Terror at the Fair

Chapter Fifteen

“Oh, Steve, not another death at the fair,” Catherine said as I walked into the house after work and we embraced in the living room. “I heard about it on the radio. What’s going on? I thought of all places, you had a nice, safe assignment there.”

“It certainly figured to be,” I agreed. “But at least your husband is getting himself some scoops, which didn’t happen very often at Police Headquarters, what with its share-and-share-alike policy.”

“And your wife is getting more gray hairs,” she said glumly, passing a palm across her temple.

“Might I remind you, my dearest, that you were reared in a newspaper household. Your daddy, whom I had the privilege of meeting on several occasions, was absolutely fearless, a real bulldog of a street-smart reporter. Not afraid of anybody.”

“Yes, but Mother and I worried about him, just like I worry about you. A small-time hoodlum named Kelso once threatened to kill Daddy because of some of the things he wrote. He might have, too, if he hadn’t got shot himself by some other mobster a few weeks after he had made the threat.”

“Well, at least you had some idea of what you were getting into when you married me,” I said lightly, pressing her to me and kissing her thick, wavy, and not-at-all-gray hair. “I assumed you got drawn to my exciting, swashbuckling style as an intrepid reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper.”

“Not just a great newspaper, ’The World’s Greatest Newspaper,’” she said, mocking the Tribune’s self-proclamation, which ran each day on page one, just below the Gothic-style nameplate.

“Okay, so maybe that’s just a little bit too presumptuous,” I conceded. “But then, newspapers have never been known for their modesty. The New York Times has a box on Page One every day claiming it contains ‘All the News That’s Fit to Print.’”

“True, newspapers are not modest by nature. Nor newspapermen, for that matter,” she said, at last allowing herself a smile. “Are you ready for dinner?”

“Ah, the very words I have been waiting for.”

As we ate pork chops, baked potatoes, and green beans, I filled her in on the day’s adventure, including my semi-contentious dining car meeting with Detective Corcoran.

“Steve, is it true most policemen dislike reporters? I can’t remember if I ever asked Daddy that question.”

“Not really. Sometimes they actually curry favor with us because they like to see their names in print. Part of the problem comes when the editorial writers blast what they view as police inaction or corruption. Sometimes these attacks are deserved, sometimes they’re not.

“But when this happens, the cops, including the ones on the beat, transfer their anger to anybody who happens to work for the newspaper. Then, because reporters are the ones on the paper who interact the most with the police, they—we—are usually the ones who end up feeling the wrath.”

“What about you and the detective you’ve told me about a few times?”

“You mean Jack Prentiss?”

“Yes, him.”

I leaned back, dabbed my mouth with the napkin, and patted my satisfied stomach. “This may come as a surprise to you, but your loving husband is not perfect.”

She put down her fork as if shocked. “Fascinating, tell me more.”

“This Prentiss, he’s surly by nature, but I have to take some of the blame here. It dates back to Pilsen, and my cousin Charlie’s apartment. You remember the awful night when I drove over there and everything that happened.”

“I’ll never forget it.”

“Well, what I probably didn’t tell you, I can’t remember for sure, is when I met Prentiss there in the apartment, I made sure he knew I was close to Fergus Fahey, his boss.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “No, I don’t think you ever mentioned it.”

“That was a stupid, arrogant move on my part, rubbing his nose in the fact I could go over his head any time I felt like it. He has never forgotten about it and probably never will.”

“Well, you certainly seem to get along well with Chief Fahey.”

“That wasn’t always the case. When I first got assigned to Police Headquarters way back when, I was a real smart-mouth, and it didn’t sit well with him. Over the years, I like to think I’ve mellowed at least somewhat. It took a while for things to thaw between me and Fergus, but now, yeah, I think we get along fine, given our respective roles; we understand each other. For instance, if he tells me something is off-the-record, I honor it.”

“Isn’t that the, well... honorable thing to do, though?” Catherine said between sips of her coffee.

“Yeah, but it’s the practical thing to do as well, honey. He knows I’ll keep my word on stuff he’s not ready to break; in return, though, I get the news first when he is ready.”

“But then you have to share whatever you get with your so-called competitors in the pressroom.”

“True, that’s the unfortunate part of being one of the Headquarters press crew. It’s always share and share alike. The damned system is as old as the hills.”

“Well, as you know, I’ve never thought much of the practice. Now, as to these deaths at the fair, do you think they are connected?”

“I don’t see how, unless this ‘mystery man’ who was one of the rifle-loaders also strangled that poor old bird last night in what passes for Chicago’s version of New Orleans.”

“The rifle-loader who then disappeared,” Catherine said.

“Right. That would be the nonexistent Mr. Samuel White of a nonexistent address up north on Clarendon Avenue.”

“How in the world are the police going to find him?”

“Beats me. That’s Fahey’s problem. I’m sure his men have questioned everybody on the fair crew who worked with or around the so-called Mr. White. From the description I got, it sounds like other than a slight accent, which isn’t at all uncommon in Chicago, he could blend into a crowd of three. Although... although…”

“Although what, Mr. Steve Malek? When you get that look, I start to worry. This is a police matter, plain and simple. Just stay out of it!”

“Aha! Am I being given an order?”

“As if I could ever order you to do anything,” she said with an exaggerated pout.

“Now you know that’s not true. Just last night, you ordered me to take out the garbage, and I did.”

“That was not an order,” she said, leaning across the table and punching me lightly on the shoulder. “Just a strong suggestion. And now I have another one. I’ll wash and you dry.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” I said, glad the conversation had drifted away from the man known as Sam White.