A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  So here I was, back with the same crew that had been at Police Headquarters for a decade or longer–the aforementioned O'Farrell, Farmer, and Metz, plus Anson Masters of the Daily News.

  "While we are on the subject of war brides, Mr. Malek," rumbled Masters, the dean of this press room corps, "I recall that you told us that a cousin of yours had married one."

  "Ah, Anson, your memory still functions despite your advanced years," I told him. "Corporal Charlie Malek, late of our very own United States Army, has brought himself home a bride from England, name of Edwina. The couple is now ensconced in a four-room flat in that fine old Czech enclave of Pilsen, the very neighborhood where yours truly was himself born and reared."

  "And they are happy, I presume?" Masters asked, running a hand over his bald and freckled pate.

  "Moderately, as far as one can tell," I said, neglecting to mention that both Catherine and I had felt the tension between the couple on the two occasions we had been with them. In particular, Edwina had snapped at Charlie several times, usually because of his long working hours as a welder for the gas company.

  My cousin, a quiet sort–some might go so far as to call him humble–pointed out to her that if they were to buy a house in the suburbs, they needed the money his overtime work brought in for the down payment.

  "Well, Charles," she told him in a tone that seemed to be mimicking some British actress playing a duchess, "if having a house is more important to you than having a wife who is happy, then so be it. Sitting alone in an empty flat night after night is no lark for me, to that I can attest."

  After they had left our place in Oak Park that night following a chicken dinner, Catherine shook her head in bewilderment. "What do you think of her, Steve?" she asked as she washed, and I dried, the dishes.

  "The woman doesn't exactly hide her displeasure, does she? I wonder what kind of life she thought she was getting over here."

  "Obviously not the kind she's got now. Did you see a lot of others like her in England who were anxious to come to this country?"

  "Only one that I can recall offhand. I was in a pub near

  Russell Square in London one evening, standing alone at the bar with a pint, minding my own business. A little redhead, she couldn't have been more than five feet tall, was sitting with a girlfriend in a corner, bragging somewhat loudly about how she was going to be marrying this American pilot. 'We'll be living the high life,' she told her friend between puffs on a cigarette. 'His people, they're nobs, truly loaded. His Daddy owns some sort of business in Nebraska, what they call a drugstore over there, and I figure my Tommy will someday inherit it.'" "'You are very lucky,' her friend said with a combination of awe and envy in her voice.

  "The redhead nodded. 'I do feel fortunate,' she answered smugly. 'But don't you go fretting, dear; maybe you'll find yourself a nice, generous Yank, too. It's the only way to get out of this place, this life. I think we're all entitled to better times after what we've had to go through for these last six years.'"

  Catherine dried her hands on a dishtowel and shook her head again. "That sounds like it could have been Edwina talking," she murmured. "I wonder how life has turned out for that redhead, especially if she found out that her father-in-law is only a small-town corner druggist in a tiny burg, and her husband is his only employee in the store."

  "That's a very likely scenario," I agreed, "and the guy probably wants to spend the rest of his life in that little town smack in the middle of nowhere. Well, I don't blame these girls for wanting to come over here. Things are really tough in England right now–shortages of everything…food, clothes, housing, you name it. To say nothing of the bombed-out rubble and unexploded bombs, especially in London and the bigger industrial cities. It'll be years before they fully recover. I just hope things work themselves out between Charlie and Edwina."

  "I do, too," Catherine said, her voice lacking the same conviction mine did.

  CHAPTER 2

  I was surprised at how quickly I slipped back into the routine at Police Headquarters after being away for the better part of a year. Of course, some of it was that my colleagues from the other papers welcomed me back warmly–but not simply out of the kindness of their black hearts.

  Truth was, they needed me. In my previous years in the Headquarters pressroom, I had always covered the Detective Bureau at the request of my so-called competitors on the other dailies. Their reasoning was that, because the Tribune had the biggest news hole of any of the papers, I should be the one to have what was by far the most important beat in the building.

  More to the point, because we all shared each other's news anyway, making a joke of the term 'competitive journalism,' everything I gleaned in my daily forays to the office of the chief of detectives would soon be theirs as well. And they didn't have to work to get it.

  "Great to have you back, Snap," the Herald American's Packy Farmer said heartily on the morning of my return. "I'm sure you've got some great stories to tell."

  "Well, I–"

  "We'll want to hear those stories, of course," Farmer cut in, waving his cigarette, "but first to business. We've held open your old beat, of course. That clown, Mullaney, your bosses sent over here when you were away was totally worthless. He never spent more than a few minutes a day down in Fahey's office, and usually he didn't come back with crumbs." Farmer was referring to Chief of Detectives Fahey.

  "Sorry to hear Mullaney wasn't up to your high standards of journalistic excellence, Packy," I said, noticing for the first time that he'd aged in my relatively short absence. His once-coal-black, brilliantined hair, which he parted in the center, now had a liberal dose of gray, as did the pencil-thin moustache that gave him the appearance of a riverboat gambler. But who was I to talk? Just that morning, while shaving, I took note of the growing infestation of gray in my own nondescript brown hair.

  "Yeah, it's great to have you back, Malek," put in the lanky, lantern-jawed Dirk O'Farrell as he snapped his suspenders and lit up a Camel. "I second Packy's comment about Mullaney. I don't know what your bosses up in Tribune Tower could have been thinking when they sent that buzzard over here. He didn't seem to give a hoot about the job. Maybe he's better suited to writing press releases praising those leathery T-bones and filets at Leo's You-Pick-Em Steak Houses. By the way," Dirk went on, "this is the new City Press kid, Nick–don't know his last name."

  There was a sixth desk in the pressroom, which belonged to whoever was the current reporter for the City News Bureau of Chicago, commonly known as City Press. It was a local police and courts reporting service used by radio stations and also by the newspapers for those stories they deemed not important enough to cover with their own people. City Press was basically staffed by young reporters starting out in the business, most of whom were rotated in and out of beats.

  "Nice to meet you, Nick," I said, shaking hands with a short, stocky guy of about twenty-one with a blond crew cut and an earnest, open face. "Been here long?"

  "Started two weeks ago," he said. "I just got out of the army–served in Italy for almost three years." He went on to tell me he was entering college on the G.I. Bill and would be taking night classes in the fall at the newly created University of Illinois campus at Navy Pier that had quickly been dubbed "Harvard on the Rocks."

  "Well, good luck to you," I told him.

  "Thanks," he said with a lopsided smile. "I've heard lots of good things about you from these guys. By the way, if you don't mind my asking, why do they call you Snap?"

  "It's because he's addicted to snap-brim hats, like the one he wore in here this morning," Farmer drawled. "In your absence, we've filled Nick with all sorts of tales about what a bulldog you are, Snap. A credit to your profession, that's how we described you, proving that we can tell lies with the best of 'em. Hope you don't disappoint him, seeing that he's an impressionable lad and all."

  "All right, now that we've established how good it is to have our Mr. Malek back," Anson Masters rumbled, "let's not forget that we all have work to
do. Time to head for our beats."

  As the senior man in this pressroom, Masters invariably took it upon himself to call a halt to the morning coffee-and-cigarettes bull sessions, which usually lasted the opening half hour or so of the workday.

  On my first morning back, I walked down the well-worn single flight of marble steps to the office of the chief of detectives.

  "Remember me?" I said, bowing at the waist to Elsie Dugo, who was hammering away at her ancient Smith Corona in the cramped anteroom outside the chief's office.

  "Well, well, look who's come back from the wars," she cooed, clapping her hands and tilting her head. "I've always wanted to meet a foreign correspondent. This is so exciting. Where's your trench coat?"

  "Now, try to control yourself, little lady. It's nice to see you again, too. The rumor mill tells me you've up and gotten yourself married while I was out of the country."

  "'Tis true, sir," she chirped, waggling her ring finger at me so that the rock on it caught the light. "I knew you had done the very same thing yourself, so I thought, why not? Besides, a very fine gentleman by the name of Vincent Cascio swore that he couldn't live without me. So just what is a girl to do?"

  "Precisely what you did," I grinned. "But is this Mr. Cascio prepared to keep you in the manner to which you would like to become accustomed?"

  "How nice of you to inquire. The answer is yes, I believe he is. He's got a very good job with the Rock Island Railroad in their purchasing department. But I should ask you the same thing: Are you able to provide the new Mrs. Malek the kind of life that she surely deserves?"

  "A fair question. I will do my utmost, of course, but part of that means I must perform admirably in my chosen profession. Which also means I must have access on a regular basis, including today, to the gentleman who oversees the detective operation of this vast and far-flung law enforcement agency. Can you help me with that challenging endeavor?"

  "I will do my level best, as ever," she said with a wide smile, as she pushed the intercom button.

  "Yeah?" came the growl from within.

  "Old friend here to see you," she purred into the speaker.

  "Got no old friends. Got no new ones, either. Hard to make friends in this damn business. Send 'im in, whoever it is."

  I pushed through into the inner sanctum of Chief of Detectives Fergus Sean Fahey. "Nice to see you again, Fergus," I told him, tossing an unopened pack of Lucky Strikes onto his desk blotter.

  "Well, I will be damned…I will be God damned," he mouthed, leaning back in his chair. "There was talk that you were in the States, and that you might even get your old job back."

  "It's more than talk, Fergus. Here I am." I spread my arms wide and then dropped into one of his unmatched guest chairs. His desk was as I had last seen it…battered gunmetal gray, piled high with stacks of paper.

  "I suppose you want some coffee," Fahey snapped.

  "I thought you'd never offer. Is Elsie's brew still the best in the building?"

  "Need you even ask?" he responded, pushing the buzzer on his desk. Within seconds, Elsie Dugo Cascio tripped in and placed a steaming mug in front of me. I smiled my thanks and got one in return before she left, closing the door behind her.

  "One in a million," Fahey said. "I suppose you know she got married."

  "So I just learned from her. Do you approve?"

  "He's a damn good man from what I've seen of him. He'll take good care of her."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "I also understand via the grapevine that you've gone and gotten married yourself since the last time you were in here."

  I nodded. "Just a few days before I got sent to Europe."

  "Who's the–dare I say lucky–lady?"

  "Of course she's lucky, Fergus. Name's Catherine. I've known her for years. She's the daughter of the late 'Steel Trap' Bascomb, whom I'm sure you remember."

  "Damn right I do. He was one helluva reporter. I got to know him some way back when I was a patrolman working out of the Gresham District. I never understood why he stayed with City News all those years. He would've been the best police reporter on any of the dailies in this town."

  "I agree. I think it had something to do with newspaper politics, as in 'let's not do anything to upset our almighty advertisers'."

  "Huh! By the way, if you've known this Catherine for years, what took you so long, not that it's any of my business. You'd been divorced for what…ten years?"

  "Pretty close to that, Fergus. Good question. I don't really have a good answer. I should have asked her to marry me at least three or four years earlier. Maybe I was afraid she'd say no."

  Fahey nodded, ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and furrowed a ruddy brow. "Well, I suppose you're full of war stories. Do I have to listen to them?"

  "Not at all," I replied amiably. "Try not to think of me as a recently returned war correspondent. Think of me instead as an intrepid reporter ready and eager to jump back into the fray in this great metropolis."

  Fahey tore open the pack of Luckies and made a face. "Well, your stint as a correspondent hasn't toned down your language any. Actually, I'll probably regret these words in the none-too-distant future, but it's good to have you back."

  "What a nice thing to say, Fergus. I'm touched at that, I really am."

  "Well, don't put too fine a point on it," he muttered. He lighted up, then tossed the spent match into his ashtray. "Anything would be an improvement after that lackadaisical drip who took your place. He acted like he wished he was anyplace but here."

  "So I understand from the boys upstairs. Well, he got his wish. He's a PR flak now, trying to get publicity for a string of cheap steakhouses."

  Fahey nodded absently, and leaned back. "Yeah, maybe that will suit him better. He sure as hell wasn't cut out for this kind of work. He wandered in here every morning like he was in a trance, asked a few half-hearted questions about what was new, and then left. Masters and the others upstairs got so exasperated with him that they actually had to come down here themselves to find out what was going on."

  "Poor bastards, what they've had to go through in my absence," I said. "You know the problem, Fergus? It was that I'd spoiled the whole bunch of them. They got used to my handing them everything all tied up neatly with a bow."

  "Not that it means that much to me one way or the other, Snap, but that's what's wrong with your goddamn system," Fahey snarled. "You all share everything you get on your beats with each other. Whatever happened to those things that we used to call 'scoops' back in the old days?"

  "Point taken, Fergus. Afraid, like with your question about Catherine, I don't have a ready answer except to say that it's been that way as long as I can remember, although admittedly I don't go back as far as you do."

  "Well, I have to say that there are some equally nonsensical traditions in this department, but you can't quote me on that, of course."

  "As indeed I won't, of course. On to business. Catch me up on what's been happening."

  Fahey scowled. "Well, I suppose you know by now about that godawful Degnan murder. We're feeling a lot of heat on it and, as I'm sure you know, your own paper is offering ten grand for information about the killer." He was referring to the grisly murder and dismemberment of a six-year-old girl, in January.

  "Yes, I do know about it, probably more than I want to. Any developments?"

  He turned his palms up. "We keep hauling in suspects and following up leads, but so far, nothing. The Degnan killing is only part of it. We think the same guy also murdered two women last year. In the apartment of one of them, he wrote in lipstick on her mirror: 'For heaven's sake, catch me before I kill more.' We've got a madman on our hands, a real Jack the Ripper type. The whole city's up in arms about it."

  "Hard to blame them. I hope he gets nailed soon. Then I read where that bookie, Richmond, got blown away by a shotgun right in front of his own house on Independence Boulevard a couple of days ago."

  Fahey snorted and ground out his cigarette stub. "Well
, if you read the reports, one thing's sure–it wasn't a robbery. He had more than eighteen hundred bucks on him in fives and tens, and he was wearing two diamond rings. It's got to be a revenge thing. Off the record, he's no great loss to the community, but that doesn't mean we won't do everything we can to find the triggerman."

  "I would expect no less of you and your trusty legions, Fergus. Other than that, the unspeakable Degnan business, and the lipstick business, how are things generally?"

  He shrugged. "I'm getting too old for this, Snap. Mary and I have a little cottage up in Wisconsin, not all that far over the Illinois line, and it's looking better to me all the time. It's nothing fancy, mind you, given my salary, but it's a comfortable place. I do some fishing and a little golfing when we're up there, and a lot of just plain sitting around loafing. I'd like to be spending more than just a couple weeks in the summer and a few other weekends there."

  "You mean you're actually thinking of hanging it up? I can't imagine you dozing on the front porch of a log cabin tucked back in the woods someplace."

  "Try harder. I do, every blessed day."

  "Well, now that I'm back, maybe the job will become more stimulating for you."

  "I can't imagine how."

  Neither could I, but we both would soon find out.

  CHAPTER 3

  We had finished dinner and both were reading in the living room when the phone rang. Since I was nearer to the hallway where the instrument is kept, I got up to answer it.

  My first thought was that it was my son Peter, calling from Champaign. Some kind of trouble, maybe.

  It was trouble all right, but not Peter. "Stevie…Oh my God…Stevie!" The only person who called me that any more was my much-younger cousin Charlie, although I hardly recognized his voice, racked as it was with sobs and gasps.

  "Charlie, what is it? Are you all right?"