“Mr. Veeck was wonderful to Eddie over the years,” she said, her voice bravely strong. “Gave Eddie so much work. Eddie supported me, after his father died, you know.”
“Eddie kept busy.”
“Yes. TV, movies, stage... He lived with me, you know — had his little apartment with its little furnishings in the attic... ceiling so low I had trouble cleaning up there, but he loved it. That’s where I found him... in bed...”
I slipped an arm around her as she wept.
Then after a while I said, “You spoke to Mr. Veeck on the phone, I understand.”
“Yes — this morning.”
“I’m a private investigator, Mrs. Gaedel, and Bill asked me to talk to you about these... doubts you have, about the circumstances of your son’s death.”
“Oh! Are you willing to look into that for me?”
“Bill has hired me to do that very thing, as long as we have your blessing.”
“Of course you have my blessing! And my eternal thanks... What do you want to know, Mr. Heller?”
“This is hardly the time, Mrs. Gaedel. I can come to your home, after the service sometime, in a day or two perhaps—”
“No, please, Mr. Heller. Let’s talk now, if we could.”
I was turning my hat in my hands like a wheel. “Actually, that would be wise, if you’re up to it. The sooner I can get started—”
“I’m up to it. Start now.”
We were interrupted several times, as Eddie’s friends paid their respects. But her story was this: Eddie had been drinking heavily lately, and running with a rough crowd, who hung out at the Midgets’ Club.
I knew this bar, which was over on Halstead, and dated back to the ’40s; it had begun as a gimmick, a bar where the customers were served by midgets, mostly former members of the Singer Midgets who’d played Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz. An area was given over to small tables and short stools, for midget clientele, and eventually the midgets essentially took over. But for the occasional tourist who stopped by for the oddity of the joint — to pick up the trademark half-books of matches, see a few framed Oz photos, and get some Munchkin autographs — the Midgets’ Club became the cultural center of midget activity in Chicago.
“I thought the Midgets’ Club was pretty respectable,” I said.
“It is — Elmer St. Aubin and his wife still run the place. But a rough element — carny types — hang out there, you know.”
“That blonde you were talking to. She doesn’t seem part of that element.”
“She isn’t, not all. That’s Betsy Jane Perkins... she worked with Eagle’s Midget Troupe, does a lot of television, personal appearances, dressed and made up like a doll... the ‘Living Doll,’ they call her.”
“Were your son and Miss Perkins good friends?”
“Oh yes. He’d been dating her. She was wonderful. Best thing in his life... I was so hopeful her good influence would wrest him away from that bad crowd.”
“Do you suspect anyone in particular, Mrs. Gaedel?”
“No, I... I really didn’t know many of my son’s friends. Betsy Jane is an exception. Another possibility are these juvenile delinquents.”
“Oh?”
“That’s what I think may have happened — a gang of those terrible boys may have gotten ahold of Eddie and beaten him.”
“Did he say so?”
“No, not really. He didn’t say anything, just stumbled off to bed.”
“Had he been robbed, mugged? Was money missing from his wallet?”
She shook her head, frowning. “No. But these juveniles pick on the little people all the time. If my son were inebriated, he would have been the perfect target for those monsters. You should strongly consider that possibility.”
“I will. Mrs. Gaedel, I’ll be in touch with you later. My deepest sympathies, ma’am.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. “God bless you, Mr. Heller.”
In the alcove, I signed the memorial book. The crowd of midgets was thinning, and the blonde was gone.
Nothing left for me to do but follow the Yellow Brick Road.
The Midgets’ Club might have been any Chicago saloon: a bar at the left, booths at the right, scattering of tables between, pool table in back, wall-hung celebrity photos here and there, neon beer signs burning through the fog of tobacco smoke, patrons chatting, laughing, over a jukebox’s blare. But the bar was sawed-off with tiny stools, the tables and chairs and booths all scaled down to smaller proportions (with a few normal-sized ones up front, for tourist traffic), the pool table half-scale, the celebrity photos of Munchkins, the chatter and laughter of patrons giddy and high-pitched. As for the jukebox, Sinatra’s “Tender Trap” was playing at the moment, to be followed by more selections running to slightly dated swing material, no rock or R & B — which suited me, and was a hell of a lot better than “Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead.”
I had known the club’s proprietor and chief bartender, Pernell “Little Elmer” St. Aubin, since he was, well, little — a child entertainer at the Midget Village at the Chicago World’s Fair back in ’33. He’d been tap dancing and I’d been busting pickpockets. Elmer had been in his teens when he appeared in The Wizard of Oz, so now — as he stood behind the bar, polishing a glass, a wizened Munchkin in an apron — he was probably only in his mid-thirties. But as was so often the case with his kind, he looked both older and younger than his years.
I selected one of the handful of somewhat taller stools at the bar and said to Elmer, “For a weekday, you’re doing good business.”
“It’s kind of a wake,” Elmer explained. “For Eddie Gaedel. People coming over after visitation at Keurtz’s. You knew Eddie, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I was over there myself. Paying my respects, and Bill Veeck’s.”
Elmer frowned. “Couldn’t Veeck make it himself?”
“He’s pretty sick. So was Eddie ornery as ever, up to the end?”
“Christ yes! I hated serving that little bastard. Sweet enough guy sober, but what a lousy drunk. If I hadn’t been secretly watering his drinks, over the years, he’d have busted up the joint long ago.”
“I hear he may have been rolled by some juvies. Think that’s what killed him?”
“I doubt it. Eddie carried a straight razor — people knew he did, too. I think these young punks woulda been scared to get cut. Funny thing, though.”
“What is?”
“His mama said that straight razor didn’t turn up in his things.”
I thought about that, then asked, “So how do you think Eddie died?”
“I have my own opinion.”
“Like to share that opinion, Elmer?”
“The cops weren’t interested. Why are you?”
“Eddie was a friend. Maybe I’m just curious. Maybe there’s a score to settle.”
“Are you gonna drink something, Heller?”
I gave the Munchkin a ten, asked for a rum and Coke and told him he could keep the change, if he stayed chatty.
“Eddie was playing a puppet on a local kids’ show,” Elmer said, serving me up. “But he lost the gig ’cause of his boozing. So lately he was talking to some of my less classier clientele about going out on the carny circuit. Some kinda sideshow scam where they pretended to be Siamese triplets or something.”
“Work is work.”
“See that little dame over there?”
Every dame in here was little, but Elmer was talking about Betsy Jane, the Living Doll in her blue satin prom dress. I hadn’t spotted her when I came in — she was sitting alone in a booth, staring down into a coffee cup cupped in her dainty hands.