A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Nice to know the school turns out at least a few famous sports names," Peter said.

  "Nobody more famous than Red Grange," I told him as we filed out of the big double-decked stadium.

  Peter allowed as to how he'd heard a little about Grange and his heroics at Illinois before joining the Chicago Bears. But he really didn't know much, so I filled him in on a bit of that history as we walked back toward downtown Champaign. I pointed out that Grange had a great deal to do with popularizing professional football with the Bears back in the 1920s, when it was just a poor stepchild to the college game.

  We were at an intersection teeming with pedestrians and cars when I noticed a blue automobile the likes of which I had never seen: sleek, streamlined, with a sloping back and an improbable third headlight in the middle of the grille–or rather, where the grille normally is on a car. This futuristic vehicle had a small grille under the headlights and just above the front bumper.

  "What is that, Peter?" I asked, pointing at the car, which had stopped for a red signal.

  "Hey! It's what they call a Tucker Torpedo. I've never seen one before, only in photos," he said. "That's really something. They're made in Chicago and there aren't very many of them around yet."

  Others on the sidewalks were gaping at the car as well and gesturing toward it. As it started to pull away, Peter tugged on my sleeve. "That's him, Dad. That's him."

  "Who?"

  "The one I was telling you about. Jones, Alan or Albert or whatever his first name is. You know, the one with the picture of Hitler in his room. He's riding in the front seat."

  As the so-called 'Torpedo' began to accelerate, I got a profile glimpse of the passenger, a sandy-haired youth with a turned-up nose. A man a generation older was behind the wheel.

  "Is that his father driving?"

  Peter shrugged as the car pulled away and turned a corner at the next block. "I don't know, could be," he answered. "I've never seen him."

  We walked the rest of the way back into town and had supper at a burger-and-beer place Peter said was popular with the college crowd. The raucous, celebratory atmosphere and the waitresses scurrying about with pitchers of foam-crested beer bore out his comment.

  "This okay with you?" he asked uncertainly, as we made our way to a booth toward the back.

  "Fine by me. Let's celebrate the Illinois victory with a beer, if you have no objection."

  My son chuckled his agreement, which for him is the equivalent of an outright guffaw. He comes by his reserved and even-tempered bearing from his mother, my first wife, Norma. I can only assume that my genes are responsible for his inquisitive nature.

  As we drank cold beer from mugs and waited for our hamburgers, I asked Peter about the car we had just seen. I had read a little about this Tucker fellow and the automobiles he was making in the old Dodge plant on

  South Cicero Avenue in Chicago, but I'm not a car person. I've only owned one for two years now, and it's a dented, pre-war gray Ford coupe that saw its best days ages ago. "There's a guy in some of my classes who loves auto design," Peter said. "He'd like to work for one of the car companies some day. He's always drawing futuristic-looking models, and whatever I know about the Tucker Torpedo I've picked up from him."

  I nodded between sips of beer, and he went on.

  "Seems this Tucker–Preston Tucker–is quite a maverick," he continued as our burgers and fries were delivered. "For one thing, the engines on his autos are in the rear, where you'd think the trunk would be. Also–and this is stuff I learned from my car-crazy friend–the cars have independent four-wheel suspension, a pop-out windshield, and a padded dashboard for safety in case of a crash."

  "And the cars look pretty flashy on top of everything else," I put in.

  "Yeah. I didn't realize just how modernistic they really were until I saw this one today. Really low-slung. Oh, and that center headlight–"

  "The one that looks like a third eye in the middle of a forehead?" I interrupted with a laugh.

  "Yeah. It's designed so that when you start turning a corner, that headlight turns in the same direction, too, throwing its beam ahead of you so you can see the road you're turning into."

  "Sounds ingenious."

  "It does," Peter agreed, "but Tucker has had all sorts of problems getting his company off the ground."

  "From what little I've read, it seems there have been some financial shenanigans going on."

  "Could be. But–and again I'm citing my friend, the would-be car designer–Tucker is up against the big auto companies, General Motors, Ford, and the like, and apparently they're trying to find ways to put him out of business. It sounds like the guy is really struggling."

  "Nobody ever said big business in this capitalist world of ours was easy, although you hate to see someone not get a fair shot at starting up an enterprise."

  "I agree completely, Dad. I don't know how well-made these cars are, but it seems like they've got some terrific forward-looking features."

  "Hmm. I believe this Tucker would make a good personality profile in the Sunday Trib."

  Peter smiled. "A profile that you, of course, would write?"

  "Of course. What do you think?"

  "You're really good at that sort of thing. Like the Frank Lloyd Wright article you did a couple of years back, the one that got me that summer job with him up at Taliesin."

  "Helped get you that summer job," I corrected. "Wright wouldn't even have considered it if you weren't already an architecture student with a good record at school."

  "Well, anyway, I think it would be interesting to talk to Tucker and find out what makes him tick," Peter said. "Let me know how it goes."

  What I didn't tell him, although he may very well have figured it out, is that I had an ulterior motive for wanting to sit down and have a conversation with Mr. Preston Tucker, automaker.

  As I was sitting in the booth and mulling how to approach Tucker, Peter looked up and broke into a grin as wide as I've ever seen from his still-boyish face.

  "Hi," he said, looking over my shoulder.

  "Hi, yourself," answered a lovely strawberry blonde in a yellow sweater and brown skirt. I stood, and so did my son.

  "Dad, this is Amanda," Peter said, reaching over to caress her cheek. I'm sure he wanted to kiss her right there, but my presence was an inhibitor. "Amanda, this is my father."

  "Pleased to meet you, sir," she said, holding out a hand. Her grin captivated me, not that I'm ever immune to the smiles of women.

  "You will join us, of course?" I asked.

  "If I don't get in the way of a discussion of the game you just saw," she said, sliding into the booth next to Peter, who put a protective arm around her waist and squeezed her, then motioned a waitress over and ordered a beer for Amanda.

  "We're all done discussing the game," I told her, pleased to see their interaction. "What did you do while we were sitting in the stadium rooting for the orange and blue?"

  It turned out that Amanda, who was majoring in art history, spent the afternoon helping to set up an exhibit of student art. She talked animatedly about the quality of the work. I liked the girl immensely and saw in her a prospective daughter-in-law.

  I began to feel like a third wheel as the two of them talked about the art exhibit, which Peter had also been helping to set up. But Amanda was quick to bring me back into the conversation.

  "I'd love to learn more about your work, Mr. Malek," she said. "I've always been fascinated by the newspaper business."

  "Where is home for you?" I asked.

  "A suburb of St. Louis called Clayton."

  "You've got some good dailies down there, the Post-Dispatch and the Globe-Democrat."

  "From what I've seen, I think your papers up in Chicago are better, though, particularly the Tribune and the Daily News."

  "Thank you for including us," I said, hoisting my stein in a salute. At her prodding, I talked a little about my job and some of the interesting stories I'd done over the years. She seemed interested,
and I was duly flattered.

  After we had finished our beers, Amanda excused herself. "I've got to get back to the exhibit. If things aren't mounted just right, it's my neck," she said with a laugh.

  "Terrific girl," I said to Peter after she left. His answer was a smile that said more than words could have.

  Chapter Nine

  D2 I1 S1 S1 E1 M3 B3 L1 E1

  (v) to give false or misleading appearance to; to conceal the real nature of

  My first act in the Headquarters press room Monday morning was to call Mike Kennedy, the Trib's Sunday Editor, and try to interest him in a feature about Tucker and his car.

  "I don't know, Snap," he said after I'd made my pitch. "From what I read, it seems like he's skating on pretty thin ice with that company of his right now."

  "All the more reason to do a profile of him, Mike. Here's a lone man, a visionary, fighting against the combined might of all the big auto companies. And a senator from Michigan seems to be against him, too. There's drama, there's tension, there's the emotional appeal of a little guy with a revolutionary idea up against giant Detroit corporations with all of their resources."

  "But big corporations like GM and Ford aren't all that he's up against," Kennedy retorted. "Also from what I read–and hear–there are some questions, and I mean big questions, about the way he operates. There's apparently been some funny business with the stock and the company has been selling accessories even before the cars are produced."

  "More compelling reasons why this will make a good story, Mike."

  I was met with silence on the other end of the line for some seconds. "All right, Snap," Kennedy said in a world-weary tone. "Go ahead and set up a meeting with this Tucker and let's see what you come up with. No guarantees that anything will ever run, though."

  I thanked him and headed down one flight for my daily visit with the chief of detectives.

  "Hello, oh vision of loveliness," I crooned to Elsie Dugo Cascio as I stepped into her broom-closet-sized anteroom.

  "How nice of you to address me that way," she cooed, "especially considering this." She patted her tummy.

  I almost asked if she was pregnant again, but for once something inside of me advised a prudent approach. "Meaning what?" I asked.

  "Meaning that ever since Robby was born, I can't seem to get rid of this little friend that I thought would go away after the pregnancy." She ran a palm over her tummy again, making a face.

  "I've never so much as noticed," I said gallantly. "To these admiring eyes, you look every bit as attractive and appealing as the day I first met you, lo these several years ago."

  "You've just earned yourself a cup of coffee, big fella. I suppose you would like to see the man closeted in that office?"

  "I would indeed. Can you announce me?"

  "I will, but be warned that he's not in the best of moods."

  "So what makes this different from any other day around here?"

  She rolled her eyes and went through the usual motions with the crummy little intercom. I really believe only Elsie is able to decipher what sounds like static to me. But after listening to a few of these squawks, she motioned me to go in.

  I did, and found Fergus Fahey leaning back in his chair in a contemplative pose, apparently studying the cracks in the ceiling.

  "Hope I'm not interrupting a reverie," I told him, dropping into one of his guest chairs and laying an opened pack of Luckies on his blotter, as usual.

  "Heard anything this morning from your Nazi caller?" Fahey asked, coming forward in his chair and eyeing me from under bushy gray brows.

  "As a matter of fact, no. Should I?" I responded as Elsie came in, setting a steaming mug of her wonderful coffee in front of me and tripping lightly and silently out.

  "I expect you will, unless he's given up on getting any coverage in the Tribune. There was a shooting this morning up in Rogers Park, a rabbi who was waiting to cross

  Morse Avenue a block or so west of the Elevated station. Somebody in a passing car plugged him at close range." "Dead?"

  "Incredibly, no. Good thing you're sitting down to hear this: The bullet went right where the shooter apparently wanted it to–the heart. But this rabbi was carrying a copy of the Book of Psalms in the breast pocket of his suit coat and–"

  "Don't tell me, Fergus. Let me guess. The good book deflected the bullet."

  "The good book deflected the bullet," he echoed, "and it passed though his shoulder, then exited. He fell to the pavement, of course, which gave him a few scrapes and bruises and there was a little blood, of course, but other than a somewhat battered shoulder, we're hearing that's about the extent of his injuries."

  "My God! Shades of Teddy Roosevelt."

  "Huh?" If Fahey were a cartoon character, there would have been a question mark in a balloon above his head.

  "We were just talking in the press room the other day about how Teddy got shot while giving a speech and the bullet was deflected either by eyeglasses or wadded-up papers in his breast pocket, which probably saved the old Rough Rider's life."

  "I'll be damned. Somewhere along the way, I must have missed that little piece of history. Well, anyway, the rabbi survived, I guess you could say by the grace of God."

  "The Lord looks after those who do His work–at least sometimes," I observed. "Anybody able to identify the car?"

  "Not that we've been able to learn so far. We've still got men out there. Of course, it's just possible this has nothing to do with the other shootings."

  "But you don't believe it."

  "Do you?" Fahey snapped as he lit up a smoke and flipped the match into his ashtray.

  "No, not for a minute. Chances are that I'll hear something, and sooner rather than later. When did this happen?"

  "About seven-fifteen or so. The rabbi was headed to a newsstand nearby to buy a morning paper, maybe yours."

  "If so, another piece of the good news is that we didn't lose a reader," I said as I took notes from the early police reports on the shooting to relay to the boys upstairs.

  Sure enough, I wasn't even back in the press room long enough to pass the details of the shooting along to my so-called competitors when I got a phone call. The nasal voice on the other end was becoming all too familiar.

  "So, Mr. Malek, what have you learned this morning?"

  "Nothing that immediately comes to mind. Why do you ask?"

  "I believe that what occurred a short time ago up on the North Side will provide you with tomorrow's front-page headline."

  "Which is?"

  "Do not dissemble with me, Mr. Malek; you know very well what I'm talking about by now. I could even write your headline, which would read 'Beloved Rabbi Shot Dead by Unknown Assailant on City's Far North Side'."

  "Interesting, but no report about anything like that has come through from the police. You must have received incorrect information."

  There was a long pause at the other end. I knew it was futile to try tracing the call, so I waited.

  Finally my caller broke the silence. "I dislike liars, Mr. Malek."

  "And I dislike killers and bigots, Mr.…"

  The wire went dead When I looked up, four men had their gazes fixed on me–three from the Trib's competing dailies and the other from the City News Bureau.

  "Hey, Snap, come on, what gives?" Packy Farmer demanded.

  "All right, get your pencils poised, boys," I told them, proceeding to relate the details of the attempted murder of the rabbi.

  "Okay, that's good stuff," Dirk O'Farrell conceded, "but what about the call you just got? All of us heard your end of the conversation, including the part about you disliking killers and bigots. Come on, open up, Snap."

  They had me. Because I had been given the okay by the managing editor, I decided to spill everything, and I did. It took about fifteen minutes, which included several interruptions from the crew who, like the veteran journalists they are, fired plenty of questions at me.

  "There you have it, gentlemen," I said. "A Jew-hating
madman is apparently on a rampage in the city, or else he's claiming the credit, if you want to call it that, for three shootings, two of them fatal. And he also claims he's going to plug the president when he comes to town."

  "How much of this does Chief Fahey know?" Anson Masters rumbled.

  "Everything I just told you, except of course that last call. Also, he has the notes I received with those sweet little swastikas drawn on them. Obviously he's got all sorts of people working on it, as well as filling in the FBI and the Secret Service."

  "A question," Dirk O'Farrell said. "If this guy is such a Jew-hater, I can see him angry at Truman because of his getting the U.S. to recognize Israel. And I guess I can even see him shooting a rabbi. But what's with killing the cop and the fireman? Neither one of them was Jewish."

  "For whatever reasons, he wants publicity, and he wants it badly, which is why he's been bugging the hell out of me," I answered. "He obviously hasn't got all his marbles."

  "And just what's your Trib going to do about all this?" Packy Farmer demanded.

  "I shouldn't be telling you our secrets, but…nothing, at least for now. The fear in the Tower is that if the anti-Semitic stuff gets out, it will encourage copy-cat groups, to say nothing of other would-be presidential assassins. As we all are only too damned aware, there are a lot of nuts out there."

  "For once, I agree with your editors, Mr. Malek," Masters intoned. "I will of course fill my superiors in, but I suspect they will take the same position as the Tribune."

  "As much as I hate to agree with Antsy on anything, I figure the folks who call the shots at the Sun-Times will follow suit as well," O'Farrell said. "What about you, Packy?"

  Farmer took a long drag on his cigarette and screwed up his face. "Well, you know how the Hearst folks love a juicy story, and this one is really juicy. Would sell a lot of papers, you know. Think of the headlines that could be written. But having said that, I think in this situation they'll probably take a pass, at least for the present."

  As it turned out, everyone did indeed take a pass on the story, a rare example of four intensively competitive dailies in America's hottest newspaper town saying 'no thank you' to a sensational story–at least for the moment.