Two minutes later he was talking with Maude Markham.
He’d found her picture at the head of a column called “Fifty Years Ago in Chicagoland Sports,” and from the looks of the photo she was more likely to write from memory than she was from the newspaper’s doubtlessly extensive morgue.
Lindsey could have asked his questions on the phone, but he’d found in the past that personal contacts often yielded better results than telephone inquiries. He cut an unprepossessing figure, he knew that, and he was the master of a ploy that he called the I’m-just-a-poor-working-stiff-doing-my-job-ma’am-won’t-you-please-help-me-out approach.
Maude Markham sounded like an amalgam of Marjorie Main and Jane Darwell—strong, gruff, with just a touch of the old heart-of-gold. She’d just shivered in from covering
