A President In Peril

Chapter Twenty-Three H₄ U₁ B₃ R₁ I₁ S₁ (n) Excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance

At my insistence, I got released from the hospital late that afternoon. Catherine and I went home to Oak Park in a Yellow cab. By this time, she had heard pretty much the whole story of my adventures on Madison Street, either from my own lips or from Fergus Fahey.

“I was glad to finally meet the chief, despite the circumstances,” she told me as we motored west on Washington Boulevard in the taxi. “You’ve talked so much about him over the years that I felt as if I already knew the man.”

“Yeah, Fergus is really a first-rate joe.”

“He’s the one who called me to tell me you were in County Hospital,” she went on, gripping my good hand and giving it a squeeze. “I think he was trying hard not to alarm me.”

“How so?”

“He started out by saying something like, ‘First, I want to let you know that your husband is just fine, but that he’s had a minor accident, and he asked me to call you.’”

“Of course I was in no shape to ask anybody anything,” I said.

“But I didn’t know that, did I? He was being considerate of me by not telling me you were unconscious and being operated on to patch up an arm and remove a bullet. Anyway, he suggested I come to the hospital, and said he would send a police car to pick me up. He did, and when I got there he was waiting, to tell me in more detail what had happened. He also said before we went up to your room that I should know that you almost surely saved the president’s life.”

“If only by accident.”

“Steve Malek, don’t give me that ‘if only by accident’ business,” Catherine admonished, caressing my cheek.

“What will the cabbie think of this wanton display of affection?” I asked, gesturing toward the Plexiglas panel separating us from the driver.

“Never mind what the cabbie thinks,” was the answer I got as Catherine took my face in both hands and planted a kiss on me that would have buckled my knees if I had been standing. I filed no complaint.

I spent the next two weeks recuperating at home and behaving, as Catherine said more than once, ‘like a caged cougar.’

“Do you have any idea what a cougar looks like?” I asked her after one of her comments comparing me to the animal.

“Well... I might have seen one at the Brookfield Zoo once,” she said. “Or maybe it was a puma or a panther. But you get the idea.”

I know I was a difficult patient during those days at home, most of which I spent in the den with my arm cast in its sling, which turned out to be more cumbersome than painful. The Tribune ran the story of my run-in with Becker — his first name was Carl — under the headline TRIB REPORTER FOILS TRUMAN DEATH PLOT. The story, bylined by two of the paper’s best reporters, also went into detail about The New Reich and its anti-Semitism, and they were kind enough to telephone me to get quotes on what I had found out about the Nazi group early on.

Their article really blew the lid off the group, thanks to the singing Carl Becker did to the various law enforcement organizations visiting him in his hospital room. As I had suspected, The New Reich was not a large operation — only seven in all. As Fahey had told me when I was in the hospital, Warren Jones, the printing company boss man, was indeed behind the whole operation, although he never went to any of the meetings at that German restaurant on Lincoln Avenue. He didn’t want to get his own hands dirty, according to a now resentful Becker. Jones had been arrested and charged with plotting to kill the president. The judge refused to grant bail.

Becker, whom I had seen for that brief moment in Jones’s office, was the nominal head of the Reich, going by the name of ‘Earl’ in the meetings. He also was the one, I learned from our reporters, who had written those notes with swastikas on them and called me, disguising his voice — not that it would have mattered.

“He and Jones really wanted publicity in the Trib,” Fahey told me when he called me at home to see how I was doing. “They wanted the notoriety. Call it hubris on their part. Jones pushed Becker into making those calls and writing those notes to you. But he, Jones, had made sure he was one step removed from the Reich... that is, until Becker squealed on him from his hospital bed. Turns out that four of the seven in the Reich were employees of Jones’s operation, all of them working on the presses.”

“No honor among thieves,” I observed. “Jones must have been surprised when I showed up in his office to interview him about owning a Tucker automobile. To say nothing of how Becker must have felt when he found out what my name was from his boss.”

“Yeah, some coincidence, huh?” Fahey observed.

“Why, Fergus, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you sound suspicious.”

“It’s my job to be suspicious, particularly of so-called coincidences.”

“Fergus, I’d love to go on talking to you, but as you know, I’m recuperating, and I really shouldn’t be on the phone for too long. I need to get back to my rocking chair in the den. Catherine will be coming in soon with my milk toast.”

Fahey made a closing comment, but I’m not going to repeat it.

A few minutes later, the telephone rang again, and Catherine answered it. “It’s Colonel McCormick,” she said, cupping the mouthpiece and making a face indicating that her political leaning was one-hundred-eighty degrees from that of the Colonel.

Sure enough, the editor, publisher, and principal owner of the Chicago Tribune was on the line.

“Hello, sir,” I said in a properly respectful tone.

“Hello, Mr. Malek. How are you feeling?”

“Much better today, sir. Thank you for taking the time to call.”

“Thank you, Mr. Malek, for what you did the other evening. You risked your life for your president. You are a credit to this newspaper and to your country.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I say that to you despite my personal feelings about Mr. Truman and his performance in the White House these last few years. However, that is neither here nor there. The man is our president, at least until January, and it is despicable that anyone should try to shoot him. And to think that such a thing almost occurred right here in Chicago. You have saved us from national disgrace.”

“I was lucky, sir.”

“I do not believe that, Mr. Malek. Not for a minute. Mr. Maloney tells me you are a tenacious reporter, if a bit rash on occasions. However, if being rash includes saving the life of our chief executive, I salute rashness.”

“I appreciate those words.”

“And we appreciate you, Mr. Malek. I am told you are recuperating well from your wounds. Take your time before returning to work. There’s no need to rush back into things.”

“I’m feeling better every day.”

“Good, good. And... Mr. Malek...”

“Yes?”

“There will be something extra for you in your next pay envelope.”

“Thank you very much.”

“No need to thank me. You have earned it, and I salute you. When you return to work, please stop by my office. I would like to shake your hand.”

I told him I would stop in and rang off.

“Well,” Catherine said, “I guess I should be impressed, huh? The mighty Colonel calling our humble abode.”

“Enough with the sarcasm, my dear. Perhaps you will be impressed when I tell you that I’m going to get some sort of bonus.”

“I’ll wait to see how much it is before I commit,” she said with a smirk.

One interruption — not necessarily a welcome one — to the boredom during that week at home was a visit from Special Agent Floyd Willman of the FBI’s Chicago office. He had phoned me, requesting an appointment. He was nice enough to first inquire about my recovery.

“I’m doing fine, thank you,” I told him. When he said he wanted to see me, I said it would have to be at home, as I was not yet ready to return to work.

Catherine met him at the front door and ushered him into the den. “You are truly a hero, Mr. Malek,” Willman said as I gestured him to a chair. “The reports we have received and the newspaper articles indicate you acted with great courage in the face of great personal risk.”

“I believe I did what many others would have done in my place,” I told him. I was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the praise being heaped upon me.

“Perhaps,” Willman said. “Do you mind if I close this door so we can talk privately?”

“I can’t imagine anything will be said here that my wife shouldn’t hear, but... all right.”

Willman shut the door and took the chair. “I must be honest with you, Mr. Malek. The Bureau is not happy with the lack of candor that you exhibited on our last meeting.”

“Oh, is that so?” I was genuinely puzzled. “Did I say anything misleading?”

“It’s not what you said as much as what you didn’t say,” Willman replied.

“I believe I told you, or told the police, or both, everything I knew about The New Reich, which admittedly wasn’t all that much.”

“You never said a word about the Argo Hotel to me or to the police.”

I drew in air and let it out slowly to underscore my frustration. “Mr. Willman, apparently your information is incomplete because I already have discussed this with the Chicago Police. In the first place, I didn’t know of the existence of the Argo Hotel until I walked by it the night of the Truman motorcade to the Chicago Stadium. Second, even the word argo was a stab in the dark, based on a word The New Reich had used in its meetings.”

“You did not tell us about that word,” Willman said stiffly.

“I was not even sure what the word was. There was a lot of guessing involved.”

“If we had known about the importance of the Argo Hotel, we could have removed Mr. Becker from the premises and you would not now have your arm in a sling,” the agent replied self-righteously. “As it is, the president came very close to being shot.”

I realized we were talking in circles. “Mr. Willman, I have told you why I acted as I did. With the knowledge I possessed at the time, I would do exactly the same thing again. Now, I do realize that you probably were instructed to come here and lecture me as to what I should have done and what I did not do. You may consider that you have fulfilled your responsibility.”

Willman jutted out his very square jaw. “Mr. Malek, I have to say that I find you attitude to be somewhat hostile.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Am I being charged with anything?”

“No, although we, the Bureau, felt that you should have behaved differently.”

“I will have to live with that knowledge, sir. Now if you will excuse me, it is time for my daily nap. I am still working on regaining my strength,” I said, rising and opening the den door.

Floyd Willman reluctantly rose and walked out of the little room, donning his snap-brim hat. I saw him to the front door. He did not say goodbye.

“My, he didn’t stay very long at all,” Catherine said as I shut the door behind him.

“We didn’t have a whole lot to say to each other. And what each of us did say didn’t register with the other.”