Terror at the Fair (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "I certainly can't argue the point. Well, I'd better get over to the exhibit." But before I could leave the building, I heard my desk phone ringing.

  "Malek? We're just getting word of yet another stiff out at your choo-choo fair!" It was Hal Murray on the city desk.

  "Just heard about it myself. I'm headed over there now."

  "Shake a leg, will ya, Snap? I'm gonna need some on-the-scene stuff for the two-star. Thank God we've got you out there."

  "Yeah, thank God indeed," I muttered. "Like I've been saying for years, what would all of you do without me?" I didn't wait for his reply, cradling the phone and sprinting out.

  Five minutes later, I arrived at the realistic (I assumed) mockup of the Moffat Tunnel portal. Two uniformed coppers and a like number of detectives formed a circle around a body lying on a railroad track just inside the tunnel. Several other people formed a larger arc around them, all looking on in a stunned, respectful silence.

  I edged through the outer ring and identified myself to one of the plainclothesmen, who knelt next to the corpse, a stocky, bespectacled man who looked to be somewhere in his sixties. The hatless dick and his partner both were new to me. Fergus Fahey apparently rotated his men at the fair, which was fine by me as long as Jack Prentiss got rotated out permanently. In this, I probably hoped for too much.

  "How long has he been dead?" I asked the kneeler, a burly specimen in a blond crew cut.

  "Dunno," he snapped. "Medic's on the way and can give us an idea."

  "I found him right there, around eight, already dead," a man in a security guard's uniform put in. "His face was blue and his lips, they looked kinda purple-like. And he had a little foam around the mouth. Ticker musta gave out on him."

  "We don't know that," the crew cut dick snapped. "Let's not go jumping to conclusions until we have all of the facts, huh?"

  "Who is he?" I asked, turning my head to take in the whole gathering.

  "Jack Openshaw, John technically," answered a short, skinny fellow sporting a trim gray mustache and a badge proclaiming him to be a Rio Grande guide. "I take people through the tunnel, explaining how it got built and giving them all sorts of statistics on its cost, length, and so on. You'd be surprised how interested some folks are.

  "As you can see, the tunnel isn't very long, just enough to give folks an idea what the real one's like inside," continued the guide, who clearly liked to hear his own voice. "The track is just there to make it more realistic. Nothing runs on it. At the far end down there we've got a little movie theater where we play a film about our line, the Denver & Rio Grande Western, and all that great part of the country where we operate. Jack, he is…he was our projectionist."

  I nodded. "Think he could have been lying here since last night?"

  "Not that it's any of your business, but I've already asked," the detective snarled, looking fiercely up at me from his crouch. "Just who's running things around here, the Chicago Police Department or some self-important newspaperman?" He mouthed the last word as if it were contagious.

  "Sorry," I told him, motioning the guide with a cock of my head to step away from the little crowd and join me a discreet distance away. He picked up on it, and we walked from the gathering unnoticed, eventually sitting on a bench under a tree, well beyond earshot.

  "So, as I started to ask, was Mr….Openshaw lying there all night?"

  "Oh no, no, not at all," answered the guide, named Merle Wills. "In fact, Jack and I left the grounds together last night. But he always got here early every morning, earlier than he had to, really. He was the nervous type, wanting to make sure everything was just so. He said he operated just the same way when he worked for the railroad."

  "The Rio Grande?"

  "Yes. He worked as a brakeman, retired about three years ago now. He was really excited when he got the chance to come here to work at the fair."

  "So, did you work for the railroad as well, Mr. Wills?"

  He nodded. "As a station agent in a bunch of small Colorado towns. Places you've likely never heard of like Canon City and Buena Vista and Malta and Dotsero, some of 'em not much more than wide spots in the road. Like Jack, I retired a few years back, and the railroad gave me a chance to come here and work for the summer. They even paid my way in from Colorado on the Denver Zephyr and they're paying my way back after the fair's done, as well, which I call a darned good deal."

  "Were you at the fair in '48, too?"

  "Oh no, this tunnel is a brand-new thing this season," Wills replied. "Jack was here a year ago, though, also running a projector for movies about the railroad and Colorado."

  "I gather you knew him pretty well."

  "Not really. Oh, I did know who he was when we both worked on the Rio, of course; the railroad's really a small community when you come right down to it. In truth, I've had a lot more contact with him in this short time at the fair than in all those working years put together."

  "Had he ever mentioned anything to you about his health?"

  Wills chewed on his lower lip and shook his head. "No sir, not to me, he didn't. He seemed to be in pretty good shape for his age."

  "And you say he always got here first in the morning?"

  "Yeah, said he liked to get an early start. On his way here from the rooming house where he stayed, he would always get coffee and a newspaper and sit in the little theater for close to an hour, all by himself. He said it helped loosen him up and get him ready for the day."

  "Do you know whether he had a family?"

  "Got divorced years ago now. Come to think of it, I don't even know if he ever had any kids. He never mentioned any. If I was to guess, I'd say no." Wills narrowed his eyes at me. "Seems like you're asking an awful lot of questions about a man who just keeled over and died, natural-like. This isn't like those other two men who…is it?"

  "I honestly don't know, Mr. Wills. But I will be very interested in what the medical people find out," I said, leaving him and heading back to my typewriter to file a few paragraphs for the two-star edition in my never-ending efforts to keep the Tribune's almighty city desk happy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Poison is easy to buy, Papa, and the rest was easy, too. I had been quietly watching the man who ran the movie projector at the end of that ridiculous phony Rio Grande tunnel. Early every morning, long before the fair opened, he would get to the room where they show the films with a cup of coffee and his newspaper. He would finish about half of his coffee and then he would walk over to the men's toilet a few dozen yards away and be there for ten minutes. He kept a very rigid schedule.

  While he used the toilet today, I went into the empty projection room and put the stuff in his coffee cup. I was gone before he got back. As I now know, he drank from the cup, quickly felt the poison's effects, and tried to walk out of the tunnel. He never made it to the entrance, Papa.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It did not take long for me to learn the circumstances of Mr. John "Jack" Openshaw's fate. The next morning, I had not been at my desk at the fair for more than ten minutes when my telephone jangled. It was Packy Farmer of the Herald-American, calling from Police Headquarters.

  "Holy Moses, Snap, you got yourself a regular first-class bloodbath out at your fair. How is it you always find a way to be where the action is?"

  "It must be my magnetic personality, Packy. Nice to hear from you. What do you know this morning that I don't but should?"

  "We just got word from Fahey's office, via your replacement Westcott, that the stiff they found lying in the tunnel yesterday morning died of cyanide poisoning."

  "Cyanide? No shit?"

  "No shit. Apparently the stuff was in his coffee, a healthy dose of it. There was still some java left in the cup, laced to the gills, to say nothing of the poor bastard's stomach."

  "It's nice of you to fill me in, Packy. I appreciate it."

  "For old times' sake. I'm calling from a pay phone down in the lobby. I didn't want your buddy Westcott to hear me. He's a real pain in the keester, a
nd maybe you can do something with this information."

  "I'm touched, but I also know that you, Dirk, and Masters have an ulterior motive."

  "How so?"

  "To see me back there and in league with the three of you. I make your lives easier because I actually do some work. I get the strong impression Ken Westcott is not exactly a human dynamo."

  "Right you are, in spades. Anyway, as I said, I thought you'd like to have the dope. 'Course your guy'll get his byline on this tomorrow morning, but maybe you can find a way to stay on top of the story."

  "Packy, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were trying to foment dissent between two reporters on a competing paper."

  "Aw, the Trib's not really our competitor, Snap, the Daily News is. Your real competition is Dirk O'Farrell and the Sun-Times. You go head-to-head in the mornings."

  "Okay, although I'd have to say you're splitting hairs. Let's face it, as I've said, what you–along with O'Farrell and Masters–really want is to have me back there delivering the goods from Fahey every day, and promptly.

  "If I were to guess, I'd wager our Mr. Westcott takes his good old time in meandering downstairs to see the chief every morning. When he finally does bring back news from the Detective Bureau, it's too late for your early editions and for Anson's, too. How am I doing so far?"

  I could hear Farmer trying to stifle a chuckle. "All right, let's say you have got yourself a point. But, Snap, you're much better company than Westcott. You gotta admit, the four of us have always hit it off very doggone well. We make a good team, friendly rivals, you might call us."

  "Packy, it if were up to me, I never would have left Eleventh and State. But for whatever reasons, the Trib higher-ups thought they had a better idea."

  "The way I see it, nothing's ever written in stone," Farmer said. "The more scoops you get out at the railroad show, the better your chances of getting back here where you belong."

  "From your lips to God's ears, Packy."

  "Just between us, Snap, d'ya still talk to Fahey at all?"

  "Well, we have been known to chew the fat from time to time."

  "Ah–I thought so! The chief is quite a fan of yours."

  "That so?"

  "Yep. You know the curvy blonde with the Veronica Lake hairstyle who's a secretary in the Vice Detail? The one who always wears sweaters? Tight sweaters?"

  "Huh! She's hard to miss."

  "Well, we had coffee across the street the other day, and she told me she was talking to Fahey's secretary, the little brunette with the big smile, who said the chief really misses having you there. According to her, he looked forward to your daily visits, found them stimulating."

  I made no effort to stifle my own laugh. "You could have fooled me. I think he's always just liked the cigarettes I brought him."

  "I'm only reporting what I heard. Seems to me even on the phone you can get more out of Fergus Fahey than Westcott can by sitting down in his office and talking face-to-face."

  "Oh, now I understand, Packy. I pump Fergus on the telephone and then pass everything I learn along to you."

  He chuckled. "Is that really so bad? It's no different than when you worked with us in the pressroom. You got the skinny from the chief and then generously shared it with your colleagues."

  "True, Packy, but at least there, I got something in return from all of you on your beats, little as it may have been."

  "Come on now, Snap, all of us fed each other good stuff," he said, trying without success to sound hurt. "It's just that you had by far the newsiest beat in the building."

  "Okay, Packy, I'll stipulate that we helped each other. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to dash. You never know what interesting people are wandering around the fair just hoping to be interviewed by an enterprising and charming Tribune reporter."

  After hanging up, I leaned back in my ancient wooden swivel chair and lit a Lucky Strike, blowing smoke rings ceiling-ward. I took a few puffs, then dialed a number.

  "Hello, my dear, is the noble defender of the peace taking calls this fine morning?" I asked Elsie Dugo Cascio.

  "You can imagine what his mood is," she said, "and in truth, I'm under orders to tell people he's not in, but my suspicion is he'll make an exception for you, big guy."

  "I'm honored, and–" I stopped because she wasn't on the line any longer.

  "Yeah?" the chief of detectives gruffed. "What news are you bringing from your miserable fair to make my life even more difficult than it already is?"

  "Fergus, Fergus, remember who you're talking to. The guy who for years faithfully brought you Lucky Strikes. The guy who patiently listened to your troubles and dispensed sage counsel."

  "Sage counsel, eh? Is that what I've been getting from you? I always thought of it as mostly guff."

  "It's tragic how I am treated now that I'm gone from Headquarters. And here I called to inquire as to how things are going for you."

  "I think you can pretty much guess how things are going for me," Fahey snapped. "Crappy, in a word."

  "Anything you'd care to share with me, Fergus?"

  I waited through a long pause at the other end.

  "Isn't it enough I already have to deal with one Tribune reporter every day?"

  "Normally, I'd agree," I said. "But look at it this way. I'm out here every single day, not counting weekends, and as I have told you before, I can be of some help to you. You know, one more set of eyes and ears."

  "But as I've also told you before, your first loyalty is to your newspaper."

  "True enough, although that doesn't mean I can't funnel information to you. I can find out all sorts of things your men can't. Like it or not, a lot of people are leery of the police, as you well know."

  "And in return for your help, you will of course expect me to tell you everything we know."

  "Fergus, in all the years you've known me, have I ever–even once–printed anything that you told me was off the record?"

  Another pause. "No."

  "Well, just because I'm not in the pressroom at Eleventh and State anymore doesn't mean I'm less trustworthy than before. The more information I have, the more I can help you."

  "All right, I'll bite. Just what do you want to know?"

  "For starters, how are you doing in finding the rifle-loader who disappeared?"

  "I haven't told any of this to your man Westcott, so the press doesn't know a thing about it."

  "It will stay that way as far as I'm concerned, Fergus."

  "We interviewed the other two rifle-loaders and a couple more of the backstage workers who had talked to this mystery man, 'Sam White,' and we've come up with a sketch of what he looks like. Yesterday, copies went out to all the people manning the ticket booths at the main entrance, as well as the private guards, maintenance men, exhibit guides, and others working at the fair."

  "What about the person who originally signed him on here?"

  Fahey made a sound somewhere between a growl and a snort. "The people at the fair aren't exactly what you might call thorough in their hiring practices. The bird who we talked to barely remembered White and just had him fill out a basic, bare-bones form."

  "But didn't he have to give an address where they could mail his checks?"

  "The checks are delivered in person to all the fair workers every Friday, so the phony address he gave up on Clarendon didn't really matter one way or the other."

  "Sorry to hear that. Have you had any luck at all with the sketches?"

  "Too soon to tell; as I said, we just distributed them yesterday. We haven't told the press–or even the PR guy at the fair–anything about this because we don't want to spook White. The less he knows about us looking for him, the better."

  "What about the poisoning?"

  "You know by now from reading your own Mr. Westcott's piece in the Trib that the man found in the tunnel died from a healthy dose of cyanide in his coffee. We figure he took a few swigs of the java back in that little movie room, then felt the poison's effects and ran, or m
ore likely staggered, out toward the tunnel mouth looking for help. The ME says he was probably dead before he hit the ground. As you probably are aware, cyanide's the most fast-acting poison there is."

  "Yeah, I'm sure I heard that someplace along the way. Dug up any motive?"

  Fahey swore. "No more than with either of the others."

  "There sure as hell doesn't seem to be any connection among the three," I said. "It makes for a real challenge."

  "You wouldn't be thinking about conducting your own rogue investigation now, would you?"

  "You know me, Fergus."

  "That's precisely why I asked. If you really want to help us like you claim, the best way is to keep your eyes and ears open to anything that seems funny, and to resist the temptation to play Philo Vance, private shamus."

  "Message received, sir."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My next challenge: to lay my hands on one of those sketches of the man who passed himself off as Sam White. I sauntered over to the box office at the main entrance, where half a dozen young women sat at windows taking money and giving the eager masses their tickets to the fair.

  In my second week on the job here, I had cranked out a feature on one of the ticket-sellers, a very attractive and sincere local girl named Charlene Miller, who was earning much-needed money to attend Mundelein College up on the city's North Side. After the piece ran–with her smiling and dimpled photograph–I got her a pile of extra copies of the paper for her family and friends, thereby earning her everlasting gratitude, or so I now hoped.

  "Hi, Mr. Malek," she chirped when I popped my head into the room where she and the others dispensed tickets to people lined up six-deep at the windows. "My parents and grandparents all loved the story!"

  "Glad to hear it, Charlene. When you can get away, I would like to talk to you briefly. It won't take long, I promise."

  "Sure," she said, consulting her wristwatch. "I'm due to take a break in ten minutes. Can you wait that long?"