"Yeah, he talked to the widow, who said her husband's life for the last several years had been a nightmare; he'd lost weight, started hitting the bottle hard, which according to her he had never done before."
"Did Schneider have any kids?"
"Haggerty never said, as far as I can remember. The only other thing I'm sure about is the widow moved again after her husband's death."
"Tried to disappear?"
"I suppose so," Zack said.
"A lot of lives ruined."
"For sure. Do you figure Schneider's ghost is bumping 'em off out at the Railroad Fair?"
"I'm not quite there yet." I laughed. "But it's possible there could be some sort of a connection."
"Well, be careful, huh, Snap? I've read about some of your exploits the last few years, and I know you have a tendency to take chances. Don't go doing anything foolish, now, y'hear?"
"I hear. Good talking to you, Zack, and I'll keep you posted."
Chapter Thirty-Three
Just as I hung up, a slender and poised auburn-haired woman in a tailored suit whom I guessed to be in her mid- to late-twenties glided gracefully into the room on fashionable high heels.
"Hello. I didn't see any sign on the door. This is the pressroom, isn't it?" She brushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead.
"You have got the right place," I said with a grin, standing as my mother long ago taught me to do when a woman enters a room.
"I'm Betty Ann Wells of the Daily News," she said, offering a hand with a firm grip.
"Nice to meet you, Betty Ann. I'm Steve Malek of the Tribune."
"The Steve Malek, no less, better known to his friends as 'Snap,' am I right? I must say I feel most honored."
"No reason to," I told her with a chuckle. "And by all means, call me Snap, which instantly makes you a friend. What brings you to this remote outpost on the fringes of the empire?"
"I'm here to do a feature on one of the girls in the Cypress Gardens Water Show. She was runner-up in the Miss Georgia pageant last year, or so I've been informed."
"I know your byline," I said. "You did a terrific feature a few weeks back about the woman in Evanston who had raised–what was it?–thirteen foster kids over the years."
"Fourteen, and thanks so much for remembering," she said. "I guess we all often wonder if anybody actually reads what we write–and takes note of the byline."
"We do indeed. I was impressed, both by your reporting and by the woman. She was a real inspiration."
"Far more than the girl who I'm going to see today, I'm sure."
"I interviewed one of those pretty water-skiing damsels myself a while back, and she looked like she could easily have been a Miss Alabama," I told her. "I sincerely hope your Southern belle has more to say than mine did, though."
Betty Ann smiled, flashing dimples. "I hope so, too. I understand from the rumor mill you are stationed here for the duration of the fair."
"You heard right. It's sure turned out differently than I figured."
"I'll say! Do you have any thoughts about who's behind all the…deaths?"
"A few, but they're pretty vague right at the moment."
"I was surprised when I heard you'd been assigned here for the summer. Your reputation as a crime reporter is well known all over town, as I know you're aware."
"You flatter me."
"Not really. I'm just stating the obvious. After all, everybody knows you saved the president's life last year, among other things. And I remember when I was in journalism school up at Northwestern reading about how you helped crack those murders surrounding the hush-hush work on the atom bomb at the University of Chicago during the war."
"I really appreciate the kind words," I said with a shrug.
"Given your reputation, I'm surprised you got assigned out here."
"To be honest, I was surprised myself, and not exactly happy."
"But now look at how things have turned out. You're right back in the middle of the news again. Adventure must follow you wherever you go."
"So several others have remarked. What's happened here the last few weeks is another surprise I didn't see coming."
Betty Ann pursed her lips and frowned. "I would give anything to have some kind of hard news beat instead of this fluffy feature stuff. But I'm well aware of how things work on the papers. About the only women in the newsrooms around town are the 'sob sisters,' whose assignments as you know are to cover the biggest trials for murder or divorce and wring every drop of emotion and pathos and drama out of the proceedings," she said with a touch of bitterness.
I nodded. "That's a pretty accurate description. I've got to believe the situation is going to change sometime, though. After all, during the war, women filled quite a few reporting positions on the Trib, and on the other papers as well."
She made a face. "Yeah, and then look what happened the minute the war ended: Home came the men, and all the women who had been covering police news, fires, and the like went back to writing feature stories about beauty queens and debutantes and triple-layer chocolate cakes. It's true that once in a while, somebody more substantial like the Evanston foster mom comes along, but it's been the exception in my experience."
"I still think better days are coming for the female reporters," I told her, only partially believing my words.
"Well, I have to admit there is one advantage to being a woman on the paper, although even that is kind of insulting."
"Oh?"
"When I left the office to come down here, my editor–who's a woman–said to me, 'Take a cab and expense it. I don't want you riding down there on a streetcar or a bus.' Do you know how the male reporters on the Daily News travel?"
"If it's like at the Tribune, they go by said streetcar or bus."
"Yeah, or the Elevated if it's more convenient. But all of us poor little gals have to be protected, you know."
"Maybe this will change someday, too."
"I hope you're right. I–" She got interrupted by the arrival in the pressroom of a smiling and overeager Fred Metzger.
"Ah, Miss Wells of the Daily News, right?" He introduced himself, bowing, and thrusting out a hand. "I am so glad you're here. Sorry I wasn't out at the front gate to meet you, but I got tied up. Are you ready to go and meet Holly Webster?"
"I am indeed," she said, nodding curtly and whipping a reporter's notebook out of her purse. "Lead the way."
"I think you will find the young lady charming, absolutely charming," Metzger gushed. "Almost as charming as you are."
As they left, Betty Ann looked back at me over one shoulder and rolled her eyes. I got the message.
Chapter Thirty-Four
About twenty minutes after leaving with Betty Ann, Metzger returned to the pressroom.
"Ah, did you get the lovely Miss Wells hooked up with the lovely Miss What's-Her-Name from down Georgia way?"
The PR man grinned. "Holly Webster. I did indeed, and they truly are an attractive pair to behold together. Miss Wells herself could certainly have been a beauty queen, don't you think?"
"Okay, enough," I said, holding up a hand. "Stop your drooling, Metzger, and tell me what you've got for in store for me today."
"Ah yes, of course," he said, consulting papers on his ever-present clipboard. "There's a whole group, more than a hundred in all, of retired employees of the New York Central Railroad and their families who have come by train–on the New York Central, of course–from the East to see the fair and tour the city for a few days. I thought you might find it interesting to spend time with them."
I shot him a look, and I wasn't smiling. "Think this'll be any better than the three-generation family of colossal bores from Indiana you hooked me up with?"
Metzger laughed nervously. "Well, for one thing, there are a lot more folks in this group. Somebody's bound to be interesting."
"I suppose so, given the law of averages, but what if I have to work my way through all one hundred of these pensioners and their loving spouses before I
find the one fascinating story in the lot? It could end up taking all week."
That stopped Metzger, who allowed a woebegone expression to take over his face, if only for a moment. "Afraid that's the best I can do at the moment, Snap. I have to be honest; I'm running out of ideas for you. It's hard coming up with something, or someone, fresh every day."
I sympathized with the rotund PR man and took pity on him. "I think your initial excitement at having a reporter for a Chicago daily here every day has changed to a frustration. It's like having to constantly feed a beast," I said, "and I happen to be the beast. Tell you what: I'll meet with this bunch from the–what is it–New York Central? Who knows, maybe something will present itself."
As it turned out, very little presented itself, although I did find a couple named Phelps who had lived in eleven different towns in Upstate New York and Ohio over the course of forty-five years. Calvin Phelps had been a station agent for the railroad, and he and his wife, Sylvia, were childless.
"Cal and me, we both always just liked change," the well-padded Sylvia told me with a sweet smile, bright blue eyes twinkling behind rimless bifocals. "Almost every time the opportunity came up for him to work in another town along the main line, we took it."
"'Course we never bought a house, always rented," he said, passing a hand over a full head of white hair and grinning. "But I wasn't interested in being a homeowner anyway. Never liked the idea of being tied down."
"What has been your favorite place in all those years?"
"I dunno," he said, turning to his spouse. "I liked 'em all, but I suppose maybe Batavia, eh, Syl?"
"Batavia was nice," she agreed, bobbing her head, "although I think for me it I'd pick Palmyra, where we stayed six years and made so many friends. We had such a nice minister there, too, Reverend Hawkins, who gave those inspirational sermons that made you want to rush right out and change the world. We're Methodists, always have been. But when he got transferred to another church someplace down in Pennsylvania, we pushed on, too."
"Now you're retired and don't move around anymore, I suppose."
"Now there you are wrong, young man," Sylvia Phelps said, gently shaking a finger at me. "We decided to retire in Canastota because several trains a day stop there. Cal has a lifetime pass on the NYC for both of us, and he and I are always off visiting the nice friends we made in the places where we lived all along the line. Many times, we even stay overnight with these folks, and they seem happy to have us."
"And we still don't own a house," her husband said with pride. "Shoot, we even took the train all the way to New York City one time. I had to see the Grand Central Terminal once before I died, and it was worth it. Ever been there?"
I shook my head. "Great place, you've just got to make the trip someday," he said. "You'll never forget it."
I promised I would and we parted. So I got my story after all. Something of an American saga. To cap it off, Phil Muller showed up and took a shot of the oft-traveled couple. When I got back in the pressroom typing and then dictating the Phelps's nomadic tale, Betty Ann Wells of the Daily News returned, slumping into the chair at her newspaper's desk with a protracted groan, kicking off her patent-leather pumps, and wiggling her toes.
"Well, Miss Betty, how did your session with our Georgian beauty go?"
"She is beautiful, absolutely no question about it. Just being around her made me feel dumpy."
"Now there I insist on drawing the line. I simply cannot imagine anyone making you feel dumpy under any circumstances."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Snap Malek. You are a throwback to the lost days of gallantry. Back to the interview: I'm afraid it was a lot like the way you described your session with the Alabama girl. Don't get me wrong; Miss Holly Webster is a very proper young lady who knows how to water-ski extremely well, but she does not have a lot to say, other than how much she loves Georgia and all of those wonderful people back home. I could almost smell the magnolias and visualize the peach trees and see Scarlett O'Hara's plantation when she talked."
"Sounds familiar. But you've got yourself enough for a piece?"
She threw up her hands and let them drop into her lap. "Oh, I suppose so, and our photographer took a whole slew of shots of her. One is almost sure to run with the story tomorrow. We never miss a chance at getting some cheesecake into print, you know, like all the other papers in town, including your own."
"Definitely including my own," I concurred, leaning back and lighting up a Lucky. "So it sounds like you can call the day at least a qualified success."
"I guess so. Do you mind if I ask you a business question?"
"Not at all."
"Do you think there's any chance the Trib would ever hire me as something other than a feature writer?"
"You're talking about the news side, right?"
"Of course."
"There's always a chance, but–"
"But not much of one?"
"Well, we've got far and away the biggest newsroom staff of any paper in town, so if things eventually do open up for more women, the Tribune is most likely to be the place where it opens up first."
"That doesn't sound very encouraging."
"Sorry, but to be honest, I don't see anything happening in the near-range future. Maybe someday, though…"
She nodded somberly and turned to the sturdy Underwood on the desk marked DAILY NEWS, where she began transcribing the notes on her labored interview with the lovely water-skier who had almost become Miss Georgia.
More than a decade would pass before Betty Ann Wells, who went on to make a name for herself as a Daily News feature writer, joined the Tribune, first as a general assignment reporter, then as a foreign correspondent, first in London and later Paris. When she got stationed in the latter city, she ventured into Algeria, reporting on that North African land's war of independence from France. Her coverage there would win her a Pulitzer Prize.
Chapter Thirty-Five
With the Phelps story behind me, I reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number. Elsie answered on the first ring, as usual, and put me straight through to Fergus Fahey.
"What now?" he asked in his familiar world-weary voice.
"Just checking in. I realize how much you miss me."
"Miss you? How could I miss you? You're on the blasted horn to me every time I take a deep breath or light a cigarette. It's like you never left the building. Next thing, you'll be showing up in my dreams–or should I say nightmares?"
"I notice you always manage to take my calls, though."
"That's because I'm terrified you've gotten yourself into another one of your patented jams and that we'll have to get you out of it somehow."
"Well, I admit I'm not completely jam-proof, but that's not the reason for this call. I'm wondering whether you've gotten hold of the elusive Mr. Whitnauer yet."
"Hell, no. We've had men, different men, visit that seedy bar in Uptown every night, and the bastard hasn't shown up."
"Maybe he's been tipped off somehow and is lying low."
"Or maybe this whole business is a wild goose chase, one you've helped get us into."
"Maybe it is, but somebody is killing people out here, and it seems likely it's the so-called Whitnauer. Unless, of course, you've got your eye on somebody else who you're not bothering to tell me about."
"As much as it might come as a shock, I don't tell you everything I know. But in this case, we're nowhere–off the record as usual, of course."
"What next?"
"How in blazes do I know? Obviously, we'll keep on trying to find this Whitnauer, if he's even still in Chicago."
"Well, for what it's worth, I'm pulling for you, Fergus."
"Swell," he said sourly. "That knowledge alone will keep me going."
I replaced the receiver in its cradle, leaned back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and lit a Lucky Strike. I'd taken two puffs when the phone rang and I picked up the receiver without identifying myself.
"Mr. Steven Malek?" a female voice
asked over static.
"Yes, speaking."
"Long distance call, hold on please. I have your party, sir," she said, obviously to the caller.
"Hello, am I talking to Mr. Steve Malek?" A voice crackled over the wires.
"You are indeed."
"Walt Disney at this end. How are you, sir?"
"Fine, just fine, Mr. Disney. Good to hear from you."
"Your Mr. Murray at the Tribune very kindly gave me this number. I am telephoning you for two reasons, first to thank you for that very gracious story in your newspaper about Ward Kimball and me at the Railroad Fair. Some old family friends in Chicago mailed me the clipping. It's nice to be remembered in the town where one spent a lot of growing-up time."
"It was my pleasure, both meeting you and writing the article, Mr. Disney."
"Now, sir, the second reason for my call: I am extremely curious about what's been happening at your fair since we left. On the way back to California on the Super Chief, I gave a great deal of thought to the deaths you've had there. Along, of course, with plans for the amusement park I told you about. Has there been any more trouble?"
"Sadly, yes." I told him about the man found floating in the lake, Alec Cunningham, and how all indications pointed to murder.
"That so?" the filmmaker said. "I didn't see anything about it in print out here, but then, I'm afraid our papers are notorious for being very parochial, very local in scope. May I assume no one is in custody?"
"You assume correctly. The police have a line on one man, but they have not been able to find him yet, at least as of yesterday." I then went on to tell Disney my theory about how the Schneider saga of years ago might well be the genesis of what now is occurring at the fair.
"That's very interesting, and it supports the original comment I made that these fairground deaths may have been because of a longstanding grudge held against a railroad or railroads. May I make a suggestion to you, Mr. Malek?"
"Please, by all means."
"Let me preface it by saying I have been often accused–by Ward Kimball among many others–of having an overactive imagination. Ward says I am prone to 'flights of fancy,' as he calls them, so you may want to take what I say with the proverbial grain of salt."
Terror at the Fair (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 13