A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Well, aren't you glad you had them, Fergus? My prints, I mean. I had to get printed when I went over to Europe for my short-lived stint as a foreign correspondent."

  Fahey snorted. "You know, it's just possible that these morons didn't have anything to do with Tim's killing, that they saw the piece in the Trib and then claimed they did it."

  "Possible, Fergus, but if I were to guess, I'd say not very likely."

  "Yeah, who am I kidding?" he conceded. "We're going to comb the city for any known Nazi groups or individuals. Of course we'll have to share those notes of yours with the Secret Service and the FBI."

  "Be my guest. In the meantime, I'm going to debrief myself to the brass up in Tribune Tower."

  I returned to the press room, reported to my colleagues that there was no news to speak of from the Detective Bureau, and then went to a pay phone in the Headquarters lobby, where I put in a call to the Tribune city desk.

  "I need to talk to somebody about a very sensitive story," I told Hal Murray, the day city editor.

  "Won't I do?" he snarled.

  "No offense, Hal, but this is damn sensitive business, and it involves the president's visit here late this month or early in November."

  "So do you want to take it all the way to the managing editor?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Trust me on this. It's really, really serious, and I need a policy decision from him."

  The snort on the other end of the line came through clearly over the clatter of typewriters and the other ambient noise in the big newsroom. "Okay. I'll get the word to Maloney that you want to see him. Then I'll call you back."

  I returned to my desk in the press room and was listening to Packy Farmer relating details about a call girl ring the Vice Squad had just broken up in a Lake View building that had once been a convent when my phone rang. It was Murray.

  "Okay, Snap, Maloney can see you at eleven," he said. "He wanted to know what it was about, of course, but I told him your lip was buttoned to anybody but him. I don't think he was all that pleased, but what the hell, that's your problem and nobody else's, far as I'm concerned."

  I thanked him sarcastically and rang off. "Well, boys, I've been summoned to the Tower," I announced to the others. "Could be that I'm being rewarded for my sterling work here and given a bonus or maybe even an all-expenses-paid vacation to the Wisconsin Dells or the Indiana Dunes."

  "Yeah, or it could be you're getting read out by the brass for being a twenty-four carat wise ass," O'Farrell brayed.

  "Not a chance, Dirk. I'm beloved by everybody in the grand old Tribune family. Be a pal and cover for me while I'm gone. I'd do the same for you if you ever had the good fortune to be allowed into the head office of your publication."

  The office of J. Loy 'Pat' Maloney adjoined the two-story 'local room,' as the Trib called its city room, and was separated from it by a glass wall. That way, the managing editor had a panoramic view of his large and frenetic news-gathering operation.

  As usual, he was dressed in a natty three-piece suit. Also as usual, he was on the phone when I appeared outside his office. He nodded me in and continued talking as I took a seat in front of his desk.

  "Yes, yes, of course I'll tell the Colonel," he said into the mouthpiece. "No, no, don't do anything on it until you hear back. Yes…right…definitely. Probably sometime this afternoon. Certainly no later than tomorrow morning.

  "That was Martin calling from over in Ohio," he told me as he hung up. "Says he's getting reports that Dewey's in big trouble over there. There's apparently a clear trend toward Truman, according to some local poll. Wants to know if he should write about it. I've got to talk to the Colonel soon. Now what's this hush-hush business of yours that Murray mentioned?"

  "I've been on the receiving end of some death threats toward Truman," I told him, taking out my notebook and reading him the wording of the two messages.

  Maloney's frown deepened as I read, and he pulled in air and tugged on the points of his vest. "Mr. Malek, you seem to have a faculty for finding trouble–not that I'm criticizing, mind you. But I remember those murders down in Hyde Park back in '42 when you came close to getting yourself killed. Do you have any idea why you were on the receiving end of those…" He waved a hand in a circular motion, but couldn't find a word to describe the notes.

  "No, sir, I don't, other than for good or ill I guess I'm the embodiment of the paper down there at Police Headquarters, and this…this hatemonger seems to think that I have some authority or influence over what runs in the paper."

  Maloney made a face and ran a palm across his forehead. "What really riles me is that whoever wrote those pieces of trash actually thinks that the Tribune would oppose Truman's election on the basis of his decision to recognize Israeli statehood. And that, by implication, we as an institution are anti-Semitic."

  "I agree completely, and I felt insulted to be the target of the notes. So what do I do?"

  He banged a fist on his desk blotter. "Nothing! Not a thing. Although I'll check with the Colonel, of course, I'm sure he would agree. This individual, or this group, whoever they are, wants publicity from us and they're not going to get it. All we need is to start an anti-Jewish panic in the city, to say nothing of stimulating copycat groups to begin spewing ethnic filth of their own. I assume you turned the notes over to the police."

  "Yes, sir, I did."

  "Good. That's as it should be. May I also assume that your competitors in the Headquarters press room know nothing about this?"

  "Just a little about the call I got, my first contact with the bigot," I said. "They heard my end of it, of course, and wanted to know more. So I filled them in on what was said, and to a man they brushed it off as the work of a crank.

  "Of course there's a chance that this low-life will give up on us and start calling one or more of the other papers. If that happens, one of them might choose to write about the threats."

  "Yes, I considered that possibility as you were filling me in," the managing editor said. "But the Tribune doesn't need scoops badly enough to give ink to people like that."

  "For what it's worth, I totally agree. Although if I keep getting calls from this low-life, the others in the press room are going to know about it sooner or later. They'll be trying to pry it out of me. There's not a lot of privacy there, as you know."

  Maloney shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about them learning more about what's going on. As I said, I'm not as interested in a scoop here as I am in the police nailing this bastard. Mr. Malek, keep me personally informed of any further developments. For now, we will do nothing, pending orders from the Colonel; assuming the police or the FBI or the Secret Service get to the bottom of this, then we will of course cover it."

  "I'll keep you posted," I said as I rose to leave.

  "And Mr. Malek…?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Do not do anything rash. You tempted fate down in Hyde Park years ago. You are an aggressive reporter, which I applaud, but I do not want to read your obituary in our pages. You are much too young. Do I make myself clear?"

  "You do."

  "Good," he said with a curt nod. He turned to his phone, presumably to call the staunchly Republican Colonel McCormick and get marching orders on how the paper would cover Ohio's inexorable drift toward Truman in the impending election.

  Chapter Six

  D2 I1 A1 T1 R1 I1 B3 E1

  (n) a bitter, abusive denunciation

  "I got another note at work today," I said as Catherine and I sat down at the dinner table that evening.

  "From those…those Nazis who claim they want to kill the president?" she asked with an involuntary shudder.

  "Yeah, the 'New Reich', as they fashion themselves. This message claimed they were behind the motiveless shooting of that young cop on the South Side last night, and I have to think they were."

  "But why would they just kill someone for no reason?"

  "If one is to believe their diatribes, it's because they want publicity, specifically in the
Tribune, for their message of hate."

  Catherine squared her shoulders, always a sign she's taking a strong position. "Well, I know the paper doesn't like Harry Truman one bit, but I certainly hope they're not going to give those morons any kind of publicity!"

  "No, they're not," I said, holding up a hand. I proceeded to relate my conversation with the managing editor.

  "I'm glad to hear it, but it's what I would expect of any paper or any right-minded person," she said. "Do you think the president is really in any sort of danger from this fascist bunch?"

  "Well, I certainly would not want to be the one to call their bluff. After all, they did kill a cop."

  "Or so they claim," she corrected.

  "Yes, or so they claim. But I'm inclined to err on the side of caution here and take them at their word. This looks to be a damn mean bunch."

  "Well, it's not your problem any more–or the Tribune's, for that matter. You've turned what was sent to you over to the police. They're capable of taking it from there."

  When I didn't respond, Catherine's eyebrows went up and stayed up. "Steve…I don't like that expression you've got."

  "What expression? I wasn't aware that my incredibly handsome face was behaving in an unusual way."

  "It's the face you get when you're thinking very hard about something. Or maybe plotting is a better word in this case."

  "Hmm. I didn't realize that you thought of me as a plotter. You have cut me to the very quick. Yea, wounded me to the core."

  "Right. You're an innocent, and I'm the Queen Mother of the Netherlands. Now tell me just what's going through that devious mind of yours."

  "Well, I know this guy who seems to have pipelines all over town. I've mentioned him to you before–one 'Pickles' Podgorny."

  This time Catherine raised just one eyebrow, a sure sign of skepticism. "That gambler and two-bit con man, right? What in heaven's name do you need him for?"

  "Gambler, yes, con man, not any more, to take him at his word. Pickles says he long ago gave up his grifting ways, and I believe him–well, as much as I ever believe him. It's the con jobs that got him into the biggest trouble with the law over the years, not the pasteboards and the chips."

  "You haven't answered my question."

  "Like I said, he's got sources all over the place. If there are Nazi groups operating inside the city limits, chances are he'll either know about them or know how to find out about them."

  "So? Have him give his information to the police. Besides, shouldn't they–the police, that is–know about any kind of group like this already?"

  "First, Pickles will turn himself inside out to avoid any contact whatever with the cops; he's had enough bad experiences with them over the years, although granted, most of those run-ins were of his own making. Second, Chicago's Finest is a decent enough force overall, but it is by no means all-knowing and all-seeing. It's clear from what Fahey has said to me that the department doesn't seem to have a fix on any fascist groups operating around the city."

  "That seems surprising."

  "Not necessarily. Whatever this New Reich bunch is, it may have just sprung up. Or it may not even be a group but only a single wacko who has climbed out of his hole in the ground because he doesn't like Truman in particular or Jews in general."

  "In any case, it doesn't have to concern you any more," Catherine said with finality.

  "Except that I'm the guy who's getting the damn love notes. I feel like a Ping-Pong ball with cops on one side of the table and a hate-mongering crackpot on the other. What's to say that I won't get more of these messages?"

  "Well, promise me you won't try to play hero in all of this. I've been married twice: the first one was a short-lived disaster, but this second one seems to have some promise, and I'd hate to see anything happen that would mess it up."

  "Seems to have some promise, you say? Seems to have some promise? I believe I have just been damned with faint praise. It sounds suspiciously like I'm still on probation."

  "Oh, no," Catherine replied airily, "I really do think you're working out just fine on the whole."

  "Well, I am glad to hear that, yes I am. Now I propose that we clear the table. You wash, I'll dry, and then I challenge you to a no-holds-barred game of Scrabble."

  "Aha! Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, that he has grown so great?"

  "The meat, my Shakespeare-spouting spouse, is thine own Yankee pot roast which we just consumed. And I now stand astride the world like a colossus."

  "You didn't get the Bard quite right," Catherine laughed, "but I'll give you a gold star for effort. Now it's off to the kitchen."

  Let the record show that I actually beat Catherine at Scrabble that night, albeit by the narrowest of margins–a single point, thanks to my coming up with 'zodiac' on my final turn. Let the record also show that I did not crow about my victory, although she claimed my smug expression lasted until and during breakfast the next morning. I don't believe it.

  Shortly after I got to work that day, I called Pickles Podgorny from my phone in the press room while my colleagues on the other dailies were wrangling over whether any states still used the firing squad as capital punishment.

  Their noisy argument served as a good cover for my conversation. Pickles didn't answer his phone until about the eighth ring.

  "Good morning, sir," I said in answer to his fuzzy "Hullo."

  "Snap Malek–izzat you?"

  "Indeed. Don't you recognize the voice of an old and dear friend?"

  "I don't recognize nothin' or no one until much later in the day than this. Don't you know I never get up before noon? Or sometimes one?"

  "Sorry, I forgot you earn your keep between midnight and five or six A.M. hunched over a green baize table top piled high with poker chips."

  "Them damn piles of chips weren't on my side of the table last night, sad to say, although I'm pretty sure the big winner was doing something funny with the cards. He ain't never playin' in that game again, you can be sure of it. Now why you callin' me this miserable hour of the morning?"

  "To buy you lunch, of course."

  "Oh yeah? And just what's in it for me, pencil pilot?" he asked warily.

  "What a thing to say, Pickles. Can't a fellow buy an old pal of his a lunch without there being an ulterior motive?"

  "I have to say it would be most unusual, but what the hell, I'll chance it. Where and when?"

  "Parker's Grill on Wabash just south of

  Ninth Street. You know the place. One o'clock. That should give you time to pull yourself together." He muttered some words the Tribune will not print and said he'd be there. The firing-squad argument in the press room was still raging as I hung up.

  "Hey Snap, settle this for us, will ya? You're good at knowing inconsequential stuff," Packy Farmer croaked between puffs on a smoke. "I say that someplace in the good old U.S. they still use a firing squad for executions. These two–" He jerked a thumb in the direction of Anson Masters and Dirk O'Farrell. "–say that I'm full of crap."

  "I've often said, myself, that you're full of crap, Packy, but not in this case. In fact, the fine state of Utah uses the firing squad as capital punishment. Although those nice folks out there in Salt Lake City actually give the condemned man a choice between said firing squad and hanging."

  "Hah!" Farmer whooped, clapping his hands. "You each owe me a buck." I thought that would be the end of it, but then Packy and O'Farrell went at each other loudly over whether it was better to choose the rifle or the noose as the instrument of your execution.

  At five minutes past one, Pickles Podgorny shuffled through the doorway of Parker's Grill and squinted around the crowded, noisy room, spotting me only after I'd waved my hand like I was trying to flag a cab at State and Madison.

  Pickles, so named because of his liking for kosher dills, is not the most imposing gent on the block. He's about five feet five, weighs maybe one hundred thirty pounds, has eyes that constantly dart around, and is usually wearing a battered flat cap and cloth
es that look like he slept in them. Today was no exception.

  "Reporting as requested, Snap," he muttered, sliding in on the opposite side of the booth. "Haven't been in here since the days a few years back when I ran a little game of stud poker just down the block."

  "Ah yes, I seem to recall the police took exception to that entrepreneurial endeavor."

  A scowl further creased his basset-hound face. "Yeah, at the time they were more interested in breaking up little gatherings like mine than in going after hit men, pimps, and drug pushers. It's one of the only times I got pinched because of cards."

  "Yeah, but didn't you get nailed lots of other occasions for, shall we say, creative financial schemes calculated to relieve the unsuspecting of the cargo in their billfolds?"

  He nodded. "True enough, true enough, I can't deny it. Nowadays I find cards to be a much more rewarding–and safer–enterprise."

  "Glad to hear it. I'd hate to think of you in the stir; you're much more valuable to me on the loose."

  "Hah! I knew there was a reason for this. I didn't buy into your buddy-buddy, lunch-for-old-times'-sake line of baloney."

  "Number one, Pickles, you are getting a free meal–the meal of your choice from this wide-ranging menu. And two, who knows: there may be a few dollars heading your way if you can come up with some information."

  "Well, at least this is the Snap Malek I've known for years, the one who uses me shamelessly while pretending to be a friend."

  "Think of it as a partnership, you old reprobate. We're using each other. Here's our waitress, the efficient and adorable Sally. What will you have?"

  "Corned beef on rye, extra beef, extra pickle, coffee," he said. I ordered the same, less the second dill, and I grinned across the table at my wary guest.

  "What's so funny, headline hunter?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

  "You seemed offended that I might be using you, that's all, Pickles. Seems a touch humorous, coming from a guy who's used people all his life, one way or another."

  "I am hurt, really hurt, that you should think of me that way," he said in what might have been mock seriousness. With Pickles, you couldn't always tell, which could be one reason why he was such a good poker player.