Another grunt, as he reached for one of the smokes and lit it up. “Okay, what brings you sniffing around?”
“I’m hurt, Fergus, I truly am. Can’t a fellow just casually drop by and say hello to an old friend every so often?”
“So you’re here just to say hello, are you? Okay, then my name is Valentino, that’s Rudolph Valentino, and I’m masquerading as a weather-beaten old homicide dick just hanging on until his pension kicks in,” he rasped, glancing up from the disarray in front of him and eyeing me dubiously. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Bad example. Valentino’s been pushing up posies for years now, and at last report you’re still alive and very possibly weather-beaten although by no means old,” I responded as Elsie brought in a steaming cup of coffee and set it in front of me. I nodded my thanks, winking and getting a wink in return as she swept out saucily and closed the door behind her.
Fahey took a long drag on his cigarette and leaned back, cupping his hands behind his head. “All right, now that you’ve gotten your requisite flirting with Elsie and the witty repartee out of your system, what’s on your mind, Snap? As you can see, I’m buried here.”
I sipped from the cup, smiling my approval. “What’s new on the Martindale case?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“Huh! I wish I had an answer. You tell me.”
“All right, I’ll make a stab at it, Fergus. How about this: The police have an alleged suspect in custody, but they’re keeping him under wraps — way under wraps, at least for now. There’s some doubt as to whether said suspect actually plugged Lloyd the Laudable, but even if he didn’t, well... he may end up choosing to confess anyway.”
“Meaning?” Fahey’s voice took on a hard edge.
“Meaning whatever you interpret it to mean,” I said lightly.
Face the color of an eggplant, the chief came forward in his chair, sticking out his chin. “And you claim to be a friend, suggesting something like that,” he snarled through clenched teeth.
“But I’m also a newspaperman, Fergus, remember? We have a reputation for being curious. And that’s just what I’m doing now — being curious. About an interesting story that’s been floating around.”
“Sounds to me like you’re doing a little fishing,” Fahey snorted.
“Care to comment on the story?”
“I do not,” he snapped, rising slowly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do, unlike certain members of the press.”
“Don’t bother to show me out; I know the way,” I said over my shoulder, keeping my tone light.
That afternoon about 5:30, I hopped a northbound El train at the Roosevelt Road station a block from headquarters and got off at Wabash and Madison in the Loop a half-dozen minutes later. The Harding’s restaurant on Wabash was similar to the others in the chain: clean, well-lit, inexpensive, unadorned, and with moderately good food.
The eatery was about three-quarters full with suppertime diners, couples, and singles. The hostess ushered me to a table for two that hugged a mirrored wall near the back. When a waitress with a script-lettered “Betty” stitched on her uniform pocket came over with a menu and a glass of water, I asked if the assistant manager, Nicolette Stover, was on duty.
“She’s on duty, all right, but what’s this assistant manager stuff? Somebody steered you wrong, Mac,” Betty said in a nasal tone that I took to be Downstate Illinois, or maybe Indiana. “She’s over there — second-shift cashier, same as always. We don’t even have an assistant manager. For that matter, we don’t have much of a manager, either, damn his cheap hide. But I never said that, did I?”
“Didn’t hear a word,” I said, returning her smile and looking in the direction Betty indicated. I saw a sallow-faced, expressionless woman who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty-five perched behind the cash register counter at the front of the restaurant, the bustle of Wabash Avenue forming a backdrop through the plate glass window.
After I ordered, I studied Nicolette Stover in profile. It would have been a stretch to term the woman pretty, as Lorraine Hokinson had, although Nicolette wasn’t giving herself much help in that department. Her hair, which I would have called oatmeal-colored, looked like it had been hacked with shears, and (assuming she did it herself) without benefit of a mirror. From where I sat, she appeared to wear no makeup or lipstick, and she never moved a facial muscle as she rang up customers’ checks and then, robot-like, gave them change.
After settling on how I was going to approach the woman, I tied into my roast pork and sauerkraut (passable but hardly first-rate) and replayed the day’s meeting with Fergus Fahey. The chief’s out-of-character behavior made it seem all but certain that Anson Masters’ informer was onto something.
Police have been beating confessions out of suspects since the birth of law enforcement, whenever that was, making it easy to believe they were doing it again now, especially given the high profile of the Martindale murder. My hunch was that an ill-starred mob lackey, probably usually employed as a bagman or a driver, was getting worked over methodically by the police someplace far removed — possibly even outside the city. And after he finally spit out a confession, he’d be given time for the bruises to heal and then be trotted out for arraignment.
I’d been covering the homicide operation and Fergus Fahey long enough to know that despite his hard-boiled demeanor, he was basically an all-right cop who was uneasy with this ham-handed approach to crime-solving, particularly when the subject of such “interrogation” was innocent of said crime. But I also was aware of the intense pressure being applied to the force in general and the commissioner and his chief of detectives in particular by the massed array of the mayor, the State’s Attorney, the Crime Commission, the press, and public opinion — all clamoring for a Barabbas to send to his death. Fahey was torn, all right; I had seen it in sharp relief etched on his face this morning, and in his manner as well. He couldn’t bear to admit to what was happening, or so I reasoned.
Such is the lot of a high-ranking cop who also happens to come with a bona fide conscience, I told myself, finishing the sauerkraut and draining what was left of my coffee. But, I argued, he went into this line of work with his eyes open, right? Granted, but should he then be put in a position where his professional future, his entire career, hinges on condoning coercion to get a confession? Maybe not, but isn’t he paid to make hard decisions? Yes, however... at this point, I ended the internal debate and brought my focus back to Nicolette Stover.
All during dinner, I watched her at her post and had yet to see even a trace of animation. Now, as the crowd in the restaurant gradually thinned, I lingered until I was confident that none of the few remaining diners were about to pay their tab. Then I left a quarter tip, rose, and walked to the cashier.
“The roast pork was excellent tonight, absolutely superb,” I pronounced as I handed over my check and two singles to Nicolette.
“Uh-huh. S’nice,” she responded in a wooden tone, her surprisingly dark eyes never leaving the cash register as her fingers danced over its keys.
“Nicolette Stover?” I lowered my voice an octave, watching her for a reaction. “Huh?” She jerked upright and tensed as if she’d just stuck her finger into an electric light socket.
“Bob McNeil of the American,” I said sotto voce, placing another of my collection of calling cards on the scarred glass top on the counter in front of her. “I’m writing a Sunday feature on Lloyd Martindale and I understand you once lived next door to him down in Beverly Hills.”
“Who told you that?” she spat, her body rigid and her face at last showing some emotion — I would have termed it terror.