A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Damn, I wish I could tell you. I don't know enough about Edwina to hazard a guess as to who she knew in Chicago, if anybody. It could have been a break-in, but that won't help Charlie if there are no fingerprints or any other evidence."

  Catherine gave an involuntary shudder.

  "On top of that, they'd apparently had their share of quarrels, and chances are the neighbors would have overheard them. In those old neighborhoods, the walls have ears, as they say. It's only a matter of days, or maybe just hours, before the cops find one or more of these neighbors who will be more than willing to talk about the exchange of angry words between spouses, one of whom is now deceased."

  "I'm so terribly, terribly sorry about what's happened," she said, leaning over to squeeze my arm. "But I'm also concerned about you. How are you going to cover this for the Tribune? Or can you?"

  "As usual, my love, you ask excellent questions–hardly surprising given the newspaper genes that run in your family. And I don't have a ready answer, except that of course I'll have to make my editors aware of the situation. Actually, it's possible that the story is already out, depending on whether that surly detective Prentiss has filed his report. I'll know soon enough."

  * * *

  I walked into the Headquarters pressroom a few minutes before nine the next morning, unsure of what awaited me. The first hint that the murder hadn't yet been reported came when our overnight man, Corcoran, told me what a quiet night it had been. "Which is just fine as far as I'm concerned," he said, turning the Trib desk over to me and donning his rumpled suit coat. If Corcoran wasn't the laziest reporter on the paper, he definitely ranked in the top three, especially now that Mullaney had joined the ranks of press agents.

  The other members of the dayside crew began drifting in, first Farmer, then Metz, and Nick, the City News kid. I didn't even wait for the others to show up. I had very early business on the floor below.

  "Good morning," Elsie Dugo Cascio said with uncharacteristic reserve as I walked into her small office area. "Go right on in, he's expecting you." Another departure from the norm.

  I pushed open the door to Fergus Fahey's office. He looked up, giving me a perfunctory nod. "It won't surprise you, of course, to learn that I've been expecting you," he said.

  "No," I told him, "I'm not surprised." I eased into one of his guest chairs just as Elsie placed a mug of coffee in front of me. I smiled my thanks.

  "Tough night," Fahey said, running a hand through his graying hair. "Want to talk?"

  "You go first."

  He grunted and picked up some sheets, holding them at arm's length. "This is Prentiss's report. I suppose you know much of what's in it."

  "I probably do. Try me."

  "I'll just hit the high spots: 'Edwina Moreland Malek…age twenty-four, native of Great Britain…died from a single stab wound to the heart inflicted by a kitchen knife. Estimated time of death, six to seven P.M…Husband, Charles Edward Malek, age twenty-eight, Chicago native, army veteran. Couple known by neighbors to have quarreled, sometimes loudly, particularly the wife. Charles Malek booked and charged with the murder, being held without bond in the Bridewell…The suspect's cousin, Steven Malek, Chicago Tribune reporter assigned to police headquarters, attempted to intimidate the investigators.'" Fahey put the paper down on his desk. "Want me to go on, or have you heard enough?"

  "Your Detective Prentiss is a twenty-four carat, gold-plated prick. And that's just for starters. Wait till I get warmed up on the subject."

  Fahey came forward in his chair, jaw set. "I won't debate that point with you, Snap, except to say that Jack Prentiss has had problems with the working press for a long time now. Some years back, a reporter on the Daily News, I believe it was, misquoted him badly and got him in trouble with some of his higher-ups in the department–not me, mind you. He was on the uniformed force back then. But he's been a damn good dick for us. He was all over the area last night, knocking on doors; and he found two neighbors who claim that your cousin and his wife had had more than a few screaming matches.

  "Anyway, so much for that. Now, I've suppressed this report, waiting for you to show up today. And I–"

  I took a sip of Elsie's coffee. "Why no bail for Charlie?"

  "The heat is really on since the Degnan murder," Fahey answered. "Every time there's a female murdered now, the presumption is that it's the same guy who killed Suzanne Degnan, as well as those two women who were butchered in their apartments last year."

  "Dammit, Charlie couldn't have killed anybody, Fergus."

  The chief of detectives looked at the ceiling, as if seeking guidance from on high. "How well do you really know your cousin, Snap?"

  "Well enough to know that he couldn't have done this. He practically redefines the word 'meek'."

  "Not according to those neighbors Prentiss talked to."

  "I'll bet that if you go deeper into those so-called screaming matches that your man Prentiss dug up, you'll find that Edwina did most, if not all, of the screaming."

  "And just why might that be?"

  I drank more coffee before responding. "Based on what I saw during our few meetings, Edwina seemed to think she should be living a better, richer life than she was. She could be pretty rough on Charlie."

  Fahey lit a cigarette and looked at me through narrowed eyes. "So, she was unhappy with her lot here, right?"

  "I think she felt things over on this side of the Atlantic would somehow be, well…cushier, more luxurious, I guess. It seems that a lot of people from outside the good ol' USA think we have it better than we really do."

  "It's still the best place in the world to be living," Fahey growled as if daring contradiction.

  "You won't get an argument from me on that, Fergus."

  "So, we're agreed on something, but now what? Do you want to take this report up to your colleagues in the pressroom? Or would you rather tell one of them to come down here and handle it?"

  "Shit, I can't do that, Fergus, and you know it. Mind if I use your phone?"

  He threw up his hands. "Why not? Once the camel gets his nose under the tent, etc. Want to park yourself in my chair, too?"

  I ignored him and dialed the Trib city desk, asking for Murray, the day city editor and a first-class newsman.

  "Hal, it's Malek. I've got a problem here."

  "So, what's new about that?"

  "Hear me out. There's been a murder in Pilsen–my cousin Charlie's wife, a war bride from England. He's been charged, and they're holding him without bond. Would you feel more comfortable having another man cover it?"

  "Huh! Now why would I want to do that?"

  "I don't know. I suppose because somebody in the Tower might think I wouldn't be objective."

  Murray snorted. "How do you feel? Can you be objective?"

  "I like to think so."

  "Hell, I do, too, Snap. But I'll check with the higher-ups anyway. If somebody has a problem, you'll be the second to know. In the meantime, stay on the story. What time did the murder happen?"

  "Around six or seven last night."

  "Damn. If we'd known earlier, we could have got something in the three-star final. Now the P.M.'s are going to get the jump on us."

  "Um, there's something else you need to know, Hal."

  "Yeah?"

  "I was there last night, at my cousin's place in Pilsen, that is. He phoned me after he came home and found his wife dead, stabbed."

  "And you didn't call it in to the desk?"

  "No, I didn't."

  Through the receiver, I could hear Murray exhaling, not once but twice. "So…a case of family ahead of job, right?"

  "Well, I…"

  "Same call I probably would have made in your shoes," he said stiffly. "But for God's sakes, file something in time for the early editions, okay?"

  I cradled Fahey's phone and turned to him. "All right, let's go over this again. I've got editors at the Trib and a bunch of so-called reporters one floor up who I'm supposed to keep happy. Nobody ever said that life was
going to be easy."

  * * *

  A half hour later, I strode back into the pressroom to find that all of them were at their desks. I felt like I had interrupted a conversation, the way they all clammed up and looked at me.

  "Ah, Mr. Malek, what do you bring from the eminent Chief Fahey?" Masters asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  "I think you know, Anson," I said, "the way word gets around this building. But I know you'll all want the official version, so here it is:

  "Last night about 7:00 or 7:30 p.m., Charles Malek, war veteran, age twenty-eight–and yes, he's my cousin, although I doubt that will interest the readers of your respective papers–arrived at his apartment in Pilsen (I gave the address) to find his wife, Edwina, his British war bride of less than one year, sprawled dead on the living room sofa with a knife embedded in her chest." I paused. The room had grown as quiet as a mortuary.

  "Malek had been working at his job as a gas company welder, as was usually the case, and said he found the body when he got home. He phoned me in a panic, and when I arrived at the scene, I insisted that he call the police. They arrived soon after, as did the medical people.

  "The police learned from neighbors that the couple had quarreled often. The dead woman seemed unhappy that her husband worked such long hours, leaving her at home alone. Malek was booked and is being held without bail in the Bridewell. Any questions?"

  Dirk O'Farrell whistled. "Not often that we get a first-hand description of a murder scene. I for one am not going to include your visit to the apartment when I file, Snap. No sense in mentioning the competition on our pages. Again, how long did you say they'd been married?"

  "A little less than a year," I answered.

  "Did you know her, Snap?" Eddie Metz asked.

  "Not very well. Met her a couple of times, that's all." I wasn't about to discuss her personality.

  "Got any thoughts as to what happened?" Packy Farmer put in.

  I shook my head. "Not a clue, except to say that my cousin seemed like the last guy who would do something like this. He's as gentle as a puppy. I know that it was someone else, no question."

  That got sympathetic nods all around. "Why no bail for your cousin–the Degnan business and those other murders?" Farmer posed.

  "Yeah, or so Fahey tells me. Until they catch that perverted moron, every murdered girl or woman in the city will be seen as another potential victim. Each of our papers, the Crime Commission, and every reformer around, all of them are applying the heat. Hell, Fahey looks like he's aging by the hour."

  "He's not alone," Anson Masters said. "All the other high-ranking cops are feeling the pressure as well. Your cousin have a lawyer?"

  "No, and that's something I've got to work on. Charlie wouldn't know where to begin looking."

  "Since Clarence Darrow's been dead these several years now, my suggestion would be McCafferty," Masters volunteered. "That's who I'd want on my side if I were in a spot like this."

  He was referring to Liam McCafferty, known popularly in the Chicago press and the legal community as the "Irish Pericles" for his spirited and emotional orations in the defense of his clients.

  It was said that he once had nine of the twelve jurors simultaneously in tears as he extolled the character and virtues of a man on trial as a mass murderer. Not surprisingly, the defendant was acquitted. Also not surprisingly, no one else was ever charged with the crime.

  "Good suggestion, Anson, thanks. I'll definitely look up McCafferty. But first, I'd like to see my cousin in the Bridewell. I'm going to take an extended lunch break, probably be gone a couple of hours. Can someone cover for me?"

  "Consider it done, Snap old man," O'Farrell said, leaning back with his feet on his desk and blowing a series of well-rounded smoke rings ceilingward. "You've covered for me more than a few times, as I recall, and I'm happy to return the favor. If any of your editors call one of us looking for you, we'll just tell 'em you're closeted with Fahey trying to wring some information out of that stubborn old Irishman."

  "Better go easy on the stubborn Irishman bit, though," I told him with a smile. "The person most likely to call from our city room is another son of the Old Sod, Hal Murray, who might take umbrage at that phrase. See you all later."

  CHAPTER 5

  It was raining steadily as I stepped out of a Checker cab and approached the high, gray walls of the city jail at 26th and California on the southwest side of town. Popularly known as the Bridewell, the place had been named, or so I was told, after a notorious London penitentiary of earlier times.

  The inside was, if anything, even drearier than the exterior. I had been there only once before, about half a dozen years back, interviewing the then-warden for a Sunday feature on the inner workings and day-to-day operation of a municipal prison.

  "I'm here to see Charles Malek," I told the thick-necked, uniformed guard who was seated behind a counter in the entrance hall. He looked up from a well-thumbed copy of Black Mask magazine, the cover illustration of which showed a curvy, leggy blonde wearing a red dress, high heels, and a terrified expression, being carried off by a sneering, shadowy man in a fedora who seemed intent on inflicting some sort of bodily harm upon the comely lady.

  "Your name?" he asked in a bored tone, his eyes never leaving the magazine page.

  "Also Malek–Steven Malek. I'm his cousin."

  "Identification?"

  I pulled out my police press card, which he glanced at without expression or apparent interest. "Trib reporter, eh?"

  "Yes."

  "Must be tough, havin' a relative in here, huh?"

  "Tougher on him. He'd rather be somewhere else," I said evenly.

  "So would they all, buddy." He rifled through a sheaf of papers on the counter, running his thick index finger down the list of names.

  "Here he is, cell block B. See that hall on your left? Take it until you get to the barred doors and tell the guard there who you want to see. He'll fix you up," he said, turning his attention back to the apparently riveting pages of Black Mask.

  I thanked him and walked down a hall with a concrete floor, concrete walls, and a concrete ceiling, all in a shade of gray that more or less matched the outer walls. What lighting there was came from low-wattage bulbs in metal mesh ceiling fixtures spaced every twenty feet or so.

  At the barred doors, another uniform considered me without enthusiasm. "Yeah?" he asked, or at least I assumed there was a question mark after the word.

  "I'm here to visit Charles Malek. I'm his cousin Steve. Same last name. Guy up front sent me back."

  "Lemme check to see if he's in his cell." He turned a corner and disappeared, the ring of keys on his broad hip jangling.

  After about a minute, he returned and swung open the bars. "Down the hall to the visitors' room, first door on the left. He should be there by now. You've got ten minutes with him. The guard in there'll tell you when your time's up."

  The room was long, narrow, and windowless, divided down the middle by a steel partition about four feet high. At intervals, there were screened openings in the partitions and chairs on both sides of them. At the fourth opening down, on the prisoners' side of course, sat Charlie Malek in light brown inmates' garb, looking dazed.

  "Hi, Stevie," he said, trying without success to form a smile. "Hey, thanks a lot for coming by."

  I dropped into my chair and looked around. A guard, his back against the wall, stood about ten feet from me. Charlie and I were the only other people in the room. "How are you holding up?" I asked, realizing as I said it how stupid the question must have sounded.

  He shrugged. "The food's actually not bad. The guards are surly, especially the one who thinks I killed that poor Degnan girl. One good thing–I've got a cell all to myself."

  "Likely for your own protection. Have you done anything about getting a lawyer?"

  "Uh, no. They asked me if I had an attorney and I said I didn't. I was told I could get myself a public defender."

  "Screw that. You'll need better counsel,
no offense to the defender's office. I'm going to try to get you the best criminal lawyer in town–named McCafferty."

  Charlie shook his head. "Thanks anyway, Stevie, but I can't begin to afford some big-shot like him."

  "Don't worry," I said in a low voice, leaning forward. "It'll be covered."

  "I can't let you pay all that, Stevie," he said, also lowering his voice. "You're not exactly a Rockefeller."

  "Thanks for reminding me, but like I said, don't worry. I'll give you plenty of opportunity to pay me back later. Count on it. The big thing now is to get you somebody good and get you the hell out of this mess."

  "I…thanks, thanks a lot."

  "Now Charlie, I need to know more about what Edwina did nights when you were out working your tail off for the grand old gas company. Did she have some place, or places, where she liked to go?"

  He ran a hand through dusty-brown hair and swallowed hard, making the Adam's apple in his skinny neck bob up and down like a yo-yo. "Well, I know that in the last few weeks–or maybe it's been longer–she'd taken to dropping in at Horvath's Tap pretty regular."

  "Oh, yeah, I remember it, although I don't think I've ever been in there. It's that joint on 18th at around Marshfield, right?"

  "Yes, that's the place all right. And like you, I've never been in there. It's been around for years, though, ever since I can remember. It might have opened right after Repeal. I think my dad stopped in occasionally."

  "Edwina make some friends there?"

  "I don't know. I suppose she could have. She could be very social, as you know. Liked to be out and around the town. Wanted to be around people."

  "Did she ever mention anyone specifically?"

  He shook his head. "I don't think so, at least not to me."

  "Was she home when you got home from work?"

  "Sometimes. I usually put in another four or five hours of overtime after the day shift ended, which got me home by nine-thirty or ten most days. About half the time, she was there when I came in."

  "And the other half?"

  He smiled ruefully. "Sometimes, she wouldn't be back till, oh, eleven or even twelve."