"He and Jones really wanted publicity in the Trib," Fahey told me when he called me at home to see how I was doing. "They wanted the notoriety. Call it hubris on their part. Jones pushed Becker into making those calls and writing those notes to you. But he, Jones, had made sure he was one step removed from the Reich…that is, until Becker squealed on him from his hospital bed. Turns out that four of the seven in the Reich were employees of Jones's operation, all of them working on the presses."
"No honor among thieves," I observed. "Jones must have been surprised when I showed up in his office to interview him about owning a Tucker automobile. To say nothing of how Becker must have felt when he found out what my name was from his boss."
"Yeah, some coincidence, huh?" Fahey observed.
"Why, Fergus, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you sound suspicious."
"It's my job to be suspicious, particularly of so-called coincidences."
"Fergus, I'd love to go on talking to you, but as you know, I'm recuperating, and I really shouldn't be on the phone for too long. I need to get back to my rocking chair in the den. Catherine will be coming in soon with my milk toast."
Fahey made a closing comment, but I'm not going to repeat it.
A few minutes later, the telephone rang again, and Catherine answered it. "It's Colonel McCormick," she said, cupping the mouthpiece and making a face indicating that her political leaning was one-hundred-eighty degrees from that of the Colonel.
Sure enough, the editor, publisher, and principal owner of the Chicago Tribune was on the line.
"Hello, sir," I said in a properly respectful tone.
"Hello, Mr. Malek. How are you feeling?"
"Much better today, sir. Thank you for taking the time to call."
"Thank you, Mr. Malek, for what you did the other evening. You risked your life for your president. You are a credit to this newspaper and to your country."
"Thank you, sir."
"I say that to you despite my personal feelings about Mr. Truman and his performance in the White House these last few years. However, that is neither here nor there. The man is our president, at least until January, and it is despicable that anyone should try to shoot him. And to think that such a thing almost occurred right here in Chicago. You have saved us from national disgrace."
"I was lucky, sir."
"I do not believe that, Mr. Malek. Not for a minute. Mr. Maloney tells me you are a tenacious reporter, if a bit rash on occasions. However, if being rash includes saving the life of our chief executive, I salute rashness."
"I appreciate those words."
"And we appreciate you, Mr. Malek. I am told you are recuperating well from your wounds. Take your time before returning to work. There's no need to rush back into things."
"I'm feeling better every day."
"Good, good. And…Mr. Malek…"
"Yes?"
"There will be something extra for you in your next pay envelope."
"Thank you very much."
"No need to thank me. You have earned it, and I salute you. When you return to work, please stop by my office. I would like to shake your hand."
I told him I would stop in and rang off.
"Well," Catherine said, "I guess I should be impressed, huh? The mighty Colonel calling our humble abode."
"Enough with the sarcasm, my dear. Perhaps you will be impressed when I tell you that I'm going to get some sort of bonus."
"I'll wait to see how much it is before I commit," she said with a smirk.
One interruption–not necessarily a welcome one–to the boredom during that week at home was a visit from Special Agent Floyd Willman of the FBI's Chicago office. He had phoned me, requesting an appointment. He was nice enough to first inquire about my recovery.
"I'm doing fine, thank you," I told him. When he said he wanted to see me, I said it would have to be at home, as I was not yet ready to return to work.
Catherine met him at the front door and ushered him into the den. "You are truly a hero, Mr. Malek," Willman said as I gestured him to a chair. "The reports we have received and the newspaper articles indicate you acted with great courage in the face of great personal risk."
"I believe I did what many others would have done in my place," I told him. I was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the praise being heaped upon me.
"Perhaps," Willman said. "Do you mind if I close this door so we can talk privately?"
"I can't imagine anything will be said here that my wife shouldn't hear, but…all right."
Willman shut the door and took the chair. "I must be honest with you, Mr. Malek. The Bureau is not happy with the lack of candor that you exhibited on our last meeting."
"Oh, is that so?" I was genuinely puzzled. "Did I say anything misleading?"
"It's not what you said as much as what you didn't say," Willman replied.
"I believe I told you, or told the police, or both, everything I knew about The New Reich, which admittedly wasn't all that much."
"You never said a word about the Argo Hotel to me or to the police."
I drew in air and let it out slowly to underscore my frustration. "Mr. Willman, apparently your information is incomplete because I already have discussed this with the Chicago Police. In the first place, I didn't know of the existence of the Argo Hotel until I walked by it the night of the Truman motorcade to the Chicago Stadium. Second, even the word argo was a stab in the dark, based on a word The New Reich had used in its meetings."
"You did not tell us about that word," Willman said stiffly.
"I was not even sure what the word was. There was a lot of guessing involved."
"If we had known about the importance of the Argo Hotel, we could have removed Mr. Becker from the premises and you would not now have your arm in a sling," the agent replied self-righteously. "As it is, the president came very close to being shot."
I realized we were talking in circles. "Mr. Willman, I have told you why I acted as I did. With the knowledge I possessed at the time, I would do exactly the same thing again. Now, I do realize that you probably were instructed to come here and lecture me as to what I should have done and what I did not do. You may consider that you have fulfilled your responsibility."
Willman jutted out his very square jaw. "Mr. Malek, I have to say that I find you attitude to be somewhat hostile."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Am I being charged with anything?"
"No, although we, the Bureau, felt that you should have behaved differently."
"I will have to live with that knowledge, sir. Now if you will excuse me, it is time for my daily nap. I am still working on regaining my strength," I said, rising and opening the den door.
Floyd Willman reluctantly rose and walked out of the little room, donning his snap-brim hat. I saw him to the front door. He did not say goodbye.
"My, he didn't stay very long at all," Catherine said as I shut the door behind him.
"We didn't have a whole lot to say to each other. And what each of us did say didn't register with the other."
Chapter Twenty-Four
B3 I1 Z10 A1 R1 R1 E1
(adj) markedly unusual, esp. whimsically strange or odd
I was nearing the end of my home recuperation period when Election Day rolled around. Catherine and I walked the two blocks to the polling place in our neighborhood grammar school.
"Oh, Mr. Malek, it is so wonderful to see you!" effused old Mrs. Wilkins, a neighbor who was handing out ballots. "We all are so very proud of what you did." The other poll workers then chimed in with their congratulations and their concern about my condition. I thanked them all and we cast our ballots.
"I'll be glad when this hullabaloo is all over and I can go back to being anonymous," I told Catherine on the way home.
"One thing you will never be, Steve, is anonymous. I have a feeling you're always going to be making news, one way or another."
"Problem is, my dear, newspaper people aren't supposed to make news, they're supposed to rep
ort it."
"That has not always been the way it's worked out for you, though, has it?" Catherine said with mock severity.
"Well, there were a few times when things have gotten a little…dicey."
"Like maybe last week, for instance?"
"You have to admit that was an extraordinary situation."
"It's just that you so often seem to find yourself in extraordinary situations."
"I guess you'd just have to say I'm an extraordinary sort of guy."
"Yes, I'd say that, all right. Time to change the subject. As of right this minute, partway through Election Day, what do you think Truman's chances are, Steve?"
"Not the best, I'm afraid. I still think that guy, Thurmond, is going to win a whole slew of the southern states, territory that otherwise would go for Harry in a two-man race."
"What about Wallace?"
"From what I've been reading and hearing, he probably won't win a single state, but he could funnel enough votes away from Truman to give some states to Dewey. Particularly New York, with all those electoral votes it has."
"It doesn't sound good."
"No, not good at all. But you've certainly done your part."
"Oh, I don't think I did nearly as much as I could have, Steve. I only passed out campaign literature on three or four days."
"Well, if Truman wins Illinois by a close vote, you just may have made the difference."
That night we played Scrabble after dinner, but it was a less-spirited session than usual. We both were thinking about the election.
At ten-thirty, we finished our second game, each of us having won once, and we folded up the board. I switched on the radio only to learn that the news was not good for the Democrats. The analysts were beginning to get a fix on results in the Eastern Time Zone states. They were reporting that Dewey looked to be a sure winner in both New York and Pennsylvania, the two states with the most electoral votes, and that another big state, Michigan, was trending for the Republicans as well. In addition, South Carolina appeared to be in the bag for Thurmond and his States Rights bunch. Ohio was too close to call.
"You were right about New York, Steve; Wallace must have tipped it to Dewey," Catherine said, looking glum. I wasn't exactly doing hand springs myself.
"Let's turn in, my love," I said at about eleven-thirty. "It will be hours before we know the outcome."
The next morning, I got up about seven-thirty as usual and went downstairs to flip on the radio. "It looks like President Truman's got it!" were the first words I heard from an excited announcer. "Illinois and Texas are going Democratic, although Ohio is still up in the air. The western states are almost all falling into line for Mr. Truman. We have gotten reports that Governor Dewey is expected to concede by noon today."
He then went on to report that "In some of its early editions, the Chicago Tribune ran a banner headline that read DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN. Wonder how those folks are feeling this morning? If any of you out there has one of these papers, save it; you have got yourself a collectors' item."
I listened a little while longer. I scribbled some notes about the results and projections, got some information on the Illinois races, climbed back up to the bedroom, and woke Catherine, whispering in her ear: "Wake up, sleeping beauty, there's something I must tell you."
"Huh? What?" she said, rolling over and looking at me through tousled hair.
"Your man is going back to the White House for another term," I said, leaning down and nuzzling her cheek.
"Steve–don't tease me. That isn't at all funny!" she said, jerking upright.
"I'm telling you true, dear heart, and if you don't trust me, come on downstairs and listen to the radio."
"I can't believe it!"
"Believe it," I assured her, looking down at my notes. "Truman has won Illinois and Texas, and he's running ahead in all the states from the Rockies west except for Oregon. That's eleven out of twelve. The early lead Dewey had in the East has been totally erased. Oh, and by the way, you'll also soon have a new governor, name of Stevenson and a new senator, name of Douglas. All because of your doorbell ringing." She threw her arms around my neck and alternated between laughing and kissing me passionately.
"Well, I only wish I could wake you up with that type of news every day," I said. Then I told her about the Tribune's bizarre headline.
"How in the world could that have happened?"
"I guess an editor last night was positive Dewey had it in the bag. Most of the polls certainly thought so, as you and I have discussed."
"But still, shouldn't they wait until they know something for sure?"
"Of course they should, but in our business, everybody wants to be out first with the news."
"I think this time it was more a case of wishful thinking," she said. "Will someone get fired?"
"I don't know, but I wouldn't want to be in the Tower today."
"They'll probably drape the whole outside of the building in black crepe paper," she said with a laugh.
"That's enough," I said. "Be a gracious victor now."
"Do you think your paper would have been a gracious victor if Dewey had won?"
"So now it's your paper again, is it?"
"Well, you have to admit they haven't been very nice to Truman."
"Yes, I admit it, and I'm sure they are going to be tough on him in the next term as well. But he can handle it; he's pretty damn tough himself."
"Well, I promise I won't chortle too much. But I can be happy, can't I?"
"Damn right you can. After all, I'm pretty happy myself. How about an extra-big breakfast to celebrate? Pancakes, sausage, the whole works."
"Hard for me to say no to that, especially since I have everything on hand here."
"Then don't say no. I'm starving."
"So what's new about that?"
"Now don't be sarcastic. After all, I'll be heading back to work next week and you won't have the pleasure of my company at home during the days–at least during those times when you're not at the library."
"All right, you've got yourself a deal," she said. "But I have a request for you as well."
"Fire away."
"I know that by now the Tribune–your paper–will probably be out with a different headline. But I'd still like to have all of the local papers for today as souvenirs. Can you walk down to the drugstore and get them while I'm fixing you that big breakfast you crave?"
"Sounds like a deal," I said. I got dressed and headed out the door. Unfortunately, the morning's Tribune and Sun-Times were hardly souvenir material because the outcome had been in doubt when they went to press with their final editions. The Tribune had at least retreated from its earlier faux pas, however, with the current headline DEWEY LEAD NARROWS.
That lead had of course disappeared by the time I purchased these papers. Later that morning we heard on the radio that Thomas E. Dewey, every pollster's choice as the "next President of the United States," had given his concession speech.
Catherine would have to wait until later in the week for the more interesting editions, including the Friday Sun-Times. Its front page was dominated by a photograph of a grinning Truman on the open observation platform of a train holding up a copy of the rival Tribune with the already notorious headline that the paper–my paper–had to live with for years to come.
Chapter Twenty-Five
G2 R1 I1 S1 L1 Y4
(adj) causing a shudder or feeling of horror; gruesome
The next Monday, six days after the election, I returned to the Headquarters press room for the first time in two weeks. My left arm was still in its cast and sling. As I was soon to learn, I would never have one hundred percent use of it again. The damage to the forearm bones had been too severe.
As I walked in, I got a standing ovation from my colleagues on the other papers and Jeff, the City News Bureau lad. A makeshift banner was taped on the wall behind my desk. Made of brown butcher's paper, it read WELCOME BACK SNAP!!! in what looked to be red crayon. On my desk was a copy
of the Tribune with that headline. Catherine would have a copy of it as a keepsake after all.
"Ah, Mr. Malek," Anson Masters intoned, "your newspaper may have made something of a fool of itself in its early editions last Wednesday, but you did us all proud with your gallantry the week previous."
"Aw shucks, I–"
"No speeches yet, Snap," Packy Farmer ordered, holding up a hand. "We'll do the talking here for the moment." He reached into a paper sack and pulled out a medal that looked like it came from a toy store. It was a gold foil circle with the word HERO in the center and two blue ribbons hanging down. And damned if Farmer didn't pin the thing on my suit coat.
"This medal is for great valor in the face of daunting circumstances," Packy said in a mock-somber tone. "And it proves once and for all that Mr. Steven Malek of Oak Park and the Chicago Tribune is a credit to his profession. It also should be noted that the said Mr. Malek owes much of what he is today to his long-time exposure to his colleagues in the press room of Chicago's Police Headquarters."
"Okay, Malek, now you can talk," Dirk O'Farrell said. "We've read something of your exploits, of course, but tell us what really happened that night along
Madison Street. As we all know, you can't believe everything you read in the newspapers." I filled them in on how I stumbled upon the Argo Hotel and located the second-floor room where the man whom I later knew to be Becker lay in wait for the president.
"Okay, so when you broke in, the S.O.B. plugged you," O'Farrell said. "Did you really bash him with that baseball bat then?"
"I wish I could give you the details," I said. "The one thing I remember just before I passed out from the pain was that after I got hit, I was pretty sure I swung at him with the bat and knocked him back against the partly open window, which broke. I think I recall hearing the glass shatter. And that's the last thing I remember."
"We can pick it up from there," O'Farrell said. "This Becker falls out of the window, glass shards, rifle and all, and plummets down onto the sidewalk. Damn, just like something out of a John Wayne western."
A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 17