Terror at the Fair

Chapter Thirty-Five

With the Phelps story behind me, I reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number. Elsie answered on the first ring, as usual, and put me straight through to Fergus Fahey.

“What now?” he asked in his familiar world-weary voice.

“Just checking in. I realize how much you miss me.”

“Miss you? How could I miss you? You’re on the blasted horn to me every time I take a deep breath or light a cigarette. It’s like you never left the building. Next thing, you’ll be showing up in my dreams—or should I say nightmares?”

“I notice you always manage to take my calls, though.”

“That’s because I’m terrified you’ve gotten yourself into another one of your patented jams and that we’ll have to get you out of it somehow.”

“Well, I admit I’m not completely jam-proof, but that’s not the reason for this call. I’m wondering whether you’ve gotten hold of the elusive Mr. Whitnauer yet.”

“Hell, no. We’ve had men, different men, visit that seedy bar in Uptown every night, and the bastard hasn’t shown up.”

“Maybe he’s been tipped off somehow and is lying low.”

“Or maybe this whole business is a wild goose chase, one you’ve helped get us into.”

“Maybe it is, but somebody is killing people out here, and it seems likely it’s the so-called Whitnauer. Unless, of course, you’ve got your eye on somebody else who you’re not bothering to tell me about.”

“As much as it might come as a shock, I don’t tell you everything I know. But in this case, we’re nowhere—off the record as usual, of course.”

“What next?”

“How in blazes do I know? Obviously, we’ll keep on trying to find this Whitnauer, if he’s even still in Chicago.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m pulling for you, Fergus.”

“Swell,” he said sourly. “That knowledge alone will keep me going.”

I replaced the receiver in its cradle, leaned back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and lit a Lucky Strike. I’d taken two puffs when the phone rang and I picked up the receiver without identifying myself.

“Mr. Steven Malek?” a female voice asked over static.

“Yes, speaking.”

“Long distance call, hold on please. I have your party, sir,” she said, obviously to the caller.

“Hello, am I talking to Mr. Steve Malek?” A voice crackled over the wires.

“You are indeed.”

“Walt Disney at this end. How are you, sir?”

“Fine, just fine, Mr. Disney. Good to hear from you.”

“Your Mr. Murray at the Tribune very kindly gave me this number. I am telephoning you for two reasons, first to thank you for that very gracious story in your newspaper about Ward Kimball and me at the Railroad Fair. Some old family friends in Chicago mailed me the clipping. It’s nice to be remembered in the town where one spent a lot of growing-up time.”

“It was my pleasure, both meeting you and writing the article, Mr. Disney.”

“Now, sir, the second reason for my call: I am extremely curious about what’s been happening at your fair since we left. On the way back to California on the Super Chief, I gave a great deal of thought to the deaths you’ve had there. Along, of course, with plans for the amusement park I told you about. Has there been any more trouble?”

“Sadly, yes.” I told him about the man found floating in the lake, Alec Cunningham, and how all indications pointed to murder.

“That so?” the filmmaker said. “I didn’t see anything about it in print out here, but then, I’m afraid our papers are notorious for being very parochial, very local in scope. May I assume no one is in custody?”

“You assume correctly. The police have a line on one man, but they have not been able to find him yet, at least as of yesterday.” I then went on to tell Disney my theory about how the Schneider saga of years ago might well be the genesis of what now is occurring at the fair.

“That’s very interesting, and it supports the original comment I made that these fairground deaths may have been because of a longstanding grudge held against a railroad or railroads. May I make a suggestion to you, Mr. Malek?”

“Please, by all means.”

“Let me preface it by saying I have been often accused—by Ward Kimball among many others—of having an overactive imagination. Ward says I am prone to ‘flights of fancy,’ as he calls them, so you may want to take what I say with the proverbial grain of salt.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Disney.”

“All right then, here we go. I’m sorry to say this, but it seems to me your man is almost sure to strike again. Do you happen to know the date when that accident happened, the one where those boys got killed?”

“No, but I can easily find out.”

“By all means I suggest you do so, as soon as possible. It is entirely possible your man will commit his biggest crime of all on the anniversary of that very day, if by some chance it happens to come during the run of the fair.”

“Hmm. As long as you are indulging in what Ward Kimball calls ‘flights of fancy’, do you have any suggestion as to what form the crime will take?”

“I have been thinking a good deal about that as well. If I really desired to create the maximum amount of havoc at your city’s wonderful homage to railroading, I would stage something truly spectacular, specifically a derailment.”

“Oh, you must mean on one of those historic trains that goes across the stage in the pageant?”

“No sir, I said a maximum amount of havoc, which means loss of life, possibly in sizeable numbers, Mr. Malek. Few people would likely be harmed if one of the slow-moving pageant locomotives left the rails.”

“True. I don’t know what that leaves then,” I told him.

“Of course you do—it’s obvious! The Deadwood Central Railroad, the wonderful frontier line running the full length of the fairgrounds, with those nineteenth-century Western steam locomotives and open-air passenger cars, cars with a lot of the visitors jammed into them. Just think what could happen if one of those trains left the rails and tipped over, or worse yet, rolled over.”

“With all due respect, that seems pretty far-fetched,” I said.

He chuckled. “Well, Mr. Malek, I warned you I’ve been accused of possessing an overactive imagination. It comes from helping to dream up those wild and wondrous movie plots, I suppose. Anyway, you can do with this as you please. I suppose the police would dismiss the theory out of hand.”

“Very possibly. But you’ve given me something to think about.”

“Good. I would be very pleased to learn from you how all of this plays out.”

“I will be sure to let you know, Mr. Disney. I really appreciate your interest.” He gave me his private telephone line at the studio.

Seconds after I hung up, I dialed the number of the Tribune’s morgue. Hazel answered.

“I have a small favor, oh blessed lady of the archives.”

“Fire away, buster.”

“Would you be so kind as to check one of those clips you pulled together for me? It’s the sad story about the three boys killed by a freight train on the South Side back in 1939. I need to know the exact date it happened. I should have written it down, of course, but I didn’t.”

“Well, shame on you,” Hazel chided. “I’ll be right with you.” She probably was gone no more than ninety seconds, but it seemed like a week before she came back on the line. “I’ve got it right here, Snap. August 4, 1939.”

Today was August 2nd.