"I remember 'Fibber McGee and Molly' from when I was here."
"Oh, yes! He never missed it. And when Fibber opened that closet and everything came clattering out, he would always slap his knee and laugh, no matter how many times he heard it. In fact, in his last years, he insisted that I buy Johnson's Wax products. He was afraid that if the show lost its sponsor, it would go off the air!"
"Talk about loyalty," I said with a grin.
"Yes. And he loved Jack Benny, too, particularly the way he joked about being thirty-nine forever. Just a few weeks ago, he surprised me by saying, 'Honey, in less than two years, I'll be exactly twice Benny's age.' Steve, this was the same man who didn't even know who I was an hour later."
"It had to be terribly rough for you," I said, reaching over and covering her hand with mine.
"The most frustrating part was that on any given day, he could either be lucid or unresponsive. As I told you at the funeral home, a few weeks back he started wandering away from the house."
I nodded in sympathy. "Did he seem to be in a lot of pain?"
"If he was, he never showed it. And his appetite was good almost to the end."
"I remember that appetite, all right. Did you get all the clippings about him from the newspapers?"
"Just the one in the Tribune."
"I can get you those that ran in all the other papers. Our office keeps copies of every one of the dailies for a couple of months or more."
"That would be wonderful. I was wishing at the time that I had bought the other papers, but I was so busy with the funeral arrangements. I'd like to put all the write-ups about him into a scrapbook. Even though the family line will end with me, I want to leave a tangible record of his accomplishments. Someday, I'll probably give the scrapbook to the local historical society. After all, he lived in Oak Park for at least forty years, which practically makes him an old settler."
"Good idea, Catherine. I'd like to get you quotes from some of the old-timers who remember your father. I recall a Daily News police reporter, long dead now, talking to me years ago about him. As near as I can remember, these were his words: 'Steel Trap Bascomb had the sharpest mind of any newspaperman I ever met. He could remember the first and last name–and the middle initial–of the patrolman who broke up a crap game in a garage fifteen years earlier. And he could remember the address of the game, as well as the number of guys in it, the color of the paint on the garage, and the amount of money on the table. Now there was a reporter.'"
Catherine had begun to tear up at this, so to break any tension, I said that I, in contrast, would have forgotten all the facts about a similar story a half hour after I'd phoned it in to a rewrite man.
"I don't believe that, not for a moment," she said as we moved into the dining room. "I suspect you've got a memory every bit as good as Daddy's was."
"Don't I wish. I've got a few editors up in Tribune Tower who would set you straight about that."
We sat down to eat and Catherine bowed her head and said a short prayer that closed with words about her father being "in a better place now."
"Steve, how is your son–Peter, isn't it? He must be in high school by now."
"You've got a good memory," I told her as I loaded my plate up with turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes, and cranberry sauce. "He's a sophomore at Lake View High, a reserve on the junior varsity football team, and gets good grades. Also, he's on a committee that's organizing scrap and newspaper drives for the war effort."
"You taught him well."
"Or Norma did."
"Do you see him often?"
"Almost every weekend. He's in an apartment over on the Drive. Norma remarried–fellow named Martin Baer, and Peter lives with them."
"Is that…all right with you?"
"I don't have a lot of choice in the matter. Norma got custody. But to be fair, Baer's a decent enough sort. He runs a men's store over at the Lincoln-Belmont-Ashland intersection that apparently does quite well. Among other things, Peter gets to go to Florida with them during Christmas vacation every year, which is more than I can do for him."
"But I'm sure you make up for it in other ways."
"I try to, as well as I can on a Tribune reporter's less-than-princely salary. We went to the Bears-Packers game just the other day."
"Speaking of the Tribune, how is your work going?" she asked. "Fill me in."
I gave her a brief rundown on my temporary shift to the South Side police beat and all the facets of Bergman's killing, including the speculation about a secret weapon being developed. I also told her about finding Bergman's body.
"That must have been awful."
"It was no picnic. Even though I've been a police reporter for more years than I care to think about and have seen a few murder victims, most of my experience with murder has been second-hand, and I would prefer to keep it that way."
"What do you think about this secret weapon talk?"
I shrugged. "I'm out of my depth there. I have no idea what might be going on, and if I did know, I'm sure I wouldn't understand it. Even those professors I mentioned, the ones who were colleagues of Bergman's, don't agree with each other on what's going on in that Metallurgy Laboratory, except that they all seem to think it's a cover for something that has nothing to do with metallurgy."
She set her fork down carefully on her plate and fixed me with guileless brown eyes. "Please be careful, Steve Malek."
"I'm always careful."
"So you say. I see someone who has a reckless side."
"I like to think of my style as aggressive and enterprising," I responded with a grin.
She kept those brown eyes fastened on me, which I found a little unnerving, although now she allowed herself a slight smile. "Call it what you like, but I still say, 'Be careful.'"
"I promise I will be. By the way, this meal has been wonderful."
"Don't change the subject; there's still dessert to come. Pumpkin pie a la mode," Catherine said. "Unless of course you are too full."
"Too full? Not a chance. Bring on that next course."
We ate the pumpkin pie and ice cream in silence, and then Catherine poured coffee.
"This has been a wonderful dinner," I proclaimed, rubbing my stomach.
"I detect flattery," Catherine said, clearing the plates from the table. "I suppose you want more coffee?"
"I suppose I do. Is there a charge here for a second cup?"
"Normally," she said, not missing a beat, "but we waive that on Thanksgiving Day."
"Which is why this is such a wonderful a place to dine," I responded, holding my cup high in a salute.
"You're welcome to come back," Catherine said quietly.
"On one condition."
"Yes?"
"That before I come back, our next meal together is on me, and in a restaurant, either out here somewhere or downtown. Do you get to the city often?"
She shook her head. "Not for a long time, not with Daddy being, well…"
"Oh, of course. Do you think I might be able to lure you east across
Austin Boulevard and into Chicago to dine at one of the cosmopolitan city's culinary palaces?" She smiled but looked down. "Well, I believe I might consider the invitation."
I nodded. "That's a start. Catherine, the weather is mild for late November, in fact damn near balmy. How about a stroll to work off this wonderful meal?"
"Okay…sure." She undoubtedly remembered our last walk in this neighborhood, and so did I, which is why I suggested that we repeat it. Sometimes the way to erase a memory is to relive the experience, or so I told myself.
Catherine took my arm–a good sign–as we stepped out onto the empty sidewalk. We passed many houses where Thanksgiving feasts were surely taking place at this very moment. We had gone a couple of blocks when she gave my arm a tug and stopped on the sidewalk, facing me.
"I'm curious, Steve. What made you call me after all this time?"
"Well…"
"I think I know. After Daddy died, a little bit of
pity, perhaps?"
"That's not true. When I saw you at the funeral parlor, I realized it would be nice to get together again."
"But why not four years ago?"
"Catherine, I was going through a confusing period then. My marriage had–"
She squeezed my arm. "No need to go on, Steve. I have no business questioning you. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. And please don't misunderstand what I'm about to say: I'm not happy that your father is gone, but I'm glad that it was the event that brought me back to Oak Park."
"I am too, Steve."
"Good. Now, unlike the last time you and I were walking these very streets, I am going to escort you home." I got no argument.
Chapter 16
The Monday morning after Thanksgiving, the entire nation focused on one grim event: the horrific fire at the Cocoanut Grove nightclub in Boston over the weekend, which killed nearly 500 in the overcrowded building. Stampeding patrons had been stacked up at revolving doors in the rush to escape, and the cowboy film actor Buck Evans was among the dead. For one day, at least, the war got edged out as the lead story on Page 1 of papers across the country.
At noon, after an uneventful morning at the Hyde Park precinct and throughout the whole of the South Side, I was at the University Tavern bar, ordering lunch, drinking coffee, and reading newspaper accounts of the fire when Edward Rickman slid onto the stool next to me. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, tugging at the knot of his silk tie.
"Not at all. I didn't know you ate here."
"From time to time. I find it a refreshing change of scenery from the campus dining spots, where all the talk is thinly veiled faculty gossip–well, actually not always so thinly veiled. Terrible story, isn't it?" he said, gesturing to the Cocoanut Grove headline on the early edition of the Daily News that I had spread out on the bar.
"Awful. All those people partying, having fun after a college football game, and then…"
Rickman nodded solemnly. "Who lives and who dies seems so arbitrary, so random, even capricious. And it doesn't always have to do with your station in life. Most of the people in that club were probably from the upper crust, or at least the upper end of the middle crust. College students from good, solid families, successful alumni, community leaders."
"Live every day as though it's your last," I mused.
"Sorry to come in here and be so morbid," Rickman said. "Have you ordered lunch?"
"My usual, the hamburger plate. It's on the way."
"Can't go wrong with that. Chester, I'll have the same thing as this gentleman, including coffee," he called out to the burly barkeep, who turned to place the order with the kitchen. "Anything new on Arthur's death?"
"Not that I've heard. Do you have any fresh theories yourself?"
"Afraid I haven't."
"I assume you know Dieter Schmid."
"Yes, although not very well. Why do you ask?"
"It's a little piece of what you referred to a minute ago as 'faculty gossip.' Seems that he may have been involved with Bergman's wife."
Rickman looked surprised. "Really? I'm curious as to the source of your information."
"Your colleague Mr. Ward says he saw them together in what might best be described as a compromising situation."
"What does that mean? Was Theo peeking into a bedroom window with binoculars?"
I laughed as Chester delivered my hamburger plate and a coffee refill. "No, one night he saw them on the street, embracing for an extended period."
"Well, she's a damned attractive woman, and divorced. If I weren't happily married myself, I would certainly be knocking on her door with flowers and candy in hand."
"She wasn't divorced a couple of years ago, when the aforesaid embrace took place."
"Hmm. I never heard Theo say anything about this."
"I was having lunch with Lazar a few days back at Hutchinson Commons and Ward stopped by and told us about it. Said he'd never mentioned it to anyone before. Overby dropped over for a minute, too. Anyway, Ward suggested that the former Mrs. Bergman might be a suspect."
"Irene? Ridiculous!"
"That seemed to be the majority opinion at the table as well."
"I should think so," Rickman huffed. "Talk about reaching."
"Well, in fairness to Mr. Ward, he backed down on his assertion after the others jumped all over him."
"Good for them. Ah, here's my lunch. Thank you, Chester. How are things going in the Pacific?"
"All right, so far," the bartender muttered, nodding curtly.
"His son Len is a seaman on a destroyer," Rickman said sotto voce as Chester ambled toward the other end of the long bar. "I saw in the paper that we lost yet another destroyer in the Solomon Islands, and I was afraid something might have happened to Len. Chester doesn't talk a lot, but I know he's worried sick. The kid just missed catching it at Pearl Harbor. He was a crew member, a seaman, on one of the destroyers that got sunk, the U.S.S. Downes, but he was ashore in Honolulu at the time."
"Maybe that's why the barkeep is so dour all the time, although he has warmed to me slightly–very slightly. Or at least he's gotten used to my coming in here with some regularity."
"There have to be thousands like him all over the country, worried that every phone call or every mail delivery is going to bring dire news."
"True. Tell me more about this guy Schmid. He sounds like a German to me, although I understand he's Swiss."
Rickman chuckled. "Funny you should mention that, and in the U.T. of all places. He drops by on occasion for a drink, as I do, but we rarely sit together. As I said before, I don't know him all that well. I have nothing against him, mind you, but he's very reserved, generally keeps to himself.
"Anyway, just a few weeks ago, he came in here one night alone, nodded at me, and sat several stools away. A few minutes later, a chemistry professor, a hail-fellow type named Carver, sees Schmid and greets him in his booming voice, saying something like 'Well, if it isn't our house German, Herr Dieter Schmid. Zig heil!' Schmid looked like he wanted to crawl under a table."
"Doesn't sound like a particularly funny thing to say, especially not in these times."
"No," Rickman said, "but that's Carver. Knowing him, he meant no harm, but I think he'd had a few drinks before he got here. Anyway, I doubt if Schmid's been back since, although I'm not here often enough to know myself."
"Has anybody ever seriously suggested that he might be a German spy?"
"Not at all," Rickman said, waving the suggestion away with a hand. "He's been here for years, and he's a highly regarded physicist. And as I understand it, he's definitely Swiss, not German."
"Is he one of those who are working in the Metallurgy Lab?"
"I…think so. Like Bergman, he hasn't been teaching this term, which might suggest a 'special project.'"
"Has he ever been married?"
"Not that I'm aware of, although he could have been back in Switzerland, for all I know. I'm still digesting what you said about him and Irene Bergman."
"I wonder if they're carrying on now."
Rickman shook his head. "I wouldn't have thought he was her type. But then, I never thought Arthur was exactly her type, either, although I always liked him, despite his phlegmatic disposition."
"Just what is her type?"
"Good question," he said before taking a healthy bite of his hamburger. "I would have thought she'd have hooked up with somebody more outgoing than either of them. Both brilliant, yes, without question, but not exactly brimming with personality and charm."
"Yet Bergman, at least, seemed to reel women in like a fisherman in a newly stocked pond," I said.
"Indeed, particularly of the coed variety. I must admit I've never understood that."
"Young women in search of a father figure to comfort them, perhaps?"
"Maybe. It's as good as any other explanation that comes to mind."
"You came in here to get away from campus gossip, and that's essentially all we've been doing," I said with a dry la
ugh. "Afraid I'm a bad influence."
"Nah, you're a newspaperman. You're allowed to gossip."
"True. We call it 'researching a story.'"
"Well, in any event, I don't think either of us is any more knowledgeable than when we walked in here today," Rickman said as he finished his meal and rose. "Except now I know a little more about the social activities of a living colleague and the ex-spouse of a deceased one."
"I'm not sure I'd call that progress," I told him, leaving a quarter tip on the counter for Chester and taking my check to the cashier. "If you happen to hear anything interesting, I can be reached at the Hyde Park police station, my new office when I'm not in here."
"It's unlikely," Rickman said with a wry grin. "I barely know what's happening in my own department most of the time."
"Well, whatever else you do, stay healthy," I said. "One dead professor is more than enough."
Chapter 17
Desk Sergeant Mark Waldron wore a dour expression when I sauntered into the Hyde Park precinct a few minutes before nine on Tuesday morning.
"Ah, Snap Malek, the phone has been ringing off the hook for you. Your city desk called twice, and also Mr. MacAfee at 11th and State."
"Huh? They know I'm not on the clock until nine. What's their problem?"
"Before you call them back, there's something you should know," the sergeant said, still dour.
"Yes?"
"There has been another murder–another U of C professor."
"I'll be damned. Who?"
"Fellow named Schmid, Dieter Schmid. Found strangled this morning in his apartment over on Dorchester. The big man himself is going to be coming down here."
"Fahey?" Waldron nodded.
I used a police phone to call the paper and got Mulvany, one of the assistant city editors. "Malek! Another prof down on the Midway got knocked off."
"I just heard. I'm at the Hyde Park station."
"Well get yourself over to the scene, pronto." He gave me the address on Dorchester and I told him I was on my way. But first, I called MacAfee. "I hear we've got us another dead faculty man, Al."
Shadow of the Bomb (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 11
