Three Strikes You're Dead

Chapter 10

By the time my frustration at Daley’s reticence had abated, I was back at my desk in the Headquarters pressroom. After exchanging jibes with Eddie Metz and staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, I put in a call to Ruby Ryan, who had worked the switchboard at the City News Bureau since sometime back in the ’20s.

“Stevie, how you doin’?” she effused. It had been a decade since I left City News for the Trib, yet she still remembered me. But then, it was said that Ruby Ryan remembered everybody who’s passed through City News, which meant most of the reporters on the Chicago dailies, plus scores of others on papers from Savannah to Sioux Falls to Sacramento.

“I’m one step ahead of my creditors and a half-step ahead of the law,” I cracked. “Ruby, is ‘Steel Trap’ Bascomb still among us?”

“Well, yes, but not in very good shape nowadays,” she said in a stage whisper. Ruby liked sounding conspiratorial. “He’s slipped a lot the last couple of years, so I hear tell. His Sylvia died three, maybe four years back now, but he still lives in the same house he always has, out in Oak Park. His daughter’s moved in with him — she’s divorced — and she looks after him. She’s swell, a real peach.”

“Got the number?” I asked, knowing the answer. Ruby was a repository for hundreds of phone numbers — many of them in her head.

“Of course, Stevie,” she said, reeling it off without pause. “But be prepared; I’m told that Lemuel’s gotten pretty senile, poor guy.” I thanked her and promised that I would drop by the office sometime soon and say hello, which both of us knew was unlikely.

Lem “Steel Trap” Bascomb was a top-drawer reporter who had covered the Criminal Courts for City News from around the turn of the century until his retirement a half dozen years ago, and we’d worked together for several months in the early ’30s when I filled in for the Trib’s man on that beat. Steel Trap had been tagged with that moniker because of his remarkable ability to remember names, cases, and exact dates. How much of that once-fabled memory was left I now intended to discover.

The voice on the other end of the line was soft, almost childlike. I told her who I was, that I had known her father years before, and that I wanted to stop by for a visit with him.

“Daddy’s... well, not always too lucid,” she said apologetically. “He has his days, but also days that aren’t so good, and it’s hard to know how you’ll find him if you do come. What did you want to see him about?”

“I’m working on a story that has its origins in a case that happened a number of years ago. I think he might remember me, I hope he does. But even more, I was hoping he might be able to recall some of the details.”

“Well, I realize Daddy was known for his great memory, but I’m afraid you may be disappointed. However, today he’s been quite clear-headed.”

“Well, would it be convenient if I came by tonight?”

A pause. “Yes, I guess that would be fine. You’re welcome to have dinner with us, although it’s nothing fancy — just franks and beans. We usually eat about 5:30.”

“Thanks for the kind offer, but I couldn’t get there that soon from work, and I don’t want to upset your schedule, so I’d better pass on dinner. Would it be all right if I came at about 6:30?” She said it would and gave me the address.

I rode the Lake Street El west to beyond where the tracks drop down onto street level and got off at the Ridgeland Avenue station. Other than the day-long El ride Peter and I had taken, I’d only been in Oak Park once before, years ago, but I had a good map. I walked several blocks south along quiet, shaded streets lined with solid and substantial two-story houses of frame or stucco that were set well back from the sidewalk on neat, narrow lots.

My destination turned out to be one of the stucco numbers, white and fronted by an enclosed porch that ran the width of the house and had four lace-curtained windows on each side of its front door. I pushed the buzzer and heard nothing from within, but after a half-minute, the door opened inward to reveal a petite, auburn-haired woman of perhaps thirty-five with an oval face, brown eyes, ivory complexion, and a shy, tentative smile.

“Mr. Malek? Please come in,” she said, gracefully stepping aside.

I thanked her and mumbled something about not having asked her name when we were on the phone.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” she said with a pleasant laugh. “I should have introduced myself when you called; it’s my fault. I’m Catherine — Catherine Reed. I told Daddy you were coming, and it seemed to me that he showed some recognition of your name, although honestly, I couldn’t be sure.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t remember. We did only work together for a few months,” I said, following the small woman into the house and admiring her trim figure, which was modestly displayed in a blue, belted dress. We passed through a beamed-ceiling living room with dark walls, dark furniture, landscape paintings, and a brick fireplace, then turned left into an airy, cheerful little sitting room with yellow, flowered wallpaper.

In an easy chair next to a window with Venetian blinds sat a wizened, prow-jawed, and hollow-eyed man in bedroom slippers, baggy slacks, and a red flannel shirt buttoned at the top. He bore little more resemblance to the Steel Trap Bascomb of my memory than I did to Franklin Roosevelt.

“Daddy, here is Mr. Malek, from the Tribune,” Catherine said cheerfully. “He’s come here all the way from the city just to see you.”

Bascomb raised a gnarled hand and said something that sounded like “Hey” as I dropped into a straight-backed chair opposite him.

“You’re looking good, Steel Trap,” I lied. “It’s been a lot of years since I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah, lotta years, lotta years.” He ran a hand through sparse and unkempt dust-colored hair and raised the hand again, then let it drop limply into his lap.

“Mr. Malek, can I get you a cup of coffee?” Catherine asked from the doorway. “Daddy’s already had his.”

I said thanks, told her I took it black, and turned back to her father, who was looking straight ahead, unblinking. “Do you keep up with the news these days?” I asked.

That brought a nod. “News... lotsa news. See the papers. Trib... Examiner... Times... all of ’em.”

“Glad to hear it. You were always a better reporter than anybody on any of the dailies.”

He chuckled hoarsely, slapping a leg. “Damn right. Lazy sumbitches.”

“Did you read about Lloyd Martindale’s murder in February?”

“Marn’dale... yeah. Plugged in the pump.”

“Did you know him?”

He turned to me, squinting and cocking his head. “Rich father. Buncha steel mills.”

“That’s right,” I said, mildly encouraged by his recall. Catherine tiptoed in and set a cup of coffee on the small lamp table at my elbow. “Edgar Martindale was one of the richest men in town, maybe in the whole country,” I went on. “Do you remember whether his son was ever in any sort of trouble? A long time ago, that is?”

Steel Trap Bascomb screwed up his face and made clicking noises with his tongue. “Mmm... trouble...” He hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes, and formed a steeple with his hands.

“Daddy always does that when he’s trying to remember something,” Catherine murmured from the hallway, where she had remained standing. “It’s good for him to have someone ask him specifics — it forces him to make his mind work.”

I gave her a smile and drank coffee while Bascomb kept struggling to recapture some shard of recollection. “Ask him again,” Catherine prompted.

“Steel Trap, do you remember if Lloyd Martindale was ever arrested?”

He opened his eyes and his head jerked up and down, which I took to be a nod. “Sumbitch. Messed with kids... damn... with kids.”

My heart beat faster. “You mean that Lloyd Martindale was a child molester? Is that what you’re saying?” Catherine, still at the door, drew in air sharply, but I kept myself fixated on the old man.

“Sumbitch... bastard.”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And was he charged, Steel Trap? Did Lloyd Martindale get charged for what he did?”

He tried to laugh, but it came out a rasp. “Oh, nossir, no siree. Father’s money, lotsa money... no stories... no stories. No siree.”

“Do you know who any of these were—” now I was the one stumbling for words “any of these children were that he hurt?”

“Next door. Right...”

Steel Trap’s angular chin dipped and nudged his chest. He had run down like a music box at the end of its tune, and I didn’t have the key to wind him up again.

Neither, apparently, did Catherine. When I turned to her, she gave a shake of the head and beckoned me with an index finger.

I followed her into the living room, where we sat side by side on a davenport. “Mr. Malek, you won’t get any more from Daddy tonight, I’m afraid. As it is, you did very well — and I’ll say again what I said before: This was good for him, too.”

“You really believe that?”

“Absolutely. I know it probably didn’t seem that way to you, but I’m here with Daddy almost all the time, when I’m not at work, and he seemed very animated tonight, compared to the usual. Some days, he doesn’t speak ten words from morning till he goes to bed, just reads the papers — at least I guess he’s reading them — and stares at the walls or listens to the radio. Also, he loved being called ‘Steel Trap’ again — I could tell. You brought back some of his favorite times, back in the days when he felt he was somebody.”

“Well, he was somebody, maybe the best beat reporter this town’s ever seen, even though he wasn’t with one of the dailies. And to think that I almost didn’t use his old nickname because I felt I might be getting too familiar with him.”

She smiled. “Well, I’m awfully glad you did. And — oh! — that sounds terrible about Lloyd Martindale and what he did. I hope you don’t mind that I was eavesdropping.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Reed. Do you think your father might remember any more, later on?”

“You’re one step ahead of me,” Mr. Malek. “I was about to say that, if you have no objections, I’ll bring the subject up with Daddy again when I think the moment is right. His memory fades in and out, like that radio next to his chair.”

“I have no objection to anything except you calling me Mr. Malek. I answer to Steve.”

“And I am Catherine,” she responded, folding her hands in her lap in a gesture of finality.

“But not Cathy?”

She shook her head. “For some reason, I never liked Cathy, maybe because a fifth-grade teacher I couldn’t stand used to call me that. Mr. — Steve, if I can get Daddy talking about Lloyd Martindale again, what specifically do you want to know?”

“Names, of course — any names he can recall, either victims or police who might have been part of the investigations. And dates, or at least years, although I don’t expect your father to dredge those up from the recesses of his memory. Remember, all this probably happened well before we got into the World War.”

Catherine appeared thoughtful, her wide brown eyes casting around the room as if she were seeking inspiration. “When I read about the murder, I suppose I automatically assumed that Lloyd Martindale was killed by the crime syndicate. And the papers, your Tribune among them, certainly led us to think so, judging by what they wrote. But you truly believe it might have had something to do with some perversions, don’t you?”

“The thought has occurred to me. I probably shouldn’t object to the syndicate taking the rap here — God knows they’ve pulled off enough in the last twenty years that they didn’t get tagged with. But...”

“But your newspaperman’s curiosity gets in the way of that kind of thinking, doesn’t it?”

“Hey, spoken like the daughter of a reporter,” I told her.

That drew an almost gleeful laugh as Catherine clapped her hands. “Oh, when Mama was alive and I was in school, how both of us used to tease Daddy about how seriously he always took his work.” She became suddenly serious. “But it was a respectful sort of teasing... we really admired the way he dug into stories and ferreted out information.”

“With good reason... he was a bulldog,” I replied. “Is it true, as I’ve heard other reporters say, that he would come home after work, have a quick dinner, and then start calling police and other sources?”

She nodded. “Yes, it’s true; right here in this house. It used to drive my mother crazy that he’d stay on our telephone some nights until midnight or even later. Once he called the police commissioner at home and wouldn’t get off the line until he — the commissioner — gave Daddy some piece of information, I have no idea what it even was. Are you like that, Steve? Do you drive your family crazy, too? By always being on the job?” she asked good-naturedly.

“No, and no. First, I live alone — I’m divorced. So there’s nobody to drive crazy except myself. Second, I’m afraid I don’t have that same late-night zeal for the job that your father did.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Catherine said, putting fingers to her lips. “I didn’t mean to be nosy — about your private life, I mean. First I eavesdrop, then I pry.”

“No offense of any kind taken,” I laughed. “Honestly.”

“Thank you.” She laughed, too, self-consciously. “I guess I just don’t get enough practice with conversation these days. I’m divorced, too, by the way. I work four mornings a week at the Oak Park Public Library, where nobody — including the staff — says much. And when they do, it’s of course in whispers, or close to it. The rest of the time, I’m mostly here with Daddy, and you can see how hard it is to carry on an extended dialogue with him, poor dear.”

“True enough. Say, you can answer a question for me, Catherine. I’ve often wondered why your father always stayed with City News. He must have gotten offers from the dailies.”

“Oh, he did, yes he did!” she said, eyes now sparkling. “Several times. I remember Mama saying that the Examiner tried to hire him at least once, and so did the Evening Post, long gone now. And your Tribune did, too. He had actually worked on a paper, the Inter-Ocean, for a short time way back in the ’90s, I think, but he disliked one of the editors so much that he vowed he’d never work on another paper again. Said there was just too much office politics and favoritism, plus pressure from the advertising department to keep stories out of the paper that might reflect poorly on certain companies that advertised.”

“He may have a point there,” I said. “I didn’t really know your father all that well — as I alluded to earlier, we only worked out of the same pressroom at the Criminal Courts Building for a few months once, fairly near the end of his career — but I can tell you that he was respected, almost revered, really, by guys on every paper in this town, to say nothing of police and judges and lawyers. Nobody ever even referred to him by name — he was just Steel Trap. I doubt if most of them even knew his first name.”

“That means a lot coming from another newspaperman; thank you,” she said softly. I thought I saw a tear forming in a corner of her eye, so I looked away, concentrating on brushing nonexistent lint from a trouser leg.

After a pause, she went on. “I promise I’ll keep asking Daddy about Martindale. And Steve?”

“Yes?”

“Will you come to dinner soon? We can make it a little later to suit your schedule. I know that Daddy would really enjoy it.”

I said I would as I rose to leave. And I suppose I hoped it wasn’t only her father who would enjoy having me at the table.