I spent Saturday stewing about Humboldt and Chigwell, unable to think of any reason why they would concoct a story about Louisa and Joey, unable to think of a way to get a handle on them. When Murray Ryerson, head of the Herald-Star’ s crime bureau, called me on Sunday because one of his gofers had dug up the news that Nancy Cleghorn and I went to high school together, I even agreed to talk to him.
Murray follows De Paul basketball. Or slobbers over it. Although I live—and die—with the Cubs every year, and maintain a wistful love for the Bears’ Otis Wilson, I don’t really care whether the Blue Demons ever score another basket. In Chicago that’s extreme heresy—equivalent to saying you hate St. Patrick’s Day parades. So I agreed to truck out to the Horizon and watch them scrap around with Indiana or Loyola or whoever.
“Anyway,” Murray said, “you can sit there remembering how you and Nancy handled the same shots, only better. It will give a more intense flavor to your memories.”
De Paul lost a squeaker, with Murray commenting libelously on young Joey Meyer and the entire offense during the hour wait to move from the parking lot back to the tollway. It was only when we were in Ethel’s, a Lithuanian restaurant on the northwest side, filling Murray’s six-four frame with a few dozen sweet-and-sour cabbage rolls, that he got down to the real business of the afternoon.
“So what’s your interest in Cleghorn’s death?” he asked casually. “Family call you in to investigate?”
“The cops got a tip that I sent her to her death.” I calmly ate another fluffy dumpling. I’d have to run ten miles in the morning to work off all this.
“Come on. I must’ve heard a dozen people say you’ve been nosing around down there. What’s going on?”
I shook my head. “I told you. I’m clearing my name.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Ayatollah of Detroit.”
I love it when I’m telling Murray the truth and he’s convinced it’s a big cover-up—it gives me terrific leverage. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to pry out of him. The police had called on Steve Dresberg, on Dresberg’s mouthpiece, Leon Haas, on a few dozen other upstanding South Chicagoans—including some old lovers of Nancy’s—and didn’t have anything they considered a real lead.
Murray finally got tired of the game. “I guess there’s enough that we could do a little human-interest story of Nancy and you in college, living on table scraps and studying the classics in between creaming the best women’s teams in the region. I hate giving you print space when you’re not earning it, but it’ll help keep her name in front of the state’s attorney.”
“Thanks a whole bunch, Murray.”
When he dropped me at my place on Racine, I got in my car and headed for Hinsdale. Seeing him had given me a nasty little idea on a way to pressure Chigwell.
It was close to seven when I rang the bell at the side door, not the ideal time for paying house calls. When Ms. Chigwell answered my ring I tried to make myself look earnest and trustworthy. Her stern features didn’t give me any clue as to whether I was succeeding.
“Curtis won’t talk to you,” she said in her abrupt way, showing no surprise at my appearance.
“Try this on him,” I suggested in an earnest, trustworthy manner. “His picture on the front page of the Herald-Star and some heartwarming stories on his medical career.”
She looked at me grimly. Why she didn’t just shut the door in my face I didn’t understand. And why she went off to deliver the message puzzled me still further. It reminded me of some elderly cousins of my beloved ex-husband Dick, two brothers and a sister who lived together. The brothers had quarreled some thirteen years previously and refused to speak, so they would ask the sister to pass them salt, marmalade, and tea, and she obligingly did so.
However, Dr. Chigwell came to the door in person this time, not trusting his sister with the marmalade. With his thin neck bobbing forward, he looked like a harassed turkey.
“Listen here, young lady. I don’t have to take these threats. If you’re not away from this door in thirty seconds, I’m calling the police and you can explain to them why you’ve started a persecution campaign.”
He had me. I could just imagine trying to tell a suburban cop—or even Bobby Mallory—that one of Chicago’s ten wealthiest men was lying to me and getting his old plant doctor to collude. I bowed my head in resignation.
“Consider me gone. The reporter who’ll be calling you in the morning is named Murray Ryerson. I’ll explain to him about your old medical cases and so on.”
“Get out of here!” His voice had turned to a hiss that chilled my blood. I left.
17
Tombstone Blues