The Fruitcake Murders

by Collins, Ace;

  21

  Saturday, December 21, 1946

  9:15 A.M.

  After surviving a race for her life less than twelve hours ago, it was a cautious Tiffany Clayton who emerged from her red brick apartment building on a cold, but sunny, Saturday morning. Dressed in gray wool slacks, a red sweater, long black overcoat, and red scarf, she opened the door of a well-worn, 1942 yellow and black Desoto, and slipped into the backseat.

  “Where to, lady?” the cab driver asked as she closed the rear door.

  “City Hall,” she quickly replied.

  “Aren’t they closed today?” the middle-aged, portly man inquired.

  “Yes,” she assured him, “but the person I need to see is there, so don’t worry about it.”

  The reporter quickly discovered her driver, like a lot of the city’s cabbies, not only loved to talk but also felt a need to share all the personal details of his life. Within just four blocks, the reporter had learned that Melvin was forty-one, had three kids, one nine-year-old boy and two teenage girls, and a short, dumpy, red-headed, freckle-faced wife who was sweet, but didn’t fully understand him.

  “I met Mabel at a square dance when we were both sixteen,” he noted. “She was a little thing then. Her green eyes matched her dress. I wasn’t as much taken by her looks as I was by her laugh. She just loved to cackle. Our daughter Millie is like that as well. Now Jessie is a quiet one. She nods more than she opens her mouth. Anyway, Mabel and I got married right out of high school. I think she would have liked to have stayed in little old Muncie, but I had a yearning for something bigger and we ended up here. I got a job driving a taxi and been doing it ever since. Now this life’s not for everyone, no sir, but I like it. I get to meet lots of good folks, see the best and worst parts of the city, and listen to music hours each day.”

  “That’s interesting,” a still-exhausted Tiffany lied.

  As they passed through the business district, which on this final Saturday before Christmas was packed to the gills, Mel noted, “You know, old St. Nick is likely wrapping up the last of the toy making at this very moment. He might even be resting up. Meanwhile the clerks at Marshall Field’s are probably close to experiencing the retail version of battle fatigue. Look at those shoppers. There’s a line just waiting to get into the stores, and they look well prepared to fight over the last stuff on the shelves. You got your shopping done yet?”

  She nodded while noting his eyes looking back at her via the car’s mirror. Sensing he was waiting for an answer, she gave out the information. “I only had to buy two things and I’ve already mailed them. So, I have started and I’ve finished and did it all in one easy trip.”

  Mel glanced over his shoulder, “You mean a beautiful dame . . . excuse me . . . I mean, a lovely woman like you isn’t having a big Christmas?”

  “I figure I’ll just use the day to rest up,” she explained. “I’ve got no family in town and I kind of enjoy spending a bit of time alone every now and then.”

  “You got a tree?” he asked.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “It’s not Christmas without a tree. You just gotta have a tree. There’s a tree stand about a block up the road. Why don’t we stop and get you one?”

  She shook her head, “No, I really don’t need one, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Seems a shame you don’t have a tree,” the cabbie mournfully said. “There’s nothing like a tree with tinsel, lots of ornaments, and lights. Mabel always uses all blue lights on ours. Those blue lights just make my holiday a lot brighter.”

  “Sounds pretty,” the reporter noted.

  “What do you do?” Melvin asked.

  “I write for The Chicago Star.”

  “Not sure I ever had a reporter in my hack,” he laughed. “Now I’ve had some pretty important characters. A couple of years ago Bing Crosby rode with me. He was really a nice guy. It was the middle of July, but we still talked about Christmas. I mean when you think of the holidays you have to think of old Bing.” Mel glanced into his mirror and popped a question, “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Bing told me that Irving Berlin didn’t think he’d done a very good job writing ‘White Christmas.’ Isn’t that the screwiest thing? The best song scribe on the planet didn’t know ‘White Christmas’ would be a hit.” He patted the steering wheel and shook his head. “Don’t that just beat all?”

  As Melvin began to hum the Crosby standard, Tiffany thought about her favorite holiday hit. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was a secular carol she saw as a prayer. When she was working for Stars and Stripes during the war, she’d seen grown, battle-tested men cry when they heard that song on a jukebox. Though she didn’t like to admit it, she’d shed a few tears as well. That song nailed it. The holidays really were about home and family. That was when Christmas was sweetest and best. Yet, she hadn’t been home to help trim the tree or bake cookies for five years. That was just after Pearl Harbor and being home meant more that year than any other.

  “So,” the cabbie asked, “Do you have family somewhere?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “So why don’t you take off and go see them?” he suggested.

  “I can’t,” she explained. “Reporters work on the holidays; that’s the way it is. News happens on December 25 just like it does on March 10 or September 15, and someone has to be there to put those stories together.”

  “Maybe Congress should pass a law outlawing news that day,” he offered.

  “Maybe,” she replied, “but lots of others work, too. It’s not just me.”

  “What’s your best memory of Christmas?” the cabbie asked as he turned onto Randolph Street.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “There are so many. I guess it was being in church with my mom and dad on Christmas Eve. We always lit candles when the service ended, and we carried those candles home with us as a reminder to light the world with hope.”

  “You going to light a candle this year?” he asked.

  “No reason,” she explained. “I’ll be alone and no one would see the light.”

  Mel nodded, but didn’t say anything else until they arrived at City Hall. As Tiffany got out of the car, the cabbie slid across to the right passenger door, rolled down the window, and made an offer. “Our place isn’t much, just a little house on the west side, but we always have room at the table for one more. Why don’t you join me, Mabel, and the kids for Christmas dinner? We’ve got a real tree and Mabel even decorated our windows using stencils and tempera paint. Everything is real nice this year. And we can all light a candle together.”

  The reporter leaned into the car and smiled, “That’s sweet, but really, I’ll be fine. Now what do I owe you?”

  The talkative man with the big smile shrugged. “Just consider the trip my gift to you. I hope you find a way to have a Merry Christmas. In fact, I’ll get Mabel to pray about that. She’s real good at praying.”

  Tiffany was about to argue about the fare, but before she could say a word, Melvin slipped back behind the wheel, dropped the car into gear, and eased away from the curb. The reporter watched until the big car made a right turn and disappeared. The cabbie was right. Christmas needed to be special and shared with folks you cared about. It wasn’t meant to be spent by yourself.

  22

  Saturday, December 21, 1946

  9:45 A.M.

  Shaking thoughts of Christmas past from her head, Tiffany marched up to the Randolph Street entrance of the nine-story City Hall. After pulling open one of the building’s ornate entry doors, she climbed two flights of worn marble stairs to the third floor. After a sixty-second walk down a long, tiled hallway, each of her steps echoing off the walls and ceiling, she pushed on the frosted glass and hardwood door of the city’s licensing and permit department. The man she’d made the appointment to meet was waiting behind the counter and holding a file.

  “Miss Clayton?” he asked.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she qui
ckly replied. “This is a horrible time of the year to ask someone to come to work on Saturday.”

  “No, I was actually going to be here anyway,” he answered. “I have some things to catch up on. Anyway, my name’s Collins.”

  The tall man had graying hair, blue eyes, and a quick smile. He was dressed casually, in a blue shirt and black slacks, and unlike almost everyone else in the city, he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere or do anything. If only all folks could be this relaxed during the holidays.

  “I believe,” he began, “you wanted to know about the Santa project.”

  Tiffany nodded, unbuttoned her coat, and leaned up against the chest-high counter opposite her host. She watched intently as he opened the file and glanced at the first page.

  “This campaign actually began three years ago,” he explained as his eyes came up to meet hers. “At that time, the mayor was made aware of how many men from Chicago had died in combat and how many of their widows and orphans were having a hard time during the holidays. So we put a dozen Santas on the street that year to raise money for presents for the fallen servicemen’s kids. We’ve been doing that same thing every year since. Last year, we raised over twenty thousand dollars. This year it looks like we will even top that.”

  “That amount will buy a lot of gifts,” she noted with a smile.

  “Not just gifts,” Collins pointed out. “We also buy food and clothing for the families in the greatest need. So while churches and other organizations take care of the needs of the very poor, we focus on those who have suffered due to the war. Now that peace is really here, I hope things will improve enough in 1947 so that we won’t have to do this next year. In other words, I hope peace brings prosperity and security to those we reach.”

  “Let’s hope so,” the reporter echoed. “How many Santas do you have this year?”

  Before answering, Collins glanced back to the file and flipped to a second page. “We have forty-three. They are good men, too. They work long hours in the cold and are paid nothing. Most of them are retired. A couple of local churches and the Salvation Army do bring them food and coffee a few times a day, but that is all they receive. In other words, they are giving their time because they believe in this cause.”

  Forty-three . . . The Star’s paperboys had counted over one hundred working on corners. So, without the city’s knowledge, the population of jolly old elves was up this holiday season. How had the extra men in red suits not been noticed?

  “Mr. Collins,” Tiffany asked as she pointed to the file he still held in his hand, “who issues the permits for these Santas? And how does this process work?”

  “Well,” he explained as he dropped the file onto the counter, “the volunteers meet in our office in mid-October. They fill out an application form and give us references. We then carefully check them out before we designate them as one of our Santas. It might sound like a waste of time, but you have to do that in order to weed out folks who might steal from the kitty. And, as we have the only Santas allowed on the city streets, we want them to represent Chicago in a manner that makes our citizens proud.”

  “So,” she asked, “do you issue the permits or does someone else do it?”

  “Actually,” he explained, “the mayor likes to get involved. So our Santas go to that office to obtain the permits.”

  “And,” Tiffany continued to probe, “there are only as many permits as there are Santas?”

  “No,” he admitted, “We’ve found our men lose the permits pretty easily. You can understand how. For over a month, they are working in the wind, rain, and snow. So, the mayor signs a bunch of them and that way when one of our Santas loses or damages a permit they can come back to the mayor’s office and quickly pick up a replacement. All they have to do is give the clerk their name.”

  Tiffany smiled. The scam was much easier to pull off than she had figured.

  “Where do you get the costumes?” she asked.

  “Mellon’s on Fifth Street. They have outfitted us since we began this campaign. They make good suits, too. Our Santas look real and not cheap.”

  “They do indeed,” the reporter agreed. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Collins sang out. “I hope I have been of some help.”

  “It is almost like you’ve written the story,” the reporter announced as she turned and waltzed toward the door. As she pushed it open, she called out, “Happy Holidays!”

  After hurrying down the hall and the stairs, Tiffany stepped into a phone booth and grabbed a directory. She scanned the listings until she found Mellon’s Costume Shop. Dropping a dime into the phone, she called the number. A man answered on the third ring.

  “Mellon’s.”

  “Hello, I’m Tiffany Clayton from The Chicago Star. I understand that you supply the costumes for the Santas that we see on our street corners.”

  “Yes, we do,” he proudly admitted. “I think those costumes are some of our best work.”

  “They are beautiful,” she agreed. “Do you have them on hand or do you order them?”

  “We actually make them,” he explained. “The men playing Santa come in, we measure each person, and he comes back two days later and picks up his suit. That way we know just how much padding to add to make each man look like the real Santa.” He giggled, “In a few cases, we actually don’t have to add padding.”

  “How many Santas did you fit this year?” Tiffany asked.

  “We made one-hundred and twenty-one costumes. That’s a lot more than in past years. In fact, it kind of surprised us. We had a lot of men come into our offices in late November for fittings. Normally, they all come in just before Thanksgiving.”

  “Do they just ask for the outfits and then are measured?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “but they also have to show their city permit.”

  “Who pays for them?”

  “Oh, we donate the labor and an outside donor pays for the materials. So there is not really any cost to the city.”

  “Thank you for your time,” the reporter said.

  “Happy Holidays,” the man announced as he hung up.

  As she considered what she’d learned, Tiffany drummed her fingers on the small wooden shelf under the phone. The scam was so easy to pull off that any person with a lick of sense and an eye for observation could have cooked it up. If twenty thousand was raised last year, then using three times the Santas the total might top sixty this year. That extra forty sounded like a lot until she factored in the seventy or more men working the scam. Their payout would be less than six hundred bucks and that hardly seemed worth the risk of getting caught and doing jail time. So, there had to be something else at work here, but what was it?

  Getting up, she dashed out the front door and was shocked to see a familiar Oldsmobile parked at the curb. After waving, Bret Garner smiled and asked, “You need a ride?”

  “I need to go to my office,” she quickly answered. “So no time to goof off.”

  “You got a lead?”

  “Yes,” Tiffany assured him, “And I’ll fill you in on the trip.”

  23

  Saturday, December 21, 1946

  12:21 P.M.

  Walker,” Lane announced as he picked up his ringing desk phone.

  “Are you with homicide?” a woman on the other end of the line asked.

  “Yep, I’m the lieutenant in charge of this division, who I am speaking with?”

  “My name is Sister Ann, I’m a nun. I run the feeding center about five blocks south of the stockyard.”

  Lane nodded. “If it is the one I think it is, you’re in the old Townson shirt factory building?”

  “That’s the place.”

  “What can I do for you, Sister?” the cop asked. “But, you need to know, my division can’t really offer you much help. If you are having a problem with one of those who comes in to eat there you need to get ahold of your beat cop.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” the woman assure
d him. “There’s a guy who helps me down here. He’s probably about fifty . . .maybe older, maybe younger . . . kind of scruffy, but he has a good heart. He doesn’t even ask for anything in return for his work and he will do anything for us. Everyone calls him Joe.”

  Lane picked up a pencil and pulled a pad over by the phone. After cradling the receiver between his shoulder and ear, he asked, “Did something happen to Joe?”

  “No, he’s fine. But he seemed rattled today. So I asked him if there was something bothering him. That’s when I heard his story and that’s why I called you.”

  “I guessing,” Lane noted, “there must be a death or you wouldn’t have called homicide.”

  “Joe took me down to the old Cattlemen’s Hotel,” she explained.

  “I know the place,” the cop cut in. “It used to be pretty nice, but that was a long time ago. Last time I was there it was home to unemployed men and retirees who didn’t have pensions. I guess you would call it a social club for bums and hobos.”

  “It’s still that way,” the caller agreed. “Joe led me to room 233. The door wasn’t locked. Sitting in the room’s only chair was a man. His head was resting on a table and there was a knife sticking in his back. As the blood under his head was drying, I’m guessing he’d been dead for a while.”

  “Did you touch anything?” Lane asked.

  “I just checked on the man, he was cold, so I said a prayer, and I backed out of the room.”