Nick nodded grimly. He usually tore out the door of the pressroom the instant I came through it, sometimes with barely a hello. Today, he might actually have to earn his salary.
Police Commissioner James P. Allman had two offices, one next door to the mayor’s suite in City Hall down on LaSalle Street in the Loop and the other at Police Headquarters. Years ago some mayor, very likely Big Bill Thompson, had wanted the top cop under his nose downtown so he could have more control over the Police Department. And even now, Allman spent the majority of his time in his City Hall digs. But today, he chose 11th and State for his press conference because, as Anson Masters observed, “he figures he’ll get better treatment from us than from the City Hall press boys. Besides, here he’s the top dog, the star. Down at the Hall, he’s just another department head.”
The carpeted reception area outside Allman’s Headquarters office was jammed with newspaper and radio reporters and photographers. A scarred mahogany rostrum had been hauled out, and four of the local radio stations had clamped their microphones to it. Nick Corcoran was right; Allman wanted to have his say before the Cook County State’s Attorney, Tom Courtney, waded in with his own press conference, which he surely would hold sometime before noon at the County Building, which adjoined City Hall. Courtney himself was a likely challenger for mayor in the Democratic primaries, and he wasn’t about to lose the opportunity to take his whacks at the mayor, the police, and what he would doubtless call “general lawlessness” in a city governed by the Honorable Edward J. Kelly.
At precisely 10 by my watch, the door to Allman’s office swung open, and the commissioner, lips pursed and jaw set, strode purposefully into the overcrowded, overheated room, followed by an equally grim-faced Chief of Detectives Fergus S. Fahey.
“Gentlemen, thank you for rearranging what I appreciate are busy schedules,” Allman intoned after clearing his throat and striking a pose as flashguns popped. He had no notes. “As all of you are aware, a shocking crime took place last night. One of this city’s most outstanding and exemplary citizens, Lloyd Martindale, age forty-seven, was shot dead after having been the guest speaker at a dinner meeting of the North Side Citizens Against Crime organization in the back room of a street-level restaurant in the 2900 block of North Broadway. Mr. Martindale’s body was found at 6:03 this morning lying in a parking lot twenty-two feet from his car, a ’35 Lincoln Le Baron roadster, by a newsstand operator who was passing by on foot en route to his stand, which is located at the intersection of Broadway and Diversey.”
“Commissioner, can you—”
“Let me continue, and then there will be ample time for questions,” Allman snapped at a radio reporter, clearly upset that the rhythm of his oratory had been broken. “Mr. Martindale was shot once, through the heart, probably with a.32 caliber bullet — it’s still in the body. Death was virtually instantaneous, according to the coroner’s office, and the shooting probably occurred before midnight.
“Robbery does not appear to have been a motive, as the victim’s billfold was still on his person and contained $48.55. Also, a gold pocket watch worth several times that amount was in his vest pocket. We have no suspects at this time, but then, the case is barely hours old. I can assure you that the vast resources of this department are being marshaled, and I have every confidence that the perpetrator will swiftly be brought to justice. I know that Chief of Detectives Fahey here” — Allman gestured to his right — “is prepared to use extraordinary measures to ferret out the killer or killers.”
Fahey, looking uncomfortable, nodded.
“Now, are there questions?” Allman asked.
“Yes, Commissioner.” It was Anson Masters, who started by clearing his throat. “Do you attach any significance to the fact, the very interesting fact, that Mr. Martindale was killed on Saint Valentine’s Day? Exactly nine years after the massacre?”
“That apparent coincidence has not been lost upon us, Mr. Masters,” Allman responded coldly, turning again to Fahey. “Chief, would you care to comment at this time?” Fahey stepped to the rostrum, scowling. “It seems probable that Lloyd Martindale has been the victim of the crime syndicate or one of its number. It has not been widely revealed until now, but Mr. Martindale had received — and duly reported the fact to us — several telephone threats within the last year.”
“What kind of threats?” I asked.
“Threats on his life. The caller or callers told him, in essence, to stop his crusading against prostitution, handbooks, numbers, etcetera.”
“But we keep hearing official word that none of these vices still even exist within the city,” Packy Farmer said with a smirk as several members of the media chuckled.
Fahey’s always ruddy face got a few shades redder. “I’m not going to dignify that with a comment,” he growled.
“Was Martindale getting any kind of official protection?” one of the radio guys asked.
“He wouldn’t take any,” Fahey said. “Told us he didn’t want to be perceived as hiding behind the shield of the Police Department. We have, however, maintained ’round-the-clock patrols in the immediate vicinity of the Lake Shore Drive apartment building where he had lived for the last eight months. Our men never saw anyone suspicious in all that time.”
“Martindale has also been pretty hard on the police department,” another radio reporter put in.
Allman aimed an Arctic glare in the questioner’s direction. “Meaning?”
“Just an observation.”
The commissioner blinked once, then looked away. “Any other pertinent questions?”
Indeed, more questions followed, none of which added to the apparently scant information about Martindale’s murder. As the noisy group shuffled out of the police commissioner’s anteroom and headed back to the pressroom to phone in their stories on the conference, Packy Farmer sidled up and gave my arm a tug. “Snap, you’re going to see Fahey now, aren’t you?” he asked sotto voce.
“Well, he sure as hell wouldn’t want to talk to you after that smart-ass comment you tossed his way,” I said. “But before I do anything else, I’m going to phone in a piece. Aren’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’ll call in something now, mainly to hold space for the later editions. But our first deadline’s a damn sight earlier than yours. We need some good stuff from him.”
“Could be that whatever he gives me, he’ll stipulate that I can share it with everybody but you.”
“Aw, come on, Snap. Don’t be that way.”
I felt like telling Packy to go and dig something up himself, but he had fed my vanity with his suggestion that I “owned” Fahey.
In fact, I’m not stretching the truth when I say that I was in thick with the chief of detectives. That Sunday feature I’d done on him hadn’t hurt any, to be sure, but our relationship went deeper than that single article. Whatever his reasons, the grizzled old police dick seemed to like me, or at least put up with me.
Maybe part of it was that he was reasonably sure that he could trust me — as sure as a copper ever can be about a reporter. When he talked off the record, I honored that, because I knew I’d eventually get the story from him, and usually get it all, when he was ready to unload. And he didn’t use the off-the-record dodge often, maybe because he figured I could find ways to make life hot for him in the pages of the Trib if I thought he was giving me the runaround. He was right.
And yes, Packy Farmer would get some of Fahey’s quotes for the next edition of the American, all right, but I’d make sure he would sweat a little first. If I had to share, I’d have a little fun first.