But the Martindale manse was not my destination, not now, anyway. On the opposite side of Longwood, the east side, the homes were at street level, which despite their sizes and elegant styles made them seem less impressive than the higher-altitude neighbors that looked down on them. I passed in front of a two-story graystone house with a flat roof and a porte-cochere on the right side and checked its address against my notebook.
This was the residence of Edna Warburton, with whom I had an appointment. To back up a bit: Of the two long-time dwellers on the block other than the Martindales themselves, I had decided to try Mrs. Warburton on the theory that elderly women (I assumed her to be elderly), particularly widows, tend to be garrulous and to enjoy talking about their neighborhoods and the people in them. I telephoned her, identifying myself as a Tribune writer (I didn’t specify what kind of writer) and saying that I was thinking of doing a story on Beverly Hills and its history. I also told her that I heard, I couldn’t remember from whom, that she was a long-time resident of the area.
“Well, Mr. ... Malek, is it? I don’t know that I qualify as any sort of expert on the history of our fine little community,” she had responded in a quavering though friendly voice. “But I would be happy to talk to you, and perhaps direct you to some other folks who might be more helpful than I.” I told her that I was perfectly happy to take my chances on her as a source, at least for starters, and we made the date.
A Negro maid in a starched white uniform answered my ring of the Warburton chimes. I took off my hat and introduced myself.
“Oh, yes, Miz Warburton’s expecting you,” she said in a cultured tone when I gave her my name. “Please come in, sir.”
The oval-shaped foyer was twice the size of my bedroom, with a vaulted, coffered ceiling and a chandelier that would have held its own in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel. A staircase with an elaborate white balustrade swept gracefully upward, hugging the contour of the foyer’s back wall. Looking down on the flight of white-carpeted steps was an oil painting of a standing woman in a long, lavender gown, her delicate face framed by russet hair and dominated by intense blue eyes.
I followed the maid through a parlor that looked like a set piece from an English drawing-room comedy and then along an unlit, wood-paneled corridor. Just as my eyes were adapting to the dark, we burst into the startling brilliance of a solarium. A forest of ferns and leafy plants, some of them taller than me, fought a losing battle for attention with splashes of red, yellow, and purple flowers that were highlighted by the rays of the morning sun pouring through the glass walls and roof.
“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it? I do so enjoy receiving people in here.” The voice came from the far corner, giving me a start. All but enveloped by the greenery and flowers, she sat in a white wicker chair with a wool blanket covering her lap, despite the room’s warmth. Her face, now framed by well-coiffed white hair, was still dominated by the intense blue eyes of the foyer portrait.
“I’m Edna Warburton. Please sit down, Mr. Malek,” she said in a voice that showed no hint of the quaver I had heard when we spoke on the phone. She gestured me to a twin wicker chair separated from her own by a small table, also wicker. “Armantha has gone to get coffee. Or would you prefer tea? That’s what I’m having.”
Only then did I realize that the maid was no longer in the room. “Coffee is fine,” I answered, ducking under a branch and easing into the chair, which proved to be more comfortable than it looked.
She nodded. “Every man I have ever known — every American man that is — has preferred coffee over tea.” As she adjusted her blanket, I studied Edna Warburton. She was about seventy-five, I guessed, although her skin was remarkably smooth, and even her small and well-tended hands were wrinkle-free. Maybe that had something to do with the climate in this room.
“Well, what can I tell you about Beverly Hills?” she asked. “As I said when you called, there are others who know far more than I about the community, although I have been here a long time, over forty years now.”
I looked duly impressed. “This is a beautiful neighborhood,” I said, pulling a notebook from my pocket because I would be expected to write things down.
“Prettiest section of Chicago,” she stated as if daring contradiction. “And, I might add, more civilized and genteel than that other Beverly Hills.” She made a vague gesture toward the west with a delicate hand and sniffed disparagingly. “Warburton and I traveled to California by Pullman back in the ’20s to visit friends in Los Angeles, and they drove us through their Beverly Hills. Ostentatious, that’s what it was, Mr. Malek. Motion picture stars with no taste living in garish houses that only proved that they had no taste.”
It was time to redirect the conversation. “So, you’ve been here for forty years, four decades; you’ve probably seen a lot of changes.”
“And not all for the good. Your surname sounds very European. Are you a Catholic, Mr. Malek?” Her tone made it clear that she was not.
“Lapsed,” I said with what I hoped she would interpret as a self-deprecating shrug.
Her nod seemed to signal approval of my religious status. “Well, I have nothing against their church — live and let live, I always say. But when a few move into a neighborhood, all of a sudden it seems like they bring others, and pretty soon that’s all you have. And that is just what’s happened here, Mr. Malek.” She paused for breath as Armantha entered carrying a silver tray with matching coffee and teapots and china cups. The maid poured for both of us and slipped out noiselessly.
“So this area is heavily Catholic now?”
“More so every day,” she conceded, shaking her head. “When Warburton and I built this house a few years after the fair — the ’93 fair, that is — our neighbors were mostly Episcopalians and Methodists and a few Presbyterians. We were among our own, you might say. We’re Episcopal. But the Catholics bought land and planned to build a church — right here on Longwood, would you believe! Well, that didn’t work, because a group in the neighborhood got that piece of land condemned for a park. But eventually, they built a church in the neighborhood anyway, and now they’ve built a second one here, up at 93rd and Hamilton.”
I scribbled some notes on my pad, feeling only marginally deceitful. “Has all this caused neighborhood problems or tensions?”
She sipped tea and set her cup in its saucer gingerly. “I’ll just say that most of these newcomers are Irish, that should answer your question. Now, more than ever, it’s a good thing we don’t allow saloons around here, by law.”
I nodded, thinking of Kilkenny’s description of growing up Irish in another South Side neighborhood almost two generations ago. Possibly, attitudes had not changed as much as I thought.
“And of course they’re all Democrats, every last one of them,” Edna Warburton went on with feeling. “It seems like the whole country is Democratic now, what with that man in the White House and all of his socialist scheming. Every day I thank the Lord for your Tribune and your fine Colonel McCormick,” she said, reaching across the table and patting my arm. “A voice of sanity and reason crying out in the wilderness. We’ve always gotten the Tribune — Warburton wouldn’t have any other paper in the house.” She apparently never used her husband’s first name.