An elderly fellow in a flat cap and lightweight jacket sat with his head in his hands on the curb of a street that adjoined the crash scene, his black-and-white cocker spaniel at his side.
"Are you all right, sir?" I asked, crouching next to him. He looked up, dazed, shaking his head.
"Were you on the train?"
He shook his head, slack-jawed. "No, oh my, no. I live just a block from here. I was walking Bogart." He motioned toward the tail-wagging dog, which seemed unconcerned about the frenetic activity swirling around him. "We always take our walk at the same time every afternoon. I like to watch the trains come through, and so does Bogart. But today…"
"So you saw what happened then?"
"It was like watching the end of the world."
"I'm a reporter with the Tribune," I told him, gesturing to the press card in my hatband and pulling out my notebook. "Tell me what you saw."
He looked down at the pavement. "It was different today," he muttered. "For some reason, a train was stopped on the tracks, and these limiteds don't usually stop in Naperville. This is mainly a commuter train station. There musta been some sort of signal problem. Me and Bogart, we didn't think nothing of it. Then we could hear this other train a'coming. Sounded like it was moving awful fast, but there's three tracks here, and I figured it must have been on another track."
"But it wasn't."
Still looking down, he shook his head vigorously. "No, sir. It started blowing its horn, and then you could hear all this hissing and screeching…the brakes, I suppose. And then…it was like a sound I never heard before. A lot of sounds, really–a sort of squealing, this was probably the brakes and the wheels and all the steel smashing together, and then the breaking glass. I had to put my hands over my ears, and Bogart was barking and whining and all." He hugged himself and groaned at the memory.
"And you watched it?"
He let out perhaps the saddest sigh I've ever heard. "The engine, it just…it just ripped into the back end of the stalled train and tore it apart, like it was some kind of giant can opener. When the awful noise stopped, then… then it was even worse. You could hear all the screaming.
"Oh, my God, it was terrible. All those poor people." He started sobbing, and his faithful dog nuzzled his cheek with its nose.
I had scribbled down his narrative, and I got his name and age, which was seventy-eight. I could only hope that after this experience, he would make it to seventy-nine. As I walked away, he was still on the curb, sniffling and rocking, and cradling Bogart in his lap.
I walked on along the tracks to the west, passing cops barking orders, firemen and flashing lights, and ambulances. Farther from the point of impact, the cars of the front train didn't seem as badly damaged, but that may have been deceptive, given that when the crash occurred, passengers all through each of the two trains surely were thrown around like rag dolls and ended up bouncing off the walls, floors, and maybe even the ceilings.
I came upon a grandmotherly woman in a brown dress who was wringing her hands and crying softly. A small brown suitcase rested on the ground at her feet. "Are you hurt?" I asked, gently clasping her arm.
"Oh, no, no, thank you, I'm all right. Just shaken up," she said weakly, looking up at me through rimless glasses and trying without success to force a smile.
"You were on the train?"
"On the Advance Flyer, yes, sir. I was walking along the aisle and got knocked down onto the floor, bumped my head, but it's not bad," she told me, indicating a small bruise on her forehead.
"I was one of the lucky ones, maybe because I was toward the front of the train. Although the woman in the seat in front of me, who was riding on to Denver, I'm afraid she might be… But right now, I'm very worried about my sister."
"You mean she's still in there?" I said excitedly, pointing to the train.
"Oh no, she's out in Omaha where we live, expecting me home tonight. But when she goes down to the station there to meet me, she'll find out about the wreck and will be terrified about what happened to me."
"Why don't you just telephone her?"
"Where would I do that?"
"Come with me," I said, taking her by the hand and leading her toward the red brick Naperville depot. Inside, three people were lined up to use the lone pay telephone in the waiting room. The woman at the phone was yelling into the mouthpiece that she was stranded. "Yes, yes, a crash–dead people all over the place! I'm in–what's this town?" she asked the man behind her in line, who told her. "I'm in a place called Naperville, somewhere west of Chicago. I'm in their station. What? Yes, I'll wait here…You'll drive? How long? Three hours?" She sighed. "Well, all right, if I have to, I just have to. I'll be right here then, on one of these hard wooden benches. Where else am I going to go? What choice do I have?"
The other calls were in a similar vein, including one from a woman who was asking a neighbor to check on her cat. "She'll be expecting me," the woman said of her pet. "She won't know what to think."
Finally, the little lady from Omaha had her turn at the instrument. "Oh, dear," she said, fishing in her purse. "I don't believe that I have enough quarters."
"Don't worry, I've got a pocket full of them," I assured her. She hooked up with the long-distance operator, and together we fed the requisite amount of silver into the slot. She reached her sister and filled her in on the situation.
"Well, I do feel better now," she said after hanging up. "Thank you so much for all of your help. Now I'll have to figure out where I'm going to stay tonight."
"I noticed a Red Cross truck just outside," I answered. "They probably can help you. I'm sure there must be some hotels nearby, maybe in Aurora, which is only a few miles west of here. The Red Cross people should be able to provide transportation for you. There are going to be a lot of folks in the same predicament as you, and with a little luck you can probably get a train to Omaha sometime tomorrow, assuming they get these tracks cleared."
I tried to press a few dollars on her, but she refused politely, thanking me again and giving me a hug. I went outside into the pandemonium to find more eyewitness accounts from other passengers and onlookers.
After I had gotten a few more quotes, I phoned the city desk from the depot's pay phone and dictated my piece to Williamson, one of our rewrite men. It ended up running on Page 3 along with the continuation of Phillips' headline story.
* * *
It was long after dark when Lido dropped me off at home. He'd already sent several rolls of film back to the office with a courier that the paper had hired. I had called Catherine to let her know where I was, and she held dinner for me.
"You got a call from a Marge Blazek," she said as we sat down at the table. "Said you should call her tomorrow at the store where she works. She's the one from that tavern that you mentioned, right?"
"Yep. As I told you before, she and Edwina apparently got pretty chummy from hanging out in Horvath's."
"But from what you said, it seems like it was Edwina who was getting all the attention from the men in there."
"True. Which is interesting, because I would say Marge is at least as attractive as Edwina, maybe more so."
"Really?" Catherine said, raising one eyebrow.
"Don't you go getting any ideas," I said, grinning and holding up a hand. "My interest is purely professional, or I guess I should say familial. It's with her help that I hope to get Cousin Charlie off the hook and out of the clink.
"As for why Marge didn't have the boys at Horvath's falling all over her, I think it's because she's still mourning her husband's death, and it shows. She's got this aura of sadness about her, I guess you'd call it. Anyway, from what she told me, she's not ready to start dating anybody yet. It's been less than two years since D-Day."
"Uh-huh," Catherine said. "Back to Charlie. Has that hotshot
LaSalle Street lawyer you got been any help?" "McCafferty? Not so far, but then he's not getting a lot of cooperation from my dear cousin. It seems like Charlie has just given up and doesn'
t give a rap about what happens to him."
"He probably never was what you'd term a dynamo," Catherine observed. "I don't know him all that well, of course, but from what I've seen, he seems very passive, letting himself be swept along by circumstances rather than taking any kind of a positive stance in his life."
"True. He has always been that way, as long as I've known him. Probably goes back to that domineering mother of his. She ran the poor guy's life, as well as his father's."
"Well, he had darn well better get himself some gumption now," she said heatedly. "If he doesn't cooperate with that lawyer you hired, he'll likely be finished–really finished. From what you've said, it sounds like he still idealizes Edwina, despite the way she treated him."
"I'm not sure about that, but I've said a little myself to McCafferty about what she was like. Remember this: If Edwina gets painted in a really negative light, particularly as to how she treated Charlie, it will have the effect of fueling the state's case against him. As in, 'long-suffering husband finally reacts violently against wife who constantly nagged and carped at him.'"
Catherine nodded thoughtfully. "That's a good point, Steve. How bad do you think it is for Charlie?"
"Really, really bad. He has absolutely no alibi, other than 'I was on my way home from work.' There were no fingerprints on the knife, which means nothing in itself because whoever did the stabbing would have wiped it clean. And the only prints the cops found anywhere else in the apartment were Charlie's and Edwina's. So the only evidence is circumstantial, but that's the case in a lot of crimes where there's a guilty verdict."
"So you're left to find another candidate?"
"That's pretty much the situation, and I have to keep at it with these guys at Horvath's. They're the only hope, as far as I can see right now."
Catherine reached across the table and put a slender hand on my arm, squeezing it affectionately. "Please, please, be careful. You don't know what you're playing with here."
"You're right, but I'd hate myself if I didn't do everything I could to help Charlie. As we both are all too aware, he doesn't seem to be capable of helping himself."
CHAPTER 14
The first thing I did in the pressroom at Headquarters Tuesday morning was to call Marge Blazek at the dress shop.
"I thought I would hear from you yesterday," she said, sounding puzzled.
"You would have, except that I got called away to cover that train collision out in Naperville."
"Oh yes, they were talking about the wreck at Horvath's last night, and I heard more about it on the radio this morning. So many people killed."
"Yeah, it was truly dreadful. Like nothing I've ever seen before, or ever want to see again."
"Do you think that they suffered a lot–the ones who died?"
"Most of them probably didn't feel much, it all happened so quickly," I said, if only to make both of us feel better.
"Well, that's good anyway. Trains have always sort of scared me. Are you coming to Horvath's tonight?"
"Yes. You'll be there?"
"Like before, I'll wait across the street and let you know which ones are inside."
"Is it really necessary to go through this elaborate charade?"
"These are…my friends. At least all but one of them is. And I don't want them to know I'm being–I don't know, disloyal, I suppose."
"But after all, to do otherwise would be disloyal to Edwina and her memory, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, but I just don't want to be in there when you're questioning these guys. Hey, I never asked you how it went with Ben Barnstable."
"Okay. He seems like a good guy, very open. You don't have to be with him very long to see that he had it bad for Edwina."
"I know. They all did, every one of them. And Ben is an especially nice guy."
We set seven-thirty once again as the time to meet. It was a few minutes before that when I pulled the coupe up to the curb across the street from Horvath's. Like before, Marge was waiting under the streetlight, her head wrapped in a blue babushka. I felt like I was an actor in a Grade B espionage film. All we needed was fog swirling around the streetlight and church bells tolling the hour.
"Aren't the folks in there getting suspicious of the way you come in for a little while and then duck out for the rest of the evening?" I asked.
"Not really. Like any bar, people are always coming and going. Nobody pays much attention to who's there and who isn't at any given time."
"Who's in there tonight?"
"Ben Barnstable again, but you've already talked to him. And Karl Voyczek."
"The one who works over at Western Electric and is always grumbling about something or other, right?"
"That's one way to describe him," she said with a tight smile. "He's there right now, sitting at the bar by himself as usual. He's husky, has dark hair cut short, and is wearing a black leather jacket. I talked to him a few minutes ago, and he was in his usual mood. Griping about the weather just as I left."
"Okay, I think I'll do some griping of my own," I said. I crossed the street and entered a joint that was becoming all too familiar to me. Two or three of the denizens turned as I walked in, and Ben Barnstable grinned, nodding his recognition. Voyczek was hunched over the bar, an empty stool on either side of him. Clearly, he was not the most popular joe in the place.
"Mind if I sit here, or are you saving it for someone?" I asked him.
He threw a scowl in my direction. "Like they say, it's a free country," he muttered. "Suit yourself."
"And a damned messed up country, too," I countered in my crabbiest tone, signaling Maury and ordering a Schlitz on tap. "Government's all screwed up. And they're treating the returning servicemen like dirt, if you ask me."
Voyczek shot me a brief glance but said nothing, turning back to his own beer, Blue Ribbon from a bottle.
I went on. "Then there's Truman, who's supposed to be such a great friend of labor. Hah, that's a joke! If he's such a big buddy of the workingman, why are there so many strikes right now? Steel, meatpacking, the glass industry, and so forth. Everywhere you look. And the miners figure to be next, the way that bushy eyebrowed union boss of theirs, John L. Lewis, is acting. Why isn't the White House standing up for the unions and helping them get what they're asking?" I was on a roll.
"These are the same people who worked their fannies off in the plants and mills during the war so that our soldiers and sailors and marines could have what they needed to beat the Japs and the Krauts. And this is the thanks they get from their government.
"You know what our President said the other day? Claimed the big unions have too much power." (I neglected to mention that, in the same quote, Truman said that big business had too much power as well.) "Yeah, it's a messed up country right now," I snarled, taking a healthy swig of Schlitz and then lighting a Lucky.
"Damn right," Voyczek said, turning back toward me and nodding vigorously. He had a broad, high-cheeked Slavic face and squinty eyes with pupils that seemed as black as his hair. He looked more like a boxer than Ben Barnstable did. I put him at about forty, which would make him three years younger than me.
"You seem like somebody who knows what I'm talking about," I said with an approving nod.
"I know what it's like to be screwed around with," he growled. "I was an assistant foreman for awhile, but the brass took that away from me, because I fought for the guys on the line. They didn't like that, the bastards."
"Where do you work?"
"Western Electric. Hawthorne Works. Cicero."
"That's one big plant."
"Yeah. Too damn big, if you ask me. You can get lost in the place, in more ways than one."
"Ever thought about going someplace else?"
Voyczek drank beer and stared at the liquor bottles lining the mirrored back bar. "Christ, I'd have to start over then. Besides, with all those veterans coming back now, the market is tight, really tight."
"Well, it could be worse. You could be one of those poor guys coming back from t
he war without a job–or a home. I read that there's thousands of them getting mustered out who have no place to live in this town. There's even been talk of hauling old streetcars out of the scrap yard and turning them into homes for the GIs. Imagine having to live in a rusty old red rattler. That's a real crime."
He shook his head. "Pathetic."
"I agree. I suppose I should introduce myself. Steve Malek."
"Karl Voyczek. Say, I never seen you around here before, have I?"
"I been in a few times, must have been nights you were someplace else. Maury, how about a couple more for us?" I yelled down the bar. If looks could kill, the bartender's glare would have struck me stone dead on the spot, but he managed to contain himself and placed our respective brands in front of us. "This one's on me," I said.
Voyczek started to object. "Hey, there's no need to do–"
I waved his objection aside. "Happy to buy one for a fellow workingman. You were as important to the war effort as our boys in Europe and the Pacific."
He clearly was not the talkative type, but my comment all but demanded a question from him. It came.
"What do you do for a living?" he asked.
"I'm sort of like an insurance investigator."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Which company?"
"Freelance."
"So you try to keep people from collecting what they're entitled to, huh?"
"Not really. I'd say that at least half the time, the policyholders get exactly what they asked for," I improvised.
He grunted, which I took to be agreement. It was time for me to shift gears.
"Did you know that murdered woman, the one that used to come in here?"
"Why are you askin'? Because of some life insurance policy on her?"
"No, not at all. My interest here is entirely different. So, you knew her?"
Voyczek took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly. "Yeah. I did."
"So did I. In fact, we were actually related. She was my first cousin's wife."
A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 10