“Stevie, how you doin’?” she effused. It had been a decade since I left City News for the Trib, yet she still remembered me. But then, it was said that Ruby Ryan remembered everybody who’s passed through City News, which meant most of the reporters on the Chicago dailies, plus scores of others on papers from Savannah to Sioux Falls to Sacramento.
“I’m one step ahead of my creditors and a half-step ahead of the law,” I cracked. “Ruby, is ‘Steel Trap’ Bascomb still among us?”
“Well, yes, but not in very good shape nowadays,” she said in a stage whisper. Ruby liked sounding conspiratorial. “He’s slipped a lot the last couple of years, so I hear tell. His Sylvia died three, maybe four years back now, but he still lives in the same house he always has, out in Oak Park. His daughter’s moved in with him — she’s divorced — and she looks after him. She’s swell, a real peach.”
“Got the number?” I asked, knowing the answer. Ruby was a repository for hundreds of phone numbers — many of them in her head.
“Of course, Stevie,” she said, reeling it off without pause. “But be prepared; I’m told that Lemuel’s gotten pretty senile, poor guy.” I thanked her and promised that I would drop by the office sometime soon and say hello, which both of us knew was unlikely.
Lem “Steel Trap” Bascomb was a top-drawer reporter who had covered the Criminal Courts for City News from around the turn of the century until his retirement a half dozen years ago, and we’d worked together for several months in the early ’30s when I filled in for the Trib’s man on that beat. Steel Trap had been tagged with that moniker because of his remarkable ability to remember names, cases, and exact dates. How much of that once-fabled memory was left I now intended to discover.
The voice on the other end of the line was soft, almost childlike. I told her who I was, that I had known her father years before, and that I wanted to stop by for a visit with him.
“Daddy’s... well, not always too lucid,” she said apologetically. “He has his days, but also days that aren’t so good, and it’s hard to know how you’ll find him if you do come. What did you want to see him about?”
“I’m working on a story that has its origins in a case that happened a number of years ago. I think he might remember me, I hope he does. But even more, I was hoping he might be able to recall some of the details.”
“Well, I realize Daddy was known for his great memory, but I’m afraid you may be disappointed. However, today he’s been quite clear-headed.”
“Well, would it be convenient if I came by tonight?”
A pause. “Yes, I guess that would be fine. You’re welcome to have dinner with us, although it’s nothing fancy — just franks and beans. We usually eat about 5:30.”
“Thanks for the kind offer, but I couldn’t get there that soon from work, and I don’t want to upset your schedule, so I’d better pass on dinner. Would it be all right if I came at about 6:30?” She said it would and gave me the address.
I rode the Lake Street El west to beyond where the tracks drop down onto street level and got off at the Ridgeland Avenue station. Other than the day-long El ride Peter and I had taken, I’d only been in Oak Park once before, years ago, but I had a good map. I walked several blocks south along quiet, shaded streets lined with solid and substantial two-story houses of frame or stucco that were set well back from the sidewalk on neat, narrow lots.
My destination turned out to be one of the stucco numbers, white and fronted by an enclosed porch that ran the width of the house and had four lace-curtained windows on each side of its front door. I pushed the buzzer and heard nothing from within, but after a half-minute, the door opened inward to reveal a petite, auburn-haired woman of perhaps thirty-five with an oval face, brown eyes, ivory complexion, and a shy, tentative smile.
“Mr. Malek? Please come in,” she said, gracefully stepping aside.
I thanked her and mumbled something about not having asked her name when we were on the phone.
“Oh, don’t apologize,” she said with a pleasant laugh. “I should have introduced myself when you called; it’s my fault. I’m Catherine — Catherine Reed. I told Daddy you were coming, and it seemed to me that he showed some recognition of your name, although honestly, I couldn’t be sure.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t remember. We did only work together for a few months,” I said, following the small woman into the house and admiring her trim figure, which was modestly displayed in a blue, belted dress. We passed through a beamed-ceiling living room with dark walls, dark furniture, landscape paintings, and a brick fireplace, then turned left into an airy, cheerful little sitting room with yellow, flowered wallpaper.
In an easy chair next to a window with Venetian blinds sat a wizened, prow-jawed, and hollow-eyed man in bedroom slippers, baggy slacks, and a red flannel shirt buttoned at the top. He bore little more resemblance to the Steel Trap Bascomb of my memory than I did to Franklin Roosevelt.
“Daddy, here is Mr. Malek, from the Tribune,” Catherine said cheerfully. “He’s come here all the way from the city just to see you.”
Bascomb raised a gnarled hand and said something that sounded like “Hey” as I dropped into a straight-backed chair opposite him.
“You’re looking good, Steel Trap,” I lied. “It’s been a lot of years since I’ve seen you.”
“Yeah, lotta years, lotta years.” He ran a hand through sparse and unkempt dust-colored hair and raised the hand again, then let it drop limply into his lap.
“Mr. Malek, can I get you a cup of coffee?” Catherine asked from the doorway. “Daddy’s already had his.”
I said thanks, told her I took it black, and turned back to her father, who was looking straight ahead, unblinking. “Do you keep up with the news these days?” I asked.
That brought a nod. “News... lotsa news. See the papers. Trib... Examiner... Times... all of ’em.”
“Glad to hear it. You were always a better reporter than anybody on any of the dailies.”
He chuckled hoarsely, slapping a leg. “Damn right. Lazy sumbitches.”
“Did you read about Lloyd Martindale’s murder in February?”
“Marn’dale... yeah. Plugged in the pump.”
“Did you know him?”
He turned to me, squinting and cocking his head. “Rich father. Buncha steel mills.”
“That’s right,” I said, mildly encouraged by his recall. Catherine tiptoed in and set a cup of coffee on the small lamp table at my elbow. “Edgar Martindale was one of the richest men in town, maybe in the whole country,” I went on. “Do you remember whether his son was ever in any sort of trouble? A long time ago, that is?”
Steel Trap Bascomb screwed up his face and made clicking noises with his tongue. “Mmm... trouble...” He hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes, and formed a steeple with his hands.
“Daddy always does that when he’s trying to remember something,” Catherine murmured from the hallway, where she had remained standing. “It’s good for him to have someone ask him specifics — it forces him to make his mind work.”
I gave her a smile and drank coffee while Bascomb kept struggling to recapture some shard of recollection. “Ask him again,” Catherine prompted.
“Steel Trap, do you remember if Lloyd Martindale was ever arrested?”
He opened his eyes and his head jerked up and down, which I took to be a nod. “Sumbitch. Messed with kids... damn... with kids.”