turned to MacAfee. "It's mine, Chief Fahey," he said earnestly.
"Call me Fergus."
"It's my idea, Fergus," he repeated, going on to explain the situation with his wife's pregnancy. "And when I proposed the swap to Steve, he was good enough to go along with it. I really appreciate that."
"Wonderful fellow, this Malek is," Fahey said with a benevolent smile as he leaned back with
his hands laced behind his head. "Always thinking of others, he is."
"Well, he surely has helped me," Mac said, apparently oblivious to Fahey's sarcasm. "And I'm really looking forward to this assignment."
"I'm sure we're going to get along just fine," the grizzled cop said, reaching into the pack of newly arrived Luckies and pulling one out. "And now, if you don't mind, Mr…MacAfee, is it? I'd like to have a few words privately with the man you're replacing. Some unfinished business."
"Sure. And I look forward to working with you," Mac said as he went out and closed the door behind him.
"So," Fahey said, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head, "this swap of yours really was the kid's idea?"
"You heard him, Fergus. He's not the sort to go telling tales."
"Seems interesting though, that you'll be down Hyde Park way a lot, what with your interest in that prof's murder."
"Chalk it up to coincidence. By the way, anything new on the case?"
Fahey shook his head and took a drag on his Lucky. "Not a blessed thing. My men have talked to damn near everyone on that campus, from professors to secretaries to an ex-wife to both the day and night barkeeps at the University Tavern, and if Bergman had any enemies, nobody's talking. Seems he was something of a loner. Had been married and divorced twice. The other ex-wife lives in California. We've also talked to a lot of people in his apartment building, and hardly any of them knew him more than to just say hello in the hallway or on the stairs. The only one who had even talked to him much was an old spinster who lived down the hall. Said he was a quiet gentle fellow and a good listener. My man said she was very garrulous, so maybe the poor bastard never got a word in edgewise when they did meet.
"But why am I bothering to tell you all this? I'm sure you've been doing plenty of freelance investigating on your own. I should be asking you the questions."
Shadow of the Bomb (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 7
