"No, let me announce you. He's been on the phone a lot, and he asked not to be disturbed."
She buzzed him on the intercom, pronounced my name, and received a grunt. "I'm not sure what his words were, but go on in and find out," she said with a toothy grin.
Fergus Fahey was leaning back in his chair with palms pressed to his eyes. "Are you here to harass me?" he growled.
"Probably. After all, that's what I do best. Care for a cigarette?" I tossed a half-full pack of Luckies onto his desk blotter. "Bad day?"
"They're all bad. But now that we know that…"
"That Truman and Dewey are giving you the old one-two punch?"
"Yeah," he said dismally, lighting up. "We knew they would be passing though here–every presidential candidate does at least once–and we are going to get them both, just a day apart. Now we know for sure they'll each be giving a speech out at the Stadium. Two nights in a row! And each one of them with a damn two-mile-plus motorcade. Talk about courting disaster."
"Well, you'll have the Secret Service here to help."
He scowled. "How many men is that? Not nearly enough, and you know it. Sure, those guys are good, but, particularly with the motorcades, we'll need a bloody army. And of course both Truman and Dewey are going to be in those goddamn convertibles, the better for their adoring crowds to see them."
"Those adoring crowds aren't the only ones who'll be better able to see them," I remarked.
"Tell me about it," Fahey grumped.
"The boys up in the press room want to know who's going to be left to protect the rest of the city with everybody on the force focusing on Give 'em Hell Harry and the Moustache Man."
"None of their goddamn business. Or yours either."
"You are in a mood today," I told him as Elsie clicked in with steaming mugs of her wonderful coffee for both of us.
"The FBI's been around, too," Fahey said after Elsie left and closed the door behind her. "Off the record, we filled them in yesterday on what we know, thanks to you, about this wacky New Reich group. You can expect to be hearing from them today."
"Oh, shit, just what I need."
"That's my sentiment about a lot of things these days. The agent who talked to me is named Willman. Doesn't seem like such a bad sort. He's new in the Chicago office."
"Did he have any thoughts about the organization?"
"Not that he shared with me. He's an asker, not an answerer."
"Well, isn't that great, then, because I'm an asker, too. We'll get along just peachy."
"Just watch yourself and that mouth of yours, Snap. This is the FBI we're talking about, not some broken down old Chief of Detectives who puts up with your guff."
"Now Fergus, you're not broken down, at least as far as I know, and you're not old, I mean not really that old."
"Get outta here. I got work to do," he said, picking up a sheet of paper from the top of the stack on his desk. "Oh, and tell your colleagues or competitors or whatever you call those guys upstairs that, quote: The Chicago Police Department has adequate resources to protect the presidential candidates while at the same time providing its usual high level of service to all the citizens of Chicago. Unquote. Got that?"
"I got the gist of it."
"Here, take the sheet," Fahey said, handing it over. "It's from Commissioner Prendergast. Feel free to use any or all of it."
"My goodness, the boys will be excited to get this," I told him, walking out of his office and closing the door gently behind me. I smirked at Elsie and got a wink in return.
Sure enough, just after I got back to my desk in the press room, my phone rang, and I correctly guessed the identity of the caller.
"Hello, Mr. Malek. I am Special Agent Floyd Willman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I wonder if you would be able to stop by our office on
Dearborn Street in the Loop for a little discussion?" "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Willman, but the pressure of my work here makes it impossible for me to leave for any extended period. The constant crush of deadlines, you know," I said. "Sorry about that." There was a pause at the other end before Willman spoke again.
"This needn't take all that long, Mr. Malek."
"Good, good. Then I'd like to suggest an alternative, sir. We have interview rooms here at Police Headquarters, places where we can talk privately. I'm sure I will be able to reserve one and we can have our conversation there. Or else we can do this by phone."
"No, not by phone," Willman said, obviously peeved. "I was already at your building yesterday, talking to some other people."
"Excellent, then you know the way. Tell me what time is good for you, and I'll see if I can manage to work it into my schedule."
Another pause, this one longer. "Eleven o'clock," came the clipped response.
"Eleven? Let's see…" I paused for effect. "That seems fine. Yes, just fine. I'll reserve a room and tell them down at the reception desk to expect you and direct you to where I'll be. How long do you think this will take?"
"That's hard to say, Mr. Malek…"
"Well, give me some idea, Mr. Willman. Ten minutes? Twenty?"
A third pause. "I'll try to take as little of your time as possible," he replied stiffly. I thanked him for his consideration and cradled the phone, smiling.
It was no surprise that Mr. Floyd Willman of the FBI arrived promptly. I had just gotten myself settled at a bare wooden table in a spare, windowless interview room on the third floor when Willman appeared in the doorway, looking precisely like an FBI agent is supposed to look: about thirty-five years old; brown, slicked-down hair with a straight part; square jaw; gray suit with razor-sharp creases in his pants; white shirt, also pressed; light blue tie with dark blue diagonal stripes. He held a snap-brim hat in one hand.
"Mr. Willman? Nice to meet you," I said, holding out a paw, which he gripped firmly. Unsmiling, he sat opposite me and flipped open a wallet containing his credentials. I waved it away.
"Mr. Malek, sorry you could not accept my invitation to meet at our offices," he said tightly.
"But that's what it was, right–an invitation?"
He shrugged my question away. "Mr. Hoover thinks very highly of your newspaper and your publisher, Colonel McCormick."
"Does he? I'm glad to hear that."
"Mr. Hoover likes newspaper people in general, and the way they have cooperated with us in our work. He feels the press is a bastion of our democracy."
"We try. Now how can I help you, Mr. Willman?"
He shifted in his chair as if it didn't quite suit him. "As you probably are aware, we are interested in learning more about a subversive organization here in Chicago that calls itself The New Reich. And we are aware that someone who claims to be in that organization has contacted you by telephone, mail, and hand-delivered note."
"That is correct, Mr. Willman."
"How is it that they chose you as a potential agent to publicize them and their…work?"
"As I have told both my editors and the police–and I know you have spoken to the police about this–the man who called me claims that my newspaper, as the largest in Chicago, also is the most effective vehicle to reach the greatest number of people. And he says his New Reich wants publicity."
Willman grunted. "And you believe that?"
"Why wouldn't I believe it? Although he's not about to get ink from us at the Tribune–and probably not at any of the other papers either."
"Are you sure the man who telephoned also sent you the notes that you passed along to the police?"
"I can only assume so. There's no way I can be positive, of course."
"Mr. Malek, have you ever been a member of…any organizations?"
"Such as?"
"Lodges. Fraternal groups. Secret societies. Perhaps an ethnic club of some sort." He pronounced 'ethnic' as if it were a dirty word.
"I'm not sure that I follow you, Mr. Willman. I am not a joiner by nature. I was in the Boy Scouts for a short while as a kid, but it bored me."
"The Scouts i
s a great organization," he said.
"I'm sure it is, but it wasn't for me."
Willman shot me a disapproving look, and I realized he had probably been an Eagle Scout. "And you have never been part of any group that was, shall we say… exclusionary?"
"As in what? Anti-Catholic, Anti-Jewish, Anti-Negro?"
He shrugged again and turned his palms up as if to suggest I had something to tell him about my past. I liked this guy less with each passing minute.
"Well, I was part of a little gang back in the fifth grade in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood that made fun of a kid in our class named Cacciatore because of his name, so maybe I was anti-Italian back then without even realizing it. But then in high school, I was sweet on a girl named Rose Purcelli, which sort of cancelled out the Cacciatore business. So, gee, I don't know what to say about this ethnic business, Mr. Willman. Of course…I guess I'm ethnic myself–Bohemian, or maybe you call it Czech. So that–"
"All right, Mr. Malek, I–"
"No, no, you've really got me thinking now. By God, I was in an ethnic organization after all back in school, a Bohemian group called Sokol. The word means falcon in Czech, and it's sort of a physical fitness and gymnastics club, and it was mostly for Czech and Slovak youngsters, so I guess that makes it–what's your word?–exclusionary. I didn't stay in it long, though, because…well, I was too lazy for all that exercising and discipline."
Willman took a deep breath. "That's all very interesting, Mr. Malek, but not terribly helpful."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Well, is there anything else?"
All during our meeting, the agent had had his notebook open and his pen poised, but he had done very little writing. He looked at me with an expression that was somewhere between frustration and anger, but he simply pursed his lips before speaking.
"No, I believe that is sufficient for the time being, Mr. Malek," he said, working to keep his tone flat and emotionless. "Are you planning to be where you can easily be reached in the near future?"
"Mr. Willman, I'm planning to be right here in this building and at my home not just in the near future but in the far future as well. At present, I have no travel plans whatever. I am not hard to find."
Special Agent Willman rose but did not offer a hand in parting, which was fine by me. He turned smartly on his heel and strode out into the hall.
"Elevator's half-way down the hall on the right," I called after him but failed to get a thank-you in response.
Chapter Fifteen
I1 N1 E1 F4 F4 A1 B3 L1 E1
(adj) incapable of being expressed or described; inexpressible; unspeakable
Just after returning to my desk in the press room from the session with Mr. Floyd Willman of the FBI, I got a call from Murray on the city desk. "Snap, we're asking most of our reporters to do extra duty when the candidates breeze through town next week."
"I was expecting you would, Hal. It's not the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Just what've you got planned for me?"
"Do you feel up to some night work? We can get somebody to spell you at Headquarters, at least for part of your shift, say from three o'clock on."
"Sure, why not? I'm always looking for a changepace."
"Here's the situation. As you know, the M.E. has always been fond of your feature-writing style, but don't let it give you a big head. He wants you to roam along the parade route on
Madison Street both nights. Work the crowds, talk to people, find out why they like–or don't like–Truman or Dewey. We're looking for color, anecdotes, and any weird stuff you might happen to run into." "Has a vaguely familiar ring."
Murray laughed. "I figured it might. We all still remember the piece you did back in '44 about that parade in the Loop for old Dewey."
"Oh, yeah, the one about that Red-White-and-Blue Man."
Murray allowed himself another chuckle. "He had a red, white, and blue suit, a red, white, and blue tie, and a red, white and blue beanie with a propeller on it. And he was carrying one American flag with a second one stuck in his belt just above his butt."
"And he was also nutty as the proverbial fruitcake," I put in.
"No surprise there. But what I particularly liked about the piece was that you didn't ridicule the poor bastard. You quoted him as though he were a serious, thoughtful member of the electorate who was out there showing his enthusiasm for his candidate."
"It was damn hard not to make fun of him, though, Hal. He told me Dewey had promised him a cabinet position, Agriculture, I think it was."
"Geez, I don't remember that from the story."
"That's because I didn't put it in. The poor man was a big enough fool without me making it any worse. As it was, I did quote him saying he felt Dewey would win 40 states and put an end to 'King Roosevelt the Second's reign of dictatorship.'"
"Yeah, I remember that the Colonel liked that particular line. Well, now that Dewey's back, maybe the guy will be around again, too," Murray said. "Complete with his funny suit."
"If he hasn't been put away someplace nice and quiet with a high fence around it where he can have long talks with people who claim to be Napoleon and Queen Victoria and Augustus Caesar."
"Hell, even if he doesn't show up, Snap, chances are good you'll find all sorts of weird and wacky stuff along the parade route."
"So…have you heard from the FBI yet?" Fergus Fahey asked when I stopped back at his office just to shoot the breeze later that day.
"Oh, yes, indeed I have. I spent a delightful twenty minutes or so with your friend Mr. Willman."
"No friend of mine. How did it go?"
"About the way you'd expect," I told him. "He's not exactly gregarious, is he?"
"Snap, he's with the FBI. Gregarious isn't part of their vocabulary."
"Oh, I know. Actually, he was pretty much the way I expected. He seemed awfully damned interested in my past and whether I'd ever belonged to any lodges, secret societies, or what he referred to as 'ethnic groups'. I wanted to tell him I'd been with the Ku Klux Klan for the last twenty years, but I decided against it."
"Good thing," Fahey observed dryly. "The Bureau isn't any fonder of jokes than they are of gregariousness."
"Yeah, well, I got the feeling Willman thought there was something funny about the fact that these Nazi morons chose to call me and send me those little love notes. Like maybe I was somehow sympathetic to their garbage."
The chief leaned back in his chair. "It's their job to be suspicious, just like it's our job. Keep in mind that Willman doesn't have the advantage of knowing you like I do."
"Well, I hope that's the last I see of the guy. He gives me the creeps. Of course, he was none too happy with me from the start; I refused to go to his office for the interview, so he had to come here."
"Now that's the Malek I know," Fahey said, showing the hint of a smile. "I'm surprised you didn't try to get him to buy your lunch."
"Not a chance, Fergus. That would have meant I'd have had to spend more time with him."
"Everything has its price," the chief observed, turning to his ever-present stack of paperwork as the signal that I was dismissed.
I have never put much stock in clairvoyance or what they are calling 'extrasensory perception' these days; but for the rest of the afternoon, I found myself with a vague sense of unease that I could neither explain nor define.
"You seem a thousand miles away, Snap," Packy Farmer said a few minutes before our shift was over. "It's a funny time of year to be getting spring fever."
"I guess my mind is someplace else, I just don't know where," I said. "Maybe I just want this damn campaign to be over."
"Hell, we all do," Dirk O'Farrell chimed in. "Like you, I've been stuck with a night assignment next week. I have to go out to the Stadium Tuesday and back up our political editor on the coverage of Dewey's speech. The place will be packed and noisy and sweaty."
"Republicans, sir, do not sweat," Farmer said. "Democrats sweat. Republicans perspire. Isn't that right, Antsy?"
"It
's too late in the day for your brand of humor, Packy," Anson Masters growled as he began packing up in preparation for turning his desk over to the Daily News night man.
That ineffable feeling of anxiety stayed with me all the way home to Oak Park on the Elevated and was still there when I opened the door of the sturdy stucco house on
Scoville Avenue. "How was your day, darling?" Catherine asked as we embraced in the living room. "You seem a little bit distracted."
I admitted to being somewhat unsettled, and filled her in on the day's activities as I usually did.
"That FBI fellow sounds like he'd be a real stitch at a party," she remarked. "How do you feel about those night assignments along the parade route next week?"
"Might be interesting," I said without enthusiasm, then proceeded to tell her about the red-white-and-blue man from 1944, which was the year before we got reacquainted and married.
"What's really wrong, Steve?" she said during dinner. "You still seem a little distant. Out with it."
"That's what Packy Farmer told me at work. I can't put my finger on anything specific. But I feel…I don't know…out of step, somehow."
"It's that miserable New Reich business," Catherine said. "They've killed people–or so we think–and made threats regarding the president, and you're worrying, maybe subconsciously, about what might occur when he comes to Chicago."
"I suppose you're right, but I've got this feeling–don't ask me why–that something's going to happen even before Truman hits town."
"You, sir, are in need of relaxation. Might I suggest a spirited game of Scrabble–after we wash the dishes, of course?"
"You've got yourself a deal, doll," I told her. "Be prepared to be humbled by a master wordsmith."
Somebody got humbled, all right. The lady came up with quirky, enzyme, and expel–all in the same game. It was such a rout that I didn't even challenge her to a rematch.
Chapter Sixteen
M3 A1 V4 E1 R1 I1 C3 K5
(n) a person who takes an independent stand apart from his associates
The next day, our first-thing-in-the-morning bull session in the Headquarters press room centered on the upcoming visits of Truman and Dewey.
A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 12
