Shadow of the Bomb (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Thank you, Sergeant," I said. "What you've told me is worth a visit to your esteemed establishment. Try to keep these fine ladies occupied until I get there." Twenty minutes later, I was in the dingy Wentworth station house, courtesy of a Checker cabbie who seemed to think red lights were only subtle suggestions to slow down.

  I found the women at the station when I got there, relishing their role in nailing the luckless Mr. Ferguson. One of them, Maude Murray, a silver-haired grandmother wearing a black hat decorated with an artificial rose, told me she had had her purse lifted at a street car stop several years ago. "I've never forgotten that," she told me with emotion, balling her small hands into fists. "I vowed it would never happen to me again, or to anyone near me. What occurred today was clearly the work of the Lord. He wanted me there at that moment. And you may quote me in your newspaper."

  Oh, I did. My story ended up getting good play on Page 6 the next day under a two-column, two-line headline: "Ladies Wield Purses to Foil Pickpocket." That was about the best one could expect from the South police beat.

  I got back to Hyde Park a few minutes before noon and went directly to Hutchinson Commons on

  57th Street to meet Nate Lazar for lunch. He was waiting for me at the entrance to the stately campus building. "Perfect timing. Just got here myself," he said as we went inside and up a stairway.

  "Quite the edifice," I said. "Looks like my impression of England, although I've never been there."

  "That was the idea when old John D. Rockefeller himself ponied up the dough for this institution. Oxford on the Midway, or maybe Cambridge. Here we are," he said as we got to the top of the stairs. "And, just so you know, it's supposed to be bad luck to step on the seal."

  Embedded into the tile floor in the hallway was the seal of the university, in bronze. Everyone skirted it.

  "Even in a place of advanced learning, superstition lives, eh?"

  "Absolutely," Lazar said. "I suspect there's more of that sort of thing here than many of us care to admit. Let's get in line. Remember, this is on me, so take whatever looks good to you."

  The dining room was a long, cavernous hall two stories high, looking more like a cathedral than a cafeteria with its vaulted ceiling, Gothic ornamentation, stone fireplaces, and dark, paneled walls with paintings of university presidents and trustees. There must have been two hundred people in the big room–students, faculty, and probably other miscellaneous visitors like myself.

  "The food isn't quite what it was before the war," Lazar said as we moved our trays along the line making selections, "but it's still decent. They have particularly good roasted chicken."

  I opted for the chicken, with mashed potatoes and peas, and we camped at an unoccupied wooden table for four.

  "Theo Ward might be joining us," Lazar said. "I told him you were coming, and, oh–there he is now." Lazar waved, and Ward picked his way through the mass of tables with his tray.

  "This place gets more crowded by the day," Ward huffed as he settled in and began attacking his lunch. "Hello, Mr. Malek. Welcome to our campus madhouse. The original Bedlam couldn't have been this noisy."

  "Now, Theo, it's simply hundreds of people engaged in animated conversation while they eat," Lazar chided. "You wouldn't want to stifle all that enthusiasm, much of it from students and likely brought on by the classroom stimulation provided by professors like yourself."

  Ward grunted between bites. "Well, all I can say is–wait a minute, isn't that the great man himself, coming this way?" He gestured toward a stocky, balding gent in a three-piece suit who was carrying a tray of empty plates and headed in our direction.

  Lazar nodded. "Enrico Fermi."

  "Deigning to eat with us commoners," Ward said. "Thought that he'd be across the street at the Quadrangle Club with all the swells. Well, I've always wanted to meet him. Why not now?"

  As Fermi got closer, Ward stood. "Dr. Fermi, I'm Theo Ward, an associate professor in the Physics Department."

  "Uh, hello, nice to meet you," Fermi said in an accented voice. "I would shake your hand but…" He nodded to the tray he was holding.

  "That's all right, Doctor. I'd like you to meet a colleague in the department, Nate Lazar. And this is a friend of ours, Steven Malek."

  "A pleasure," Fermi said, looking at us in turn, his blue-gray eyes friendly.

  "Doctor Fermi, it is our pleasure to have you on the campus," Ward said smoothly. "It has been widely known that you are here, of course, but many of us have wondered what type of projects you are working on."

  Fermi looked uncomfortable, then shrugged. "Your people at this great university have very kindly invited me here to help them with some research in the Metallurgy Laboratory," he said. "I am very flattered to be asked to this fine institution, of course. I only hope that I will be able to contribute something to their work in metals. Now if you will kindly excuse me, I am late for a conference. It was good to meet you all." He bowed and went to put his tray on the return shelf.

  "Now there was a man reading from a script if I ever saw one," Ward said with a scowl.

  "What did you expect him to say, Theo?" Lazar asked. "That he's working on some kind of super-secret weapon?"

  "It was worth a try. He has to know that people are curious, and suspicious, about what he's doing in these hallowed and ivy-covered halls of ours."

  "Of course he knows," Lazar said. "Which is why he has undoubtedly memorized the speech he just gave you."

  Ward turned to me. "You'll notice that I didn't give your profession away and send him running, Mister Newspaperman. What's your opinion?"

  "Hard to tell. I'd have to spend more time with him, which seems unlikely. Appears to be a pleasant enough joe."

  That got a chuckle out of Ward. "What a prosaic way to describe a Nobel Laureate."

  "Sorry, but that's all I have to go on," I responded, trying to hide my irritation.

  "Don't let Theo get under your skin," Lazar said calmly. "Just as Fermi happened by, I was about to ask if you had heard anything more about Arthur's murder."

  "Not a damned thing," I answered truthfully. "The guy who's been filling in for me at Headquarters checks with the Chief of Detectives every day, and there haven't been any breaks in the case."

  "Huh! And just how hard have they been trying?" Ward snapped.

  "Tough to say. It's possible the Feds have whistled them off."

  "So you think they–the Feds–feel that what happened to Arthur has to do with national security?" Lazar asked.

  "It wouldn't surprise me."

  "Well, I think the police ought to take a long, hard look at Bergman's former wife if they haven't already," Ward said.

  Lazar slammed his fork down on the table. "Theo, what are you talking about? That is a terrible thing to say!"

  "Dammit, you were beguiled by that woman from the start, Nate. I'll grant you that she's easy to look at, but beneath that soft, feminine exterior is one tough, hard, calculating woman. Why she ever got interested in Arthur will always be a mystery to me, but she did. And then, two or three years into their marriage, when he started playing games with some of the female students, she became enraged. She couldn't believe any man would do that to her. Do you deny it?"

  Lazar fidgeted in his chair. "No…but I can't imagine Irene doing something violent."

  "Why not?" Ward demanded. "She's proud, she's strong, and she's a physical-fitness fanatic. Arthur used to brag about how she took part in those mass exercises that Bohemian group held, what's its name?"

  "Sokol," I put in.

  Ward nodded vigorously, causing his double chins to quiver. "Yes, that's it. Anyway, she could easily have dispatched her husband; she's a lot stronger than he ever was."

  Lazar looked down, holding his head in his hand. "Theo, Theo, this never could have happened. She's not that kind of–"

  Ward cut him off. "Mr. Malek, have the police questioned Irene Bergman?"

  "I believe they have, but that would be expected."

  "And?"
/>
  "They haven't charged her with anything, or we'd know about it."

  "They're probably still gathering evidence," Ward snorted.

  Lazar sighed. "Theo, what has gotten into you? Why this animosity toward Irene?"

  "I realize Arthur was cheating on her, Nate, but I'll bet you didn't know she was cheating on him, too–and I think that was even before he started fooling around."

  "Nonsense!"

  "Believe it," Ward said grimly. "I never said anything about this before, but a couple of years ago, when Arthur was at a physics conference out East, in Boston I think, I happened to be walking along Dorchester north of the campus one night, and Irene came out of an apartment building on the arm of Dieter Schmid. The building happens to be the one Schmid lives in. They didn't see me; I was on the other side of the street."

  "Who's Schmid?" I asked.

  "Another professor in the Physics Department," Lazar said.

  "German?"

  "Swiss. He's been here for several years," Ward put in.

  "It could have been very innocent," Lazar insisted.

  "I grant you that it could have been," Ward said nodding, "except for their embrace and long kiss at the bottom of the stairs before they went off in opposite directions. And that kiss was not the type a brother gives to a sister."

  "I'm not sure I see the point of all this," I told Ward as Lazar wore an increasingly disconsolate expression. "These are adults having affairs. For good or ill, this sort of thing happens to all sorts of people, all the time. How does it point to Bergman's killing?"

  "I don't believe Irene ever really cared for Arthur," Ward said. "She may have been impressed by his intellect, but she couldn't have loved him."

  "Why not?"

  "Arthur was a hard man to like, let alone love," Ward said. "I've always been amazed that he had so much, shall we say…success with female students."

  "Now this is what I call a truly motley crew–of course excluding you from that description, Mr. Malek," Miles Overby boomed as he approached our table. "If I were to make a wild guess, I would say the subject of discussion here is Arthur's demise."

  "And you would of course be correct, Miles," Ward said. "Join us."

  "Just for a minute or two. I was dining over in the far corner, with a former student now at Cal Tech, and I've got to get back to the office for some student conferences."

  Ward nodded. "I was just talking about Irene."

  "Ah, the not-so-grieving ex-wife?" Overby said, folding his lanky frame into the fourth chair at the table.

  Lazar made a face. "Miles, don't tell me you have got it in for her, too."

  "Not at all," Overby said, turning a hand over. "It's just that I never saw much warmth between them. It seemed like a strange marriage from the start."

  "Well, your colleague here thinks she might have bumped him off," I said, gesturing in Ward's direction.

  "Really?" Overby's angular face registered surprise. "How did you come up with that?"

  "Mr. Malek overstates my comment. I did not make an outright accusation," Ward protested. "I only suggested it as a possibility." He then proceeded to repeat his story about seeing the extended embrace between Irene and Dieter Schmid.

  "Who'd have thought Dieter had it in him?" Overby said with a chuckle. "I always felt his only passion was his work. That is, if he's capable of any passion at all."

  "It would appear from what Mr. Ward saw that he is," I remarked.

  "You're all gossiping like a bunch of old crones!" Lazar fumed. "Whatever may have happened between Irene and Schmid hardly suggests her as a murderer."

  "I have to agree," I put in. "Tell me about this Schmid fellow."

  "Brilliant by all accounts," Overby said, "although very taciturn, to the extent that it's hard to get complete sentences out of him. Seems unfriendly on the surface, but I think it's more a case that he's shy and not strong in the social skills."

  "Except with Irene," Ward said.

  "Is he part of this Metallurgy Lab business?" I asked.

  Lazar nodded. "I think so, although as we've said, that operation is so secretive that it's not always easy to determine."

  Ward snorted. "You'd keep it a secret, too, if you were working on something so lethal it could reduce the entire city of Chicago to a pile of rubble."

  "There you go again, Theo," Lazar said. "Remember, we have no hard-and-fast evidence about what's going on over there."

  "No, but we have a pretty damned good idea, you have to admit that," Ward fired back.

  "Was Schmid at the Bergman funeral?" I asked, trying to steer the subject back to the murder.

  "No," Overby said. "They weren't particularly close."

  "Does that mean there was animosity between them?" I asked.

  "I'm not aware of any, are either of you?" Overby posed. Lazar and Ward shook their heads.

  "Arthur and Schmid didn't travel in the same circles–unless you were to count Irene," Ward said sardonically. "And if I were to guess, I'd say that Arthur never knew he was being cuckolded by a colleague."

  "I'd agree," Overby said. "And if anybody wants my vote, it's that Irene did not kill Arthur, although she probably is strong enough to do the job."

  "All right," Ward sighed, throwing his hands up. "To make everybody happy, I hereby stipulate that Irene is not the culprit. Are there other nominations?"

  We all looked at one another blankly. "There being none, I move we adjourn," Lazar said. "Mr. Malek, thank you so much for joining me today."

  "Thank you for hosting me," I told him. "I wouldn't have missed it. And I assure you gentlemen that if and when I hear anything, you'll be the first to know, after my editors."

  Chapter 15

  Holidays didn't have the same meaning for me that they once did. My parents were gone now, Dad having died in August of '39 and Mom just over a year later. And of course Peter spent most of the red-letter calendar days with Norma and Martin Baer, although he and I usually had our own delayed celebrations together a few days after the fact.

  So it should have been no surprise that Thanksgiving snuck up on me again. Last year, I had eaten alone in my apartment–canned ham, not turkey. And this year I hadn't even given the November holiday a thought until the Sunday preceding it when I saw the restaurant ads in the Tribune for special Thanksgiving dinners.

  The next morning, I looked up an Oak Park number in my address book that I hadn't called in more than four years and used the police phone in the Hyde Park precinct station. Catherine Reed answered on the second ring.

  "Hi, it's Steve Malek. Glad I caught you at home. Thought you might be at the library today."

  "Oh…hello, Steve. No, I'm still working three days a week until January, when I go to full time."

  "Good. I was wondering if you'd like to have Thanksgiving dinner with me. We could go to some restaurant out in Oak Park or Forest Park…I'm sure a few of them will be open."

  The pause at the other end lasted at least fifteen seconds, although it seemed longer. "Well…I had just planned to eat at home and–Steve, I have an idea: Why don't you come over here on Thursday?"

  "I wasn't angling for an invitation," I said, probably sounding sheepish.

  "I didn't think you were," Catherine said. "I can't claim to be a gourmet cook, but I already have the food for the dinner, and it's much more than enough for two. If you come, it will save me from having to eat leftovers for a week. I've already got a small turkey. It may be the last time I'll buy one for several years, what with all the food shortages and rationing that we're told are coming. And I'm also having dressing, along with sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce, and of course pumpkin pie."

  "You have just sold me. What can I bring?"

  "Just yourself. And some of those wonderful newspaper stories like the ones you told here at dinner with Daddy those times."

  "I'll search my memory for some lively tales of life on the boulevards and byways of the city."

  Noon on Thanksgiving found me aboard a Lake
Street Elevated train rattling and swaying its way west from the Loop to the stately and proper village of Oak Park. I was toting a box of Fannie May chocolates and a bouquet of mums, and reading the final edition of the Chicago Sun. As the train neared its destination, it surprised me to find that I was nervous.

  In spite of those four-plus years since my last visit, I had no trouble finding the solid two-story stucco house that lay a few blocks south of the Ridgeland Avenue El station. It looked exactly as it did when I had last visited Steel Trap Bascomb to plumb the blurred depths of his fading memory in my search for the murderer of a would-be Chicago mayor.

  Catherine swung open the door just as my finger was poised at the buzzer. "I was keeping an eye out for you," she said. "It's too chilly to stand outside any longer than absolutely necessary."

  "Actually, it's not bad for this time of year," I said, "but inside is better." Smiling, I stepped in and presented her with the flowers and candy.

  "The mums I accept without reservation," she said, giving me a curtsy. "I absolutely insist that you help me consume the chocolates, however."

  "Duly noted. And Catherine, I really like the aromas that are wafting in this direction," I said, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder.

  "Here's hoping everything tastes as good as it smells," she said with a smile, as she hung my coat and hat on a rack inside the door. "I thought we could have some hot cider in the living room before eating."

  "Lead me to it. How are you getting along, Catherine?" I asked, as we moved into the living room. I sat on the sofa and she went to the kitchen to get the cider.

  "I'm doing all right," she said evenly, while serving the steaming cider in cups and then sliding into a chair across from me. "The house seems empty, though, which is only natural. It's funny–one of the things I miss most is the sound of that radio in the sitting room. Daddy had his favorite programs every night of the week."