Terror at the Fair

Chapter Twenty-Three

Days went by with no word from Pickles, but I was hardly surprised. I had given him a near-impossible task, one not likely to smoke out “Samuel White.” On a positive note, days also went by without another violent death on the fairgrounds.

I continued to dig up feature stories at the fair, with more than a little help from Fred Metzger and his eager-to-please intern, Rob Taylor. The two of them kept the master schedule of visiting dignitaries and gave me first crack at these so-called luminaries before alerting other newspapers, first the Chicago dailies, then papers in nearby cities like Milwaukee, Springfield, Rockford, Gary, and Aurora.

The folks I did stories on included a U.S. senator from Kansas (blowhard), a way-over-the-hill Hollywood leading man whose principal claim to fame was seven marriages (egomaniac), a family of Austrian acrobats who performed in the Special Events Arena on the lakefront (difficult to communicate with), and a fifty-seven-year-old farmer (aw-shucks homespun variety) who had ridden a bicycle to the fair all the way from his hometown of Klamath Falls, Oregon, “because I love trains. After all this darn pedaling, I’m going to ride one all the way back home. As for my bicycle, it can ride in the baggage car while I eat steaks and drink good wine in the diner.”

At about the time I had gotten my fill of grinding out pieces with all the substance of cotton candy, a legitimate personality loomed on the fair’s horizon.

“It is official,” Fred Metzger said as he toddled into the pressroom one Monday morning, followed by Rob. “Walt Disney himself is en route to Chicago on the Super Chief from California and will be arriving here tomorrow afternoon. According to the schedule we received from his studio, he will be at the fair all day Wednesday, and maybe Thursday, as well. He is traveling with one of his movie animators, a fellow named Kimball, who I understand to be famous in his own right.”

“I seem to recall that way back when I first arrived here, you promised me the first opportunity to interview the legendary Mr. Disney,” I told Metzger.

“Yes, I did, and it still holds,” he bubbled. “After all, you are the only full-time reporter here, and you are most definitely entitled to first crack. I thought maybe we could set up a lunch for you and Mr. Disney, and perhaps his sidekick as well. I would suggest the Chessie Club, which is the best restaurant on the grounds. But please don’t quote me—I can’t show even the least little bit of favoritism, and of course there are a lot of excellent eating places at the fair.”

“Of course there are. Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”

“Good, good. I’ll be happy to make a reservation for Wednesday. Okay with you?”

“Hey, if it’s okay with the one and only Walt Disney, then I’d have to say it’s certainly fine by me as well,” I told him.

At noon on Wednesday, I sat at a table for four in the elegant dining car operated by the Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad and named for “Chessie,” a cat used in the line’s advertising. I had been there about five minutes when the white-jacketed steward brought two men over to me.

“Hi, I’m Walt Disney,” said a smiling, dark-haired man in his forties who might have passed for an aging matinee idol, with his slicked-back dark hair, thin mustache, and chiseled profile. We shook hands as he gestured to his companion.

“This, Mr. Malek, is the great Ward Kimball, beyond question the finest, most creative animator in our business. Without Ward, there would have been no Pinocchio, no Dumbo or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, or... well, I believe you get the idea. The man is an unquestioned genius, the likes of which the motion picture world will never again see.”

Kimball, a full-faced fellow who I soon learned wore a perpetual grin, reddened slightly at the praise from his boss but made no effort to contradict him.

“Please sit down, both of you,” I said. “This is, so I have been told, the best dining spot at the fair, although I have not tried it yet.”

“Seems nice to me,” Disney said, nodding and looking around. “So, Mr. Malek, I understand you are a reporter with the Chicago Tribune.”

“Guilty as charged,” I replied as a waiter took our cocktail orders.

“Well, I grew up on the Tribune,” he said. “As you may know, I spent a lot of time in Chicago in my early years.”

“He sure did,” Kimball chimed in. “After we left the fair last night, I wanted to visit some of your great jazz clubs, but Walt here insisted on showing me the Elevated lines he rode way back when, including the station near his home where he boarded the trains.”

Disney chuckled. “Yes, I’m afraid I took him away from his beloved jazz. But for all of Ward’s complaining, he really didn’t mind all that much. He’s a railroad buff, like me.”

“On the subject of trains, how are both of you enjoying the fair?”

Disney started to reply but Kimball waved him off. “Let me tell you, Walt has been in hog heaven ever since we got here. They even let him drive one of the oldest locomotives in the pageant this morning. They dressed him up in a frock coat and a top hat and away he went. He looked like he fit right in!”

“Ward’s been having just as much fun as me, and they dressed him up in period clothes, too,” Disney said as I scribbled some notes. “He loves trains so much he’s got an outdoor railroad running all around his property back home in California, and it has inspired me to build one, too, as soon as I can talk my wife into the idea.”

“So of course with your interest in railroading, you came into town on the train, right?”

“Did we ever,” Kimball said. “In adjoining drawing rooms on the Super Chief, no less. Talk about luxury; those Santa Fe folks really gave us the royal treatment. We even got to ride up front in the engine for a while and Walt pulled on the whistle cord several times going across the desert. When we got back to our car, he just sat staring off into space. I’ve never seen him look so happy.”

Our drinks arrived, and both Disney and I lit cigarettes, he a Philip Morris and me a Lucky Strike. Kimball shot a disapproving look at his boss, then at me, but he said nothing.

During drinks and our meal, Disney peppered me with questions about Chicago—its politics, its sports teams, and even the Dearborn Street subway, currently under construction. I gave him my thoughts, for what they were worth.

“Do you feel the city is getting rid of its reputation as a crime capital?”

“Maybe to a degree,” I said, “although the Syndicate’s still a force, no question.”

He looked thoughtful. “We understand there’s been some bad trouble right here on the grounds.”

“Yes, three deaths.” I proceeded to tell them about the circumstances and details of all three. “I can’t see any connection among them whatever,” I said as Disney torched another Philip Morris. “There’s no evidence the same person was involved in each of them. It’s a puzzler.”

The filmmaker pursed his lips as if in deep thought, remaining silent for half a minute. “If I were to hazard a guess,” he finally said, “it would be one individual is somehow behind all of this mischief. And that individual has a grudge—clearly a most intense one—against railroads.”

“You mean railroads in general?”

“I’m not about to trust my guess that far,” Disney said, “but it’s certainly possible. One death at the Rio Grande exhibit, another at the Illinois Central area, and the shooting at the pageant, where all sorts of railroads are represented.”

“Well, one thing is certain,” I said. “The people running this show are jumpier than a circus clown on a pogo stick, and with good reason. But enough of this grim news. I’m supposed to be doing a feature on you for the paper. I think it’s fair to say you’re enjoying your visit, right?”

“Immensely,” the filmmaker said, causing people at nearby tables to turn and look our way. “As Ward told you, these fine folks have pretty much given us the run of the place. I was delighted when they let me drive one engine—the DeWitt Clinton, it’s called. Dates way back to the 1830s, so they said. And this is the original train from those days, not a replica like some of the others in the pageant. I found it surprising just how easy the contraption was to operate.”

“What he’s really saying,” Kimball put in with a wink, “is he didn’t derail the darn thing.”

“After your visit here, will you be heading back to Hollywood?”

“Not right away. We’re going to swing by Henry Ford’s Greenfield Village over in Michigan. I’ve got an idea, Mr. Malek, for a sort of amusement park, something that’s never been done before.”

“Oh, no, don’t get him started on this,” Ward Kimball said with a laugh.

“No, please, go on,” I insisted.

Disney got a dreamy look in his eyes. “These last two days have really helped me decide what I’d like to do. I want to build a new type of park for... well, for kids. Although something adults will enjoy, too. Seeing all these different ‘villages’ at the fair—a New Orleans neighborhood, an Indian pueblo, a Florida setting, a Wild West town—has really spurred me to get started on this. And maybe I can get some more ideas at Greenfield Village.”

“Sounds pretty ambitious,” I observed.

“Ambitious, yes, it is,” he said, nodding. “But it could be great fun, too. Like here, there would be trains. I could see us having one like the old-time western Gold Gulch Central Railroad you’ve got. I’d also like to have a Main Street with an open-air trolley car. I can picture train rides of one kind and another all over the place in my new park.”

“I warned you not to get him wound up,” Kimball said, grinning and wagging an index finger at me. “All the way here on the Super Chief, he talked about a park, and I’m sure he’ll also be talking about it all the way back to the West Coast, as well. But that’s okay; I’m a good listener. Also, he is my boss.”

After lunch, Phil Muller met us outside the Chessie Club dining car and took some photos of Disney and Kimball. I shook hands with both of them and went back to the pressroom to crank out my feature story on their visit.

I touched on Walt Disney’s Chicago roots, then concentrated on his and Kimball’s love of trains and their activities at the fair, particularly Disney’s turn at driving locomotives across the stage in the pageant.

I did not, however, write about his idea for an amusement park. It was clearly a wacky pipe dream floating around in the hyperactive mind of a man who should stick to making animated films.