Terror at the Fair

Chapter Forty-Nine

I now had become a man without an assignment—and very possibly without employment of any sort whatever. The Monday morning following the wedding, I ventured to Tribune Tower at the request of Managing Editor J. Loy (Pat) Maloney, reasonably certain I would receive my walking papers from him.

Maloney was on the phone when I got to the paper’s imposing two-story local room. He indicated with hand gestures that he would be tied up for a while. While waiting, I shot the breeze with Hal Murray and also with Eddie Williamson, the ace rewrite men to whom I had dictated so many stories from the railroad fair in recent days.

I then plopped down just outside Maloney’s glassed-in office for what seemed like an hour but was probably closer to twenty minutes. He finally cradled his receiver and beckoned me in with a wave of an arm.

“Mr. Malek,” he said as I parked myself in a guest chair, “sorry for the delay, but Colonel McCormick’s calls take precedence, as you know. Well, you’ve had yourself quite a summer out there at the fair, haven’t you? Not exactly what any of us had bargained for, wouldn’t you say?”

“I certainly would.”

“You did a fine job, though, a fine job. Mr. Murray sang your praises to me on more than one occasion. And you are of course aware he doesn’t hand out kudos willy-nilly, that is not his style. So the assignment turned out to be quite a success, especially given that you were not exactly eager to take it on.”

“To be honest, no sir, I wasn’t, as you could probably tell when the subject first came up.”

“I would expect nothing less than honesty from you, Mr. Malek. And you would expect nothing less than honesty from me, correct?”

“That’s right,” I said, sucking in air. Here comes the hammer, I thought. Time to learn a new trade, if that was possible at my age.

Maloney leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, for him a characteristic pose, especially when he made a pronouncement. “Mr. Murray and I talked about you earlier this morning. It is his firm belief, and I highly esteem his judgment, that you can be of the most value to the Tribune at Police Headquarters. Do I gather you concur?”

I must have let out a cubic yard of air out before answering. “You gather right, sir.”

“Good, good. I’m happy to hear it. Then we are of one mind.”

“What about Westcott?”

Maloney smiled. “I thought you would probably ask, as you have always been known for your interest in the welfare of your colleagues. You’ll be interested to learn Mr. Westcott is going back to general assignment reporting.”

“Is he okay with that?”

“He is indeed. I know you had a vacation last week. Something about a wedding, as I recall. I trust the happy occasion went well.”

“Yes, it did,” I replied in a raspy voice. “I now have a wonderful daughter-in-law.”

“Good, I’m so glad to hear it. Would you be able to report at Police Headquarters on... oh, let’s say, next Monday?”

“I will report there whenever you tell me to, Mr. Maloney.”

“Then next Monday it is,” he said with a disarming smile, standing and pumping my hand. “Oh, and Mr. Malek?”

“Yes sir?”

“When you are back on the job at Headquarters, please give my warmest regards to Chief Fahey. Our paths crossed many times years ago, when he was a much-decorated sergeant and I toiled as a young police reporter.”

“I will, sir,” I said.

One week later, I walked into the pressroom at Headquarters and received... a standing ovation!

“We heard a rumor you were coming back, Snap,” Packy Farmer said, “but we weren’t going to believe it until you walked through the doorway. Westcott wouldn’t tell us a damned word about it, but a funny thing happened here last Wednesday, didn’t it, Dirk?”

“Yeah,” O’Farrell said, “except it was Thursday. I headed out to lunch, and down in the lobby I ran into Fahey’s cute little secretary, Elsie. She smiled at me and said, ‘Well, I guess you’ll all be happy with the change in the pressroom next week, won’t you?’

“When I looked puzzled, she said something like, ‘Oops, I guess maybe I talked out of turn, didn’t I? Please ignore what I said.’

“Just what do you make of that, Snap?” O’Farrell asked.

“I don’t know, but it sounds like I was just about the last one to know what’s been going on here lately.”

“Well, with you back in harness now,” Anson Masters said after clearing his throat, “maybe the rest of us will have a better idea of what’s going on down in the Detective Bureau. To say the least, we did not get particularly well served by your replacement, Mr. Westcott.”

“So I have been led to believe.”

“Well, enough of the raillery,” Masters said. “It’s time for all of us to get to our beats.”

I walked down the one flight to Fergus Fahey’s office, where I was greeted by Elsie Dugo Cascio’s dazzling smile. “Welcome back—for good, I trust,” she said, squeezing me. “At the risk of being seen as forward, I must tell you that you have been missed!”

“Thank you. I missed you as well. I do have a question, though.”

“I’ll see if I have an answer.”

“By any chance, did your esteemed boss at any time in the last several days make a call to, or receive one from, Mr. J. Loy (Pat) Maloney, the esteemed managing editor of the Chicago Tribune?”

Elsie pouted. “You know very well I’m not at liberty to answer the question. You will have to ask him yourself.”

“I will do just that,” I said, pulling a new pack of Lucky Strikes out of my suit jacket pocket as I swung open the door to the office of Chief of Detectives Fergus Sean Fahey.