Terror at the Fair

Chapter Twenty-Five

The next morning, I dropped into my desk chair in the fair’s pressroom and immediately dialed Fergus Fahey’s office. “Is he in his chambers this fine summer morning?” I asked Elsie.

“He is indeed, and in none too good a mood, I might add,” she said.

“Why should this day be different from any other? Think he’ll talk to me?”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t, but we won’t know until we try. Hold on.”

“Geez, you call so often it’s like you’re still working here,” the chief grumped when he came on the line.

“To think I felt you’d be just tickled to hear from me, Fergus. You know how I like to stay in touch with old friends.”

“Is that right? Well, it’s not hard to figure out why you’re really calling. I’m afraid I don’t have any news for you.”

“Ditto at this end. But I do have a couple of thoughts, if you’re interested.”

“I’m willing to listen to them, if only to show you just how bad off things are around here.”

“I’ll ignore that remark and plunge ahead. First, has anybody checked to see whether the actor who fired the shot and the actor who died had been competing for a role at some local theater?”

Fahey made a growling sound. “You’re suggesting somebody would kill over a part in a play? Snap, you’ve been reading too many detective magazines. Come back into the real world. Besides, how would that account for the other two deaths?”

“Okay, I’ll admit it seemed like a long shot, but any port in a storm, as they say. Next, what about the theory the killer is somebody who has a grudge against some railroad, or maybe against all railroads?”

“Now whose theory would this be?” the chief demanded.

“Nobody’s in particular, but what do you think about it?”

After a long pause, Fahey swore. “Okay, I admit I’ve played around with that theory, too, and I suppose it’s as good as anything else I’ve heard, although how in God’s name you’d ever locate somebody with such a grudge is beyond my simple mind. That last is off the record.”

“Of course it is. Your mind is a lot of things, but simple is not one of them. All right, I just wanted you to know I’m trying to help.”

“So noted. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a commissioner to meet with.”

Next I dialed Hazel, the longest-serving staffer in the Tribune reference room, or morgue, as it is widely known in our business. Each Christmastime, I give her a bottle of her favorite single-malt Scotch, an investment that has paid off many times over. And its cost is not hidden somewhere in my expense account, but comes directly out of my own battered billfold.

“Good morning, oh noble guardian of the archives,” I said when she answered. “I trust your day is going well.”

“I haven’t been here long enough this morning for things to be really screwed up yet, Snap. What can I do for you?”

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m looking for somebody who doesn’t like railroads.”

“Doesn’t like—oh, right, you’re out at the Railroad Fair this summer, aren’t you? I suppose this has something to do with all those croakings you’ve had, huh?”

“I’ve always liked your use of the vernacular, Hazel, m’dear. It’s so... so you.”

“Aw shucks, Snap, I’m just a simple country girl who got lured to the glamour of the big city from the farmlands of the great state of Nebraska. You can take the girl out of the boondocks, but you can’t… Well, you know the rest of the saying.”

“Right. Anyway, here’s what I’m looking for: railroad accidents, wrecks, mishaps with fatalities and/or controversy.”

“Just how far back would you like me to go, laddie?”

“Oh, say twenty years or so.”

“Also, are we confining ourselves to the Chicago area?”

“Not necessarily, but I think that’s where I’ll find what I’m looking for—if it’s even there at all.”

“I suppose you need the stuff sometime yesterday?” She sighed.

“Well, let’s just say the sooner the better.” I gave her my phone number at the fair.

“Only for you would I do this. I assume you’re going to swing by the Tower after I get stuff pulled together.”

“As usual, you assume correctly, Hazel. Have I told you lately what a gem you are?”

“Can the sweet talk, buster. I’m on the case for you, although heaven knows, it may take a while. I do have a few other duties around here from time to time, you know.”

“Ah, but you love these special assignments. They add spice to your day.”

“Your definition of ‘spice’ is interesting, Snap. Sometime, you ought to spend a few hours here diving into file drawers, poring through grubby envelopes, and pulling out yellowed clippings that look like they’re about to come apart in your hands. It’s really exciting, yes sir, it is.”

“Now, Hazel, there’s no call for you to get sarcastic. Consider you may very well be furthering the cause of justice.”

“I’ll hold the thought close to my heart. Sorry to cut this delightful conversation short, but I have those other duties I mentioned, strange as that may seem to you.”

I excused her with profound thanks and prepared for my next interview, with the man who operated the thirty-five-foot Paul Bunyan robot at the Chicago & North Western Railway exhibit.

The robot moved, shook hands, and talked about its exploits as a fabled lumberjack in the great northern forests of Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Upper Michigan, regions where the railroad operated. With the fair’s run not yet half over, I saw myself running out of story ideas.