“Mr. Warburton, is he...?” I let my question trail off.
“Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you, did I? He died a little over five years ago; heart attack, the doctor said. But I can tell you what really finished him; it was that man getting elected.”
“Roosevelt?”
“That turncoat Episcopal! I never saw Warburton so angry as he was right after the election. And he died six weeks later. Six weeks, mind you. Heart attack — hah! He was killed by Franklin Damn Roosevelt.” Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up her cup.
I waited the requisite moment and then plunged back in. “That’s an impressive house across the street from you.”
She nodded absently. “Mmm. The Martindale place.”
“Oh! Would that be the Martindales?”
“It would,” she said somberly. “Of course Lloyd hadn’t lived there for years. He and his wife — she’s a Catholic — lived up on Lake Shore Drive in one of those big apartment buildings along the Gold Coast. What a tragedy. He would have made a fine mayor, unlike that Irish hooligan we have now. From what I read in your newspaper, they say that the crime syndicate had Lloyd murdered. But do you know what I think?” She fastened her blue eyes on me, waiting for a prompting.
“What?”
“I think it was those Democrats who murdered Lloyd, that vile Kelly-Nash crowd. What do you think, Mr. Malek?”
“You might very well be right,” I responded, eager to keep steering the conversation. “Have the Martindales lived here a long time?”
“Oh my, yes. Longer even than we have.”
“Do you ever see Mrs. Martindale?”
She straightened up and folded her hands primly in her lap. “Years ago, when her Edgar and Warburton were both alive, we used to get together to play bridge once in awhile, or cocktails. In fact, back then there was a lot of socializing all along this block of Longwood, parties and dinners and such, wonderful festive parties. Anyway, as time has passed, Beatrice — that’s Mrs. Martindale — has become more and more, well, reclusive is the word, yes. Doesn’t leave the house often, doesn’t have visitors. Just lately I did see her, of course, at Lloyd’s funeral, and said my regrets. And although I have talked to her on the telephone very occasionally, that was the first time I’d laid eyes on her or spoken to her face-to-face since my own Warburton’s funeral five years ago. And my, how she had aged, although I grant you that a tragedy can do that to you. Beatrice must be, oh, probably close to eighty by now. But it was more than just being older; she seemed... harder somehow, as if she had frozen people out. She barely acknowledged me — and the same was true regarding others in the neighborhood that she has known for years and years. Some of them remarked on it to me.”
“Maybe it really is her age,” I ventured.
Edna Warburton looked doubtful. “She didn’t show any particular signs of senility, and she certainly wasn’t doddering, no cane or anything like that to support her. No sir, I think her personality has changed. Now I realize that I only saw her for a few minutes, and I only talked to her for one or two, but she’s changed, yes she has. I saw her long enough to be sure of that much.”
“Hmm. I’m sorry to hear that she doesn’t see people. I thought I might call on her sometime and ask her about her own recollections of this neighborhood. What do you think?”
“Well... she certainly should have many recollections, I’ll grant you that. I would be glad to telephone her by way of introducing you, but I can’t promise that she would be receptive.”
“Thank you. I might ask you to do that. I noticed walking here from the station that there were some other big houses on either side of the Martindales’. Are they long-time residents as well?”
She shook her head emphatically. “The one on the left is an Irish family, I forget the name. Reilly, or some such,” she said dismissively. “And the house on the right is for sale. It used to be the Peabodys’, but they’ve been gone for years now, and there have been two or three owners since they moved to Florida for Arthur Peabody’s health. I haven’t known any of those people.”
I began to zero in. “Over the years, were there ever a lot of children on this block?”
“Well, yes, quite a few. Warburton and I never had any ourselves, so we really did not become involved in activities regarding children, such as the schools and such. But let’s see, there was Lloyd, of course, he was a toddler when we moved in, and his sister was maybe five. Next door to us to the south, the MacGregors, rest their souls, had two boys, fine boys, Duncan and Malcolm. They’re both lawyers on LaSalle Street now in their father’s old firm and live somewhere out in the suburbs. And for all I know, they may be grandparents — they’d be old enough. Back across the street, next door to the Martindales, the Stovers had two children, a boy and a girl.”
“You’ve got a wonderful memory, Mrs. Warburton. I’m impressed. Do you remember the names of the Stover kids?” I asked in a casual tone.
“The boy was Chester, I believe, and the girl was Nicolette.” She looked thoughtful. “My, but that was a long time ago, because the Stovers have been gone for... well, since 1912.”
I took note that these must be the children Steel Trap had talked about, then grinned at her and shook my head in wonderment. “Just out of curiosity, how do you happen to know the exact year?”
“With good reason!” she replied. “That was the year of the Titanic, and some folks that lived down the block, the Fergusons, were supposed to be on that maiden trip it made from England to New York.”
“The trip it never completed.”
She nodded somberly. “Yes, when we heard that the ship had gone down, everyone on Longwood and the surrounding streets was despondent — the Fergusons were such fine, upstanding people. But then imagine our great joy when we learned they were not on board! They had had an automobile accident in Scotland — Mr. Ferguson, Howard, forgot to drive on the left-hand side of the road and was in a collision. Fortunately, they were not badly hurt, only scratches, but they couldn’t make their way down to the port, Southampton, I think it was, in time for the sailing. Well sir, we threw a big party for them when they finally did arrive home; we had it right here in this very house. We invited people from blocks around. I think it may have been the biggest party we ever had. It was a joyous celebration.”
“And the Stovers?”
“Oh, yes. That was the strange thing. We tried to invite them, too, of course, but they were gone.”
“Gone?”
“Moved out, practically overnight. Nobody seemed to know why, and they never said good-bye to anyone so far as I know. The house didn’t even go on the market until after they’d gone, it all happened so quickly. And they had always seemed like such a friendly couple, too.”
“Interesting. Ever learn where they went?”
“Yes. Sometime later we heard, I forget from whom now, that they were living down in Flossmoor, supposedly in a much bigger house than they had here, although their house across the way, as you can see yourself, is very nice. As to why they moved so quickly, no one ever knew. We sent them Christmas cards for a few years, but never received one, so we finally stopped.”
“That’s quite a story,” I remarked. “Was Lloyd Martindale still living in his parents’ house at the time the Stovers left?”
“Oh, my, Mr. Malek, you are putting my memory to some tests now, aren’t you? Well, let’s see... yes, I think Lloyd probably was in college then — it was Harvard, you know — but he was of course home summers and holidays.”