I know the blow didn't kill him, but he was so dazed the rest was easy in the darkness. I held his face down in the water. He struggled for a little while, not long at all, and then stopped moving. Like the others, Papa, he was old, and probably would not have lived much longer anyway…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
My feature on Nils Ericsson, a.k.a. Sven, the Savage Swede, ran on Page 5 of the next day's paper, along with a two-column Phil Muller photo of the former lumberjack and wrestler. It got the best play by far of any of my features from the fair. I had gotten so I took some delight in small victories. But I nevertheless knew I was still a "feature writer," a pejorative term in the vocabulary of the hard-news reporter.
"Very nice article you had this morning," Fred Metzger said as he stuck his head into the pressroom. "I just wish the other papers in town gave us the kind of play the Trib does."
"Well, in fairness to them, we've got more space to fill than anybody else, so I guess it figures," I told him as I looked up from reading the tabloid Sun-Times. "Say, Fred, how do you feel about the police presence around here now?"
Metzger shook his head and scowled. "I'm aware the department has beefed up the plainclothes numbers, but there are still way too many uniformed men around for my taste. It has to make people nervous to see them."
"I don't think most of the visitors even notice. They're too busy having fun. Besides, it's just possible the extra cops are the reason we haven't had any more incidents."
"Could be," he said without conviction. Just then, the phone rang in his office, and he dashed off to answer it as I tried to figure out where to get my next feature.
My thought processes got interrupted by Metzger's keening, which cut through the thin partition like a butcher knife. "What! Oh no, oh no, no, no."
I ran next door and saw him slumped in his desk chair, head in hand and receiver pressed to his ear. "Where? Oh Christ! Have they been called? Yes, yes. Phone the fair manager's office. They'll want to cancel the morning show if they haven't already."
He hung up and stared down at his desk blotter, head in hands. "What is it, Mr. Metzger?" asked his summer intern, Rob, who had come over from his small desk in the corner.
"Another one," Metzger muttered, "another one, another one."
"Where?"
"In…the water, the lake."
"Where, goddammit? Where, Fred?" I grabbed the hunched-over PR man by the shoulders and shook him until I thought his teeth would rattle.
"Cypress Gardens," he said, putting his head down on his desk.
"Have the police been notified?"
He raised his head long enough to nod. I tore out of the building, vaguely aware Rob followed in my wake, and I jogged northeast toward the shoreline area where the Cypress Gardens Thrill Show got performed, and where a few weeks earlier I had interviewed one of the leggy "Aqua Belles."
The bleachers facing the water stood empty, with a sign at the entrance readong "Ten A.M. Show Canceled." On the beach, four men, two of them in uniforms, stood over a body.
As I neared the gathering, I heard one of the uniformed men, a fair security guard, tell the others, "…and when I came by this morning about the time the fair opened, I saw somethin' floating about fifteen or twenty feet out." He pointed into the calm waters of the lake.
"At first I thought it was maybe a log, we get a few of them floating by, but then I seen it was… Anyhow, I waded out and dragged this poor feller in, or what was left of him."
The body on the sand looked to be a man in his sixties and stocky, with short gray hair. His face was only slightly discolored and not bloated, indicating he hadn't been in the water all that long.
"Any idea who he is?" asked a man in a suit, who turned out to be a tall, lean police detective with a beak-like schnozz named Moritz. I had met him once several years back.
The security guard shook his head. "Nope, although I think I've seen him around here. He might be somebody who worked for the water show, as a sort of janitor, I guess you could say."
"Who are you?" Moritz suddenly realized I had become part of the little gathering.
"Steve Malek, Tribune reporter. I'm assigned to the fair full-time."
He cast me a dubious glance. "How'd you get over here so fast?"
I explained the sequence of events in the administration building, including the phone call to Fred Metzger. "I assume somebody in fair security had phoned him about this."
"I'm the one who did," the other man wearing a suit put in. "My name is Carl Mason. I am one of the assistant managers of the fair. I came over here as fast as I could, and I just posted the sign canceling the morning show."
Moritz scowled. "Know who this is?" he asked, motioning to the body.
"Yes, I do," Mason said with a glum nod. "He's Alec Cunningham, a maintenance man who's assigned to the water show. His job is to clean up the area after the last show every night, then come first thing in the morning and rake this stretch of beach in front of the grandstands where the acts take place. We like it always to be looking neat here, just like the rest of the fairgrounds."
"What else can you tell me about him?" the detective barked at Mason.
"Not a lot. I seem to remember he's an old-time railroad man who worked at the fair last year, too. I believe he retired some years ago from the Chicago & Eastern Illinois, where he worked as a dispatcher or something similar."
"There looks to be a good-sized lump on his head," I said.
"Your input is duly noted," Moritz remarked stiffly, scribbling in a notebook. "This fair is having its problems, isn't it?" he said to Mason, pointedly turning his back on me.
The assistant manager nodded, hands in pockets, staring down at the body of Cunningham. "Anybody have anything further to add?" the detective asked.
We all–Mason, the security guard, Rob Taylor, and I–remained silent. Moritz turned to the uniformed cop with a scowl. "Get a couple more men over here and secure the area. The ME should be on his way. All right everybody, class dismissed," he snapped. "And that definitely includes you, Mr. Tribune man."
When I got back to the administration building, I popped my head into Metzger's office, but he wasn't around. "Any idea where he might've gone?" I asked Rob, who had walked back with me.
"No, maybe to see the fair manager. He's really shaken."
"With good reason," I said, going back to my phone, where I placed a call to the Trib. "Well, it's happened again," I said to Hal Murray on the city desk. "Another stiff at the fair."
"Yeah, we're just getting the word. That place of yours has become a real bloodbath. Okay, what've you got for me?"
I read him my sketchy information, and he transferred me to rewrite so we could at least squeeze a bulletin into the next edition. I contemplated calling Fergus Fahey but vetoed it, at least for the present. He would be pulling his hair out by the roots, and he didn't need me asking him questions or even giving him my eyewitness account. He could, and would, get the same information from Detective Moritz, who would no doubt mention somewhere in his report how a pesky Tribune reporter promptly happened upon the death scene.
Chapter Thirty
The fourth death at the fair set the daily papers off like dogs tearing into a slab of raw meat. Every one of them gave the latest killing their banner headline, with the Herald-American's WHERE WILL IT ALL END? printed in red ink, an old Hearst device. Reading our piece the next morning, which carried a joint byline–Westcott and me–I learned the victim, Cunningham, 69, had been the father of three and the grandfather of four, lived in the southern suburb of Blue Island, and had probably been dead anywhere from six to ten hours when his body was discovered.
The police confirmed death by drowning but a blow to the head with the predictable "blunt instrument" probably first rendered the victim unconscious. He was found in less than two feet of water.
The Herald-American carried a front-page editorial in which the paper offered $10,000 for information leading to the arrest of "person or pe
rsons responsible for the violent deaths at our fair."
The Trib also weighed in on the subject, although in its normal place on the editorial page:
SHUTTER THE FAIR?
It has been suggested in some quarters that because of the ongoing violence at the Chicago Railroad Fair, the exposition should be shut down.
Nonsense.
In a civilized and democratic society, events must under no circumstances be dictated by fear and terror. We have full and abiding confidence our law-enforcement agencies will hunt down and bring to justice whoever is responsible for the crimes that have been committed along the lakefront.
To those among you who insist the fair must close to protect the masses, we answer that this is precisely the type of action terrorists seek to accomplish. To yield to such a move is to cede victory to lawlessness and anarchy. We only need to study history to see this scenario played out again and again.
Let the gates stay open.
Fred Metzger, looking haggard and with shoulders sloping more than usual, appeared in the doorway of the pressroom as I put down my paper. "I just want to tell you I think the Tribune's coverage of…of all this…is the most measured, and the most responsible," he said.
I nodded my thanks. "By the way, if we can move on to less somber matters, have you got any feature ideas for me? My cupboard is now every bit as bare as poor Old Mother Hubbard's."
"Yes, that's the other thing I stopped by to tell you," he said, pulling a folded sheet from his breast pocket. "Here's something you might find interesting: Three generations of a railroad family from Indiana are coming in today, should be here by ten or so."
"It's a possibility," I said without enthusiasm.
"Well, anyway, I'm giving you the right of first refusal. The Daily News has been after me to throw some features their way, but they won't even bother to send someone out here until I've lined something up for them," he sniffed, sounding offended.
"Okay, I'm willing to be persuaded. Tell me about this Indiana bunch."
He consulted the sheet. "Let's see now, the grandson is a conductor on New York Central passenger trains, he's…twenty-eight. His father, who's fifty, works as a fireman, also on the NYC, but on freights. And the grandfather, seventy-four, is a retired engineer who worked for more than forty-five years on the Nickel Plate Road. He was at the throttle of some of their crack limiteds."
"Well, why not give it a try?" I said, not having anything else on my assignment sheet at the moment. "Lead me to 'em."
The Indiana railroading family, name of Ferguson, turned out to be dishwater dull, including the wives. I couldn't get a single decent anecdote out of the lot. Even good old Grandpa, who'd started in the business just after the turn of the century, had almost nothing to say about how things had changed in the last fifty years.
"More diesels today," was one pithy observation of his. When I asked if it was a good thing, he said, "In some ways yes, in some ways no. At least you don't have none of them doggone cinders with the diesels." Swell, Gramps, thanks for your help.
The younger generations were no better. When I asked the twenty-eight-year-old conductor if he'd like to see his son go into railroading, he thought for a minute and replied, "Well, I guess that'd be up to him, wouldn't it? When he gets older, of course."
The old Indian in the Santa Fe village whom I'd conducted the non-interview with on my first day at the fair looked more exciting all the time. I now wished I had let the folks at the Daily News tackle this one.
But I did manage to stitch together a piece, embellishing the bland quotes I got from the three men and their equally taciturn wives. The day's only surprise came when the photog who showed up was not Phil Muller.
"He got sent to a fire out near the Stockyards," said Chuck Mills, who tried manfully but without success to get a smile out of any one of the bunch, including the kids. The group shot of the Hoosier clan in the next day's edition looked like a funeral gathering.
After I had finished the article and dictated it to Williamson on the rewrite desk, I prepared to leave the empty pressroom and grab a ham sandwich at the Cupboard Restaurant near the main gate when my phone rang. Pickles Podgorny rasped a "hello, newshawk."
"Lordy be! What're you doing up at this hour, poker puss? It's barely past noon."
"Now what kind of greeting is that for a man who has some information for you? Let's show a little respect, huh?"
"Whoops, sorry. All right, fire away. You have my full attention."
"It appears we may have located your mystery man."
"The elusive Mr. Sam White?"
"The selfsame."
"Well, go on, go on," I prompted.
"Nothing absolutely definite, you understand, but one of my…acquaintances made the rounds of a goodly number of the watering holes in Uptown and Lakeview the last few evenings, asking bartenders if 'Sam' had been in lately."
"And?"
"Don't interrupt, I'm telling the story. Last night, my acquaintance, let's just call him Benny, popped into a little joint on Wilson just west of Broadway, asking his question, and the barkeep said, 'You mean Sam Whitnauer?'
"Benny said he didn't know the last name, only that this 'Sam' owed him some money. Then he described him. The barkeep said it sounded like Whitnauer, all right, and that he usually wandered in around ten or ten thirty most nights."
"So Benny waited for him?"
"I told you not to interrupt. No, he likes to avoid face-to-face scenes, given some of his past activities and adventures with the law. He left the saloon without even buying a drink and went across the street, where he leaned against a lamppost and waited.
"A few minutes after ten, a guy comes along on foot and shuffles into the bar. Benny, who's seen the sketch you gave me, says no question, it's him. The lighting's pretty good along Wilson in that block, and Benny says everything checks out–the flattop haircut, the little mustache, and he also thought he could make out a mole on this Sam's right cheek."
"Nice work, Pickles, very nice work indeed. I believe we may indeed have our man in the person of one Mr. Sam Whitnauer. By the way, as a point of interest, what's the story on your boy Benny?"
"Why?"
"Just curious. I always like to know who I'm relying on."
"So now you don't trust your old pal Pickles?" He sniffed.
"I didn't say that, and you'll notice I also didn't ask for Benny's real name. Tell me a little about him."
I got silence at the other end for several seconds. "Okay, let's just say over the years, he's run a lot of two-man short-cons, particularly the old 'fiddle game.'"
"What's that?"
"You mean to say, Mister 'Man of the World,' you have never heard of the fiddle game?"
"Guess that's what I'm saying."
"You've got a lot to learn about life in the big city, Snap. Okay, here's how it works: Guy Number One goes into a restaurant in shabby clothes and carrying a violin in its case. He eats, then tells the owner he left his wallet at home, which is nearby, and needs to go and get it, but he'll leave the violin, which he dearly loves, as security. Are you with me?"
"So far."
"Then just after he leaves, presumably to get money, Guy Number Two walks in, notices the fiddle case, and seems interested. He inquires as to what's inside, and the owner says a violin. Guy Number Two asks to see it. When owner shows it to him, Number Two raves about it, saying it's a centuries-old Stradivarius, worth thousands. He offers big bucks to buy it but says he can't hang around. He leaves his business card with the restaurateur and asks him to give the card to Guy Number One when he returns."
"I think I'm beginning to get the drift now," I told Pickles.
"About time," he said dismissively. "When the first guy comes back, the restaurant man–as the grifters have hoped–keeps the business card in his pocket and tries to buy the fiddle. Its owner hems and haws, and the restaurateur keeps on jacking up his offer until the guy finally sells him the worthless fiddle, for cash on the spot. C
hances are, the mark had to empty his till for the dough."
"And of course the second guy never comes back to the restaurant, right?"
"I can't say you're a quick learner, but now you've got it," Pickles said. "Anyway, that's what Benny was known for, along with running a few other short-cons like three-card monte, the shell game, and the pigeon drop."
"I won't ask you to describe those just now," I told him.
"Good, because I don't have all day to give you lessons in the fine art of grifting," he replied. "Let's just say some years back, Benny ran out of luck and got nailed by the law while running one of his many cons. He has more or less gone straight since he got out of stir, and he shuns the limelight."
"I won't ask you what 'more or less' means."
"Let's put it this way: Benny didn't cost me a farthing on this business because he owes me a couple of favors–big ones," Pickles said, "but I'm certainly expecting some consideration for services rendered from you."
"I hear you, and be assured consideration will indeed be given," I told him. He started to squawk that he had expected a more concrete response from me, but I lied about being right up against a deadline and hung up the phone.
I sat staring at the blank plywood wall for several minutes after Pickles's call, contemplating a next move. I could go to the bar on Wilson Avenue myself and take a gander at Whitnauer for myself, maybe even trying to engage him in conversation. Or I could call Fergus Fahey and dump this information in his lap. In the end, I opted for the latter course, in part because of all the times Catherine had urged me to stop acting like I was some sort of rogue avenger, operating like a copper without a badge.
"Is he on the premises?" I asked Elsie Dugo Cascio when she picked up the phone and chirped "Chief Fahey's office."
"He just got back from a meeting with Commissioner Prendergast, and he's in an even more foul mood than usual. Am I to assume this is important?"
Terror at the Fair (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 11