Why couldn’t Grantham’s paper take up Ingrid’s cause? Grantham would have to put a different reporter on the story, maybe that snake Larry, who was after his job, and Malcolm would help. Caleb would be out of the newspaper business, the life he loved, but he’d never be happy again if he achieved his dream at the expense of Ingrid’s reputation and happiness.
Why had she done it? Caleb slammed his good fist down, causing the black liquid to slosh out on the table. He’d made the mistake, and he had to correct it. A good reporter would have investigated before picking a fictitious address for his cover.
Grantham had forbade him from talking to Ingrid, but Caleb could talk to her best friend. Joan Pardnick would have the answer. He debated involving Joan and Albert. He didn’t want to create problems for them, too, but he needed facts before he acted. Caleb couldn’t go back into the Packingtown area in his nice clothes, he had to transform himself into a worker again.
* * *
The three Pardnick boys sat on their front stoop, all three with elbows on knees and chins resting in their hands. Caleb’s reporting instinct made him long for a photographer to capture the scene.
Caleb pulled three Christmas candy canes from his pocket. “Look what I found. Unfortunately, I don’t like candy. You three know anyone who could take these off my hands?”
Al, the six-year-old, nodded solemnly toward his brothers. “The little ones could use a treat.”
“How about you?” Caleb gave each smaller boy a sweet and held the last red-and-white striped cane in front of Joan and Albert’s oldest boy.
“Can’t. I’m responsible.” Al eyed the candy hungrily.
“In my experience, the responsible people get good things because they are trustworthy. I think you should have this one.”
“Really?” Al asked.
“Really,” Caleb said.
“Are you trust-a-worthy?” Al stumbled over the word.
Caleb cringed. “Sometimes. But I can tell by the way you’re looking out for your brothers that you are trustworthy.” Caleb nodded to the door. “Your mom and dad at home?”
“No. Mom’s getting a new baby at Grandma’s house. Ingrid was supposed to help Mom get a baby, but she went away.”
“I heard about that,” Caleb said.
“Dad said Ingrid’s going away upset Mom so much that she decided to have the baby without Ingrid.” Billy, the second child sucked noisily on the candy cane, pleased with his contribution to the story.
“Yeah. Mom said Ingrid’s problem was their fault. Mom and Dad told Ingrid she had to help you. But you’re here, so you didn’t need help, did you?” Al cocked his head to the side.
Caleb flinched. “When is your dad coming back?”
“He’s not. Has to go to work.” Al bit the candy cane which broke with a loud snap. “Dad told us to stay with Rosie across the hall, but she’s cooking cabbage and we don’t like the stink.”
“We don’t like the stink,” said Billy.
“Stink!” David, the youngest, wrinkled his nose and scrunched up his face.
“Maybe you’ll like the smell when you get older.”
“We won’t.” Al looked at his brothers who confirmed Al’s statement by vigorous shakes of their heads.
“Well, if you get cold, go inside Rosie’s place. You won’t smell the stink if you hold your noses like this.” Caleb pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and then patted the three capped heads.
“Bye, Caleb.”
“Bye, Caleb.”
“Bye, Caleb.”
Caleb blinked a couple of times. This was the Christmas season, a time of peace and love and joy. Memories from his past flashed through his mind like photographs on a newspaper page. He saw the precious hand-fashioned gifts left to be found by the crèche, faces of family and friends retelling stories of the past and sharing hopes and dreams for the coming year. He pictured his family lined up on a church pew, a congregation singing O Little Town of Bethlehem and Joy to the World.
Caleb knew he’d abandoned the important things in life, and for what? Caleb knew what he had to do.
Chapter 7
Ingrid gagged and covered her mouth at the stench of the small cell. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the gloomy interior and stumbled her way to a metal chair near the only source of light in the room, a small window which allowed the brisk, biting cold of the outside air to come inside. She trembled, not from cold, but from anxiety as she considered what had happened to her in the past two hours.
She’d been hustled from the office by two men, who half pushed, half dragged her from the accounting office of the meat packing plant to the outer space where they held her until the manager arrived.
Ed Bolton, a thin-lipped man, his black hair slicked with pomade, sent runners for a news reporter, a photographer, and the police, in that order. “Well, young lady, you’re in a bushel of trouble,” he announced.
Ingrid’s stomach sank at the sight of the glint in his eyes and his malevolent sneer.
“We wondered if Finsson would show up, put that story out about injury compensation to lure him in, but your showing up is even better.” Bolton rubbed his hands together.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be an example of what happens to those who try to steal from this company. Got anything to say for yourself?” Bolton stood closer to her than she liked.
Ingrid tried to gather her thoughts, to explain why she had come on behalf of Mr. Finsson, when the door was flung open and a man quickly set up a camera on a tripod. Uniformed policemen appeared and took the place of the two company men on either side of her.
“Look this way.” The photographer ducked under the camera cover. “Let me get some more. You coppers were smiling. Look serious. You’ve got a dangerous woman in your custody.”
Another flash caused Ingrid to turn her head to the side.
“Perfect, front page material for sure. What’s your name, lady?”
Ingrid blinked.
“You! What’s your name? What’s your address? We’re going to make you famous.”
Bolton answered on her behalf. “She came to request compensation for Finsson, who has disappeared. Finsson was a troublemaker, in cahoots with the union rabble. So when she showed up, looking all sweet and innocent, we checked her out.”
“And?” The reporter rolled his eyes. “Get on with it. We’ve got a deadline to meet.”
“First, she’s not Mrs. Finsson, she’s Ingrid Larkin, slated for eviction from company housing on the 15th of December. We believe Finsson and this woman were trying to get money from the company to finance a strike against this good company that provides these people jobs.”
The reporter tapped his notepad. “What’s the charge?”
“Fraud!” Bolton’s dark eyes gleamed.
Ingrid recoiled at the charge. “Fraud? I never said I was Mrs. Finsson, you did.”
“You were trying to get funds from the company under false pretenses. But that’s the way you union people operate.” Bolton turned to the reporter. “We aren’t going to take it easy on her because she’s a woman. We think she’s knee-deep in the union business. When we checked up on her, we found out she’s been living in company housing for the past three years, after her husband no longer worked for us. That’s fraud, right there.”
Ingrid drew in a deep breath through her nose. “I paid the rent every month, on time, and the reason my husband wasn’t working was because he died on the line.”
The reporter rubbed his chin, delighted the story might have a more sensational slant that it first appeared. “You couldn’t have been too upset about his death if you married Mr. Finsson.”
“I didn’t!” Ingrid tried to cover her mouth as soon as the words escaped, but the two policeman held her arms securely.
“That’s what I suspected.” Bolton grinned malevolently. “You’ve just admitted your guilt, trying to get company money under false pretenses, lying about being married to a ma
n who had been injured. Yours will be an easy case. You won’t have to worry about paying rent where you’re going.”
* * *
Ingrid went to the bars separating her from the world she knew. She’d been foolish to take in Caleb, foolish to tell him about her life, foolish to believe he might be interested in her. Now, she was behind bars while Caleb Finsson was free and far from the tenements area of Packingtown.
“Mrs. Finsson, or Mrs. Larkin, whatever you want to call yourself, you have a visitor.” The jailor was followed by a portly man in a wrinkled suit.
The man took off his round eyeglasses and polished them. He placed a coin in the jailor’s hand and moved his head sharply toward the door a couple of times, indicating he wanted privacy with the woman in the cell.
“Sir, don’t leave.” Ingrid called to the jailor. “I don’t wish to speak with this man, with anyone.” Her plea was ignored by the jailor who clanged the door shut.
“You don’t have to speak. I’ll do the talking.” The round-shaped man took a watch from his pants pocket and checked the time. “It’s to my advantage to get you out of this jail cell and out of Chicago. Would you like that?”
“I never wanted to be in a jail cell, and right now, I’d love to be anywhere except Chicago.” Ingrid lifted her chin.
“I can help you disappear,” the man said.
Ingrid drew back. “I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t. But you should trust me. The judge won’t treat you kindly. The papers are going to create a three-ring circus around you. The packing plant owners know a nasty strike is coming. They’ve gotten rid of any workers thought to be sympathetic. They’ll paint you as a devious woman trying to steal funds to support the union cause.”
“But that’s not true.” Ingrid grasped the bars so tightly her fingers hurt.
“The plant owners have one of the newspapers in their pocket. Your reputation will be destroyed.” The visitor pulled a watch out of his vest pocket. “Ruined life wouldn’t be much of a Christmas present for you, would it? I’ll get you out of here, but you have to disappear right now.”
Ingrid felt tears sting her eyes. “I’d like to say good-bye to my friends.”
“No time. And I can’t have any ties to you either. Any relatives who might take you in?”
Ingrid paused to consider whether or not she should trust this man and then noticed the tight line of his mouth which reflected his impatience. She made a decision. “I could go to Mercer County, to Joy. I have an uncle there.”
“Joy it is. Good name for your new home at Christmas.” The man slipped a key from his pocket and unlocked the cell. He picked up a bundle from a chair in the corridor. “Put on this cloak and pull the hood tight to cover your face and hair. You’re lucky they allowed you to keep your pocketbook. Take my arm, lean on me.”
Ingrid pulled back.
“We’ll look like a distressed couple who just visited someone in the jail. Hurry. I have a carriage outside.”
Ingrid noted the guard’s slight nod to her mysterious companion who returned the key to her cell and slipped the jailor more money. Then her escort smiled at her, and Ingrid saw the kindness and concern in his eyes.
She trusted that she’d made the right decision. Freedom waited in a carriage with a large “G” painted on the side.
Chapter 8
When Caleb returned to the Pardnik tenement on Mulberry Street, he carried bags of food and gaily wrapped presents for the boys, who quickly congregated around his knees. The two-year-old held out his hand, remembering Caleb had brought them candy on his last visit.
“I have a surprise for your parents. Can you let me in your place?” Caleb juggled the bags. “Got some surprises for little boys, too.”
Al took the steps one at a time, Billy put his right foot on the step, then brought the left to the same, and the two-year-old used his hands to crawl from step to step.
“It’s cold. No one lit a fire.” Al shuddered.
“Mom will be back soon, with the new baby,” Billy said. “She’ll make a fire.”
Caleb set the bags on the kitchen table and placed the contents, based on Al and Billy’s directions, into sparsely-filled cabinets, while two-year-old David managed to stay underfoot, causing Caleb to stumble more than once.
“I thought we might do some Christmas decorating, since your mother’s been busy getting ready for the baby.” Caleb placed a crèche on the table and handed each of the boys some figures.
“The cattle are low.” Billy placed the two cows far from the manger.
“Are not.” Al repositioned them inside the stable area.
“Are so.” Billy moved them again. “The song says ‘the cattle are low and the baby sleeps.’”
Caleb tousled Al’s hair. “The best part is you can move the figures, but you shouldn’t put them in your mouth.” Caleb rescued one of the wise men from little David’s mouth.
“David, no. No eat.” Al pointed to the pieces from the set and wagged his finger at the youngest Pardnik.
“I’m putting these packages on the back of the table. No peeking until Christmas Day.” Caleb brought out five wrapped gifts. “We give gifts at Christmas to remind us of the gifts the wise men brought baby Jesus.”
“We’ll have to watch David.” Al looked at Billy, then Caleb. “He might try to open his present early.”
“I’m leaving a note for your parents. Make sure they see it.” Caleb pulled out an envelope where he had stuffed most of the cash he had with him, and retrieved his notebook and pencil. Confident Joan and Albert would understand the message, but others would not, he wrote: May this Christmas be especially blessed. I will take care of Ingrid. In Joy, Caleb.
“What about the new baby?” Al asked. “There are only five presents.”
“What about the baby?” Billy repeated.
“The baby?” Young David grabbed Caleb’s trousers at the knee.
“I didn’t forget. The baby has one and your mother and father are sharing one.” Caleb smiled at the love and concern voiced by the three youngsters. “I’m going to take you to Rosie’s. I bet her place is nice and warm.”
“It will still smell like cabbage.” Billy twisted the toe of his scuffed and worn shoe.
Al offered his small hand, in grown-up fashion. “Thanks, Caleb.”
Caleb, who considered himself a hard-boiled reporter, felt his eyes moisten. He shook hands solemnly with each of the three small boys who had eased their way into his heart. Even though their lot in life looked bleak, he’d witnessed the parental love surrounding these youngsters. Not all the children who grew up in Packingtown were so lucky. He needed to write the articles about the toll on the families of the meat packers. If Grantham didn’t want it, he’d take the stories to the competition, but first he had to get Ingrid out of jail.
One o’clock was the only opening the police chief had in his schedule, and Caleb would be sitting in the front office thirty minutes before the appointed time. He’d pay Ingrid’s fine, offer to serve jail time for her, or, if the chief insisted it go to trial, get her the best lawyer in Chicago. He was now glad he’d put the bulk of his salary aside instead of spending it foolishly.
Caleb believed a simple explanation of the circumstances would suffice. The police chief liked the adventures of Danny Dangerous and had written Grantham several times asking to meet the intrepid reporter. Caleb would happily reveal his identity if doing so would save Ingrid from further embarrassment.
But he knew his secret would not be safe with the head of the police department. That man would use the knowledge of Caleb’s carefully concealed identity to attempt to compromise news reporting when something unsavory in his department reared an ugly head.
In his apartment, Caleb arranged his notes about families living in the Packingtown area. From his work inside the union and with management, he knew a strike was imminent. And he didn’t think the union would win. The owners had people eager to work, even in deplorable condition
s.
“Caleb, open up.” Malcom pounded on the door.
“What do you want?” Caleb only opened the door slightly.
“Grantham wants you back at the paper this afternoon. Said you could write about the families in peril, if you do the strike pieces first.” Malcom tried to see past Caleb. “Open the door. What or who are you hiding?”
“Why did Grantham have a change of heart?” Caleb opened the door wide enough for Malcolm to sidle inside.
“Don’t know. Who cares? We’re back.” Malcolm picked up one of the papers.
“Put it down.” Caleb closed the door. “Is this some trick? Today you acted like you were trying to get my job.”
“Who could replace the great Danny Dangerous?” Malcolm pointed at Caleb. “Plenty of people have tried, but Grantham likes you.”
“He likes my writing and my research.” Caleb checked the clock and slapped his forehead. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Go. I’ll let myself out,” Malcolm said.
“No. We’ll be leaving together.” Caleb picked up the hat Malcolm had tossed on the bed. “I’m not leaving you here with all my research. After you.” Caleb ushered Malcolm through the door, and then locked it.
“Where are we going?” Malcolm pulled his hat down against the bracing wind off Lake Michigan.
“I’m meeting with the police chief. Don’t know where you’re going.” Caleb set a brisk pace.
Malcolm huffed to keep up with the reporter. “I’ll tag along. I’m eager to learn from you.”
Caleb stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “It’s a personal matter. You don’t have to go with me.”
“But I have to.” Malcolm hesitated. “Well I should go with you, in case you need something. Are you talking to the police chief about the upcoming strike?”
“No. As I said, it’s a personal matter.”
“Does it involve a beautiful young widow named Ingrid?”
Searching for Joy Page 4
