Murder at Wrigley Field (17 page)

“Why not,” he agreed. The expression on his face reflected my own thoughts: anything to get out of this house for a while.

We left with a promise to “be back soon” and the intention to stretch out the walk as long as we could. Fohl took one of the dogs, while I tried to control three of them.

For at least five minutes we slowly progressed without exchanging a word. Then I said to Fohl, “I visited the tannery where you work a few days ago.”

“I know. I saw you.”

“Never saw so much leather in my life. All those hides. The supervisor, Bill Pines was his name?”

Fohl nodded.

“He told me it’s almost all used for the army—belts and harnesses and such.”

“That’s right.”

“Not much available for making shoes and purses anymore. In fact, you can’t hardly find a pair of high-button shoes anywhere.” I paused. “Except at your church. You remember when you were taking me around and the old man showed you those nice shoes? And he kept thanking you?”

Fohl was reddening and his droopy jowls hung a bit lower.

I was thinking of trying to blackmail him for information but chose to play it straight. “Look,” I said. “If your stealing some leather from the tannery, I don’t care about it. I’m not going to tell anyone. And I don’t care what kind of meetings you have at the church, either. I’ll bet there’s more going on there than you let me see, but all I want to know is this: did any of it involve Willie?”

He shook his head no.

“Anyone angry at Willie for not joining the group?”

“Only me. And only sometimes.”

“Nobody would want to kill him?”

“What?
Hell, no.” He paused. “You know what we do there?”

“More than give music lessons, I bet.”

“Okay, yeah. Some of the guys get together and talk about what we’d like to do. But it’s just talk, see? A chance to blow off steam. Can’t do it anywhere else. They’ll put you in jail if you do. Some of the guys talk big, but there’s nothing more than that.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

I accepted his word, and we maneuvered the dogs back to Paulina Street. As we approached the Chapman house, Fohl said, “That old man you saw with the shoes, he’s a cobbler. And he’s been having a real tough time of it. Folks are boycotting German businesses. I’m just trying to help him put a little food on the table.”

“I’d probably do the same,” I said.

We stepped into the house to find a Ouija board set up on the dinner table. Oh no, I thought. There was almost a national craze for the things. Those with a son in the military used the board to find out what would happen to him; those whose son had been killed used it to communicate with his spirit. I didn’t want to be talking to Willie’s ghost.

Both Fohl and I had to take our turns at working the board, but it didn’t do anything when we touched it. The only time the Ouija board gave a message was when Edna and her mother were using it.

I said my good-byes, probably sooner than was polite but I had to get out of the Chapman home. I left with the fervent desire that I would be invited to no more dinners and the impression that Edna Chapman shared that hope.

On the way home, I realized that tomorrow would be August fourth, the one month anniversary of Willie’s death. It occurred to me that I would think of every Fourth of July from now on as the day Willie Kaiser was killed.

S
unday emerged warm and hazy from the muggy darkness of Saturday night. It was an off day, a break in the Cubs’ baseball schedule. I made it a day of rest, determined to remain in the relative cool of my house and indulge in some badly needed idleness. And in the sultry embrace of a hot bath. My new water tank had finally been installed.

The problem was that physical rest doesn’t keep the brain from traipsing about on its own pursuits.

During a leisurely breakfast of coffee and oatmeal cookies, I mulled over my conversation with Wicket Greene. If he was lying to me, he was a pretty convincing liar, and I’d seen some of the best. If he was telling the truth, then it looked like Bennett Harrington was behind the sabotage at Cubs Park.

But why would Harrington have Greene throw games if not to bet on the outcome? And if the purpose was to make money at gambling, how did the other incidents fit in? What profit could Harrington make from seats being sawed or pretzels left in the concession booths or smoke bombs tossed in the grandstand?

If these episodes were part of whatever scheme Bennett Harrington had going, could Willie’s murder be part of it as well? Had Willie discovered what Harrington was up to?

And Curly Neeman getting killed—how did that fit in? If it did at all. There were also the Patriotic Knights of Liberty. To what extent were they involved?

My brain eventually wound its way to something more closely resembling my original theory: Wicket Greene, perhaps at the behest of Bennett Harrington, was throwing games; Willie found out about it; Greene got his fellow Knight Curly Neeman to kill him; then Greene killed Neeman to keep him from talking.

Breakfast finished, I called Karl Landfors at his place in Rosemont and laid it all out for him. “Neeman and Greene were both in the Knights,” I said. “It could be they just met there and that’s how they hooked up. But I think somebody might have been pulling their strings.”

“Whom do you think it is?”

Whom.
Landfors was definitely reverting to his old ways. So much for my hopes that he would become a regular guy. “Could you check on Frank Timmons?” I asked. “He’s in charge of the group. I heard he used to be with the Klan in Georgia if that helps any.”

“It should. You think Timmons is behind it?”

“Don’t know. But he’s a logical starting point. I’d bet somebody’s using these guys. Curly Neeman wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake, like my uncle used to say. And Wicket Greene ain’t a whole lot brighter.”

Landfors promised to do his best, we hung up, and I proceeded to fill the bath tub with steaming hot water. I didn’t care that it wasn’t the most sensible thing to do on a hot summer day. While soaking in the tub, I continued to think things over. I decided it might be worth finding out exactly what happened to Curly Neeman as well. And I was determined to do it on my own. I didn’t want to be always depending on Karl Landfors for information.

After the bath and a change into some fresh light summer clothes, I plucked
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
from the bookcase and spent the remainder of the day with Tom and Huck and the rest of the gang. It was while Tom and Becky were lost in McDougal’s cave that it occurred to me: Why did Wicket Greene tell me what he had about Bennett Harrington? Why admit anything about throwing games?

My Monday morning visit to the downtown County Building, which housed the offices of the Cook County Coroner, turned out to be highly educational. For one thing, I learned that there’s no great trick to obtaining information from public employees, not even from those who are supposed to keep it secret. Once you’ve identified the civil servant who has access to the documents you’re seeking, it’s more a matter of negotiation than investigation.

One of the deputy coroners, a fragile-looking, pale young man with thick spectacles, charged me ten dollars for the autopsy report and an extra five dollars to translate it for me. Landfors probably could have argued him down in price; since I didn’t know what the going rates were, I paid it.

“It was routine,” he explained. “Neeman, Cecil, a.k.a. ‘Curly.’ Killed by a single bullet to the heart—”

“What kind of bullet?”

He nodded approvingly at the question. “Don’t know for sure. The slug lodged in the spine; we dug it out, but it was badly damaged.”

“Any guess as to caliber?”

“Rough guess: forty-five.”

“And it was the bullet that killed him? He didn’t drown?”

He laughed. “No. Neeman was one hundred percent dead before he hit the water.”

“Anything else?”

He skimmed the report. “Everything is consistent with death by gunshot. And the body showed the usual signs of having been in water for... oh, not longer than overnight, I don’t think.” I could have confirmed this since I’d seen Neeman alive the evening before his body was found, but I was here to get information, not volunteer it. The deputy coroner added, “There’s one thing that’s unusual, but it has nothing to do with the cause of death.”

“What’s that?”

“Burn marks.”

“Burn marks?”

“On the arm. And some bruises here and there. But like I said, that’s not what killed him.”

“What caused the burns?”

“That’s what’s interesting. They hadn’t scarred over yet, so they were fairly fresh. They were small and localized, like a lit cigar would do. I’ve seen lots of those. A cigar’s a wonderful way to torture somebody. But these looked a little different. The skin didn’t pucker around the wound like it does when you touch a cigar to it. I could swear...” His face contorted into a series of odd expressions as he searched his memory. “Oh yes! About a year ago, I had a customer with similar marks. A bank robber. Eventually got himself shot in a holdup, which is how he became a customer. Anyway, he had a tattoo on his arm that he tried to burn off with a candle. Looked the same as what your friend Neeman had. Of course, Neeman being in the water might have affected the way the wounds looked.”

“A candle.... Would a blowtorch make the same mark?”

“Hmm. Probably.”

I sighed. “One more thing. What about the police report? Do you have that?”

“Oh no. You’d have to get that from the police.” He told me who to see in the police department and added that the report was classified. That meant expensive. Which meant it would have to wait for another time. I couldn’t afford to buy any more information today.

Behind the shutout pitching of Wilbur Cooper, the Pittsburgh Pirates took the opener of our series 4–0. None of their runs was due to Wicket Greene’s fielding; he played a flawless shortstop. Much better than I did at second base. I booted two grounders, which led to three of the Pirates’ runs. The first error was embarrassing; by the time I made the second, I knew exactly what Greene meant about tightening up.

After the game, I took a cursory shower and changed quickly into a tan poplin suit. I still had a full day ahead of me.

First stop: Charles Weeghman’s office upstairs in Cubs Park. Before he got on me again to step up my investigating efforts, I thought I’d head him off by volunteering a report on my progress.

His spacious office was filled with plaques, trophies, and certificates all attesting to what an upstanding citizen, magnanimous businessman and generally fine fellow he was. Weeghman gave me little time to inspect the testimonials. The first words out of his mouth, while his cigar remained in it, were, “You got something for me?”

“Just wanted to let you know what I found out so far.”

“What?” He didn’t offer a seat, so I stood. That was fine with me; I didn’t want to stay any longer than I had to.

“The only thing I’ve been able to pin down so far is the pretzels.”

Weeghman yanked the cigar from his teeth. “Who did it?”

“It was an accident. One of the guys working the concession stands stocked them by mistake. After it hit the papers, he was afraid to admit it. Poor kid needs the job.” It bothered me some, but not much, that I was starting to get a little too adept at lying and too willing to resort to it.

“Give me his name.”

“Might be better if I didn’t. If the papers find out you fired some hard-working kid for making an honest mistake, they’ll really go after you.”

Weeghman grunted. “You trying to protect me from myself again? Like the way I shouldn’t know where you’re going and who you’re talking to?” A wry smile twitched at his face.

“No,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I care more about the kid. He’s got a family to feed.” Truth? I had to remind myself that this whole yarn was a lie.

Weeghman simmered briefly, then burst into laughter. “If this ain’t the goddamnedest year. I got a second baseman who tells me to my face that he cares more about some peanut vendor than he does about me, the man who can make or break him. Well, you may not be smart, but at least you’re honest.”

Yeah, and you’re perceptive, I thought.

“Fine, keep it to yourself,” he decided. “But if you find out anything about the smoke bombs or anything else, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Right.” That wasn’t a lie—yet.

Satisfied for now, Weeghman waved his cigar at me. I was dismissed.

Next stop: the West Side, specifically Wood Street between Polk and Taylor.

On the north side of Polk Street were the manicured lawns and impressive brick buildings of Cook County Hospital. South of Polk was the Chicago Cubs’ former home park, the West End Grounds. The Cubs played there for more than twenty years until Charles Weeghman moved them into his Federal League park after the 1915 season.

On Wood Street, across from the West End Grounds’ left field fence, was Agnes O’Doul’s apartment.

Both of our shifts at the Dearborn Fuel Company started at eight o’clock. I was in front of her three-story apartment building at quarter-to-seven. I briefly debated whether to go to her door or simply wait for her to come out. Since I hadn’t had supper yet, I elected to eat at a next-door lunch counter first. While munching a grilled cheese sandwich, I kept an eye on the front window. Agnes would have to pass by on her way to work. Sandwich, ginger ale, a slice of peach pie, two cups of coffee, another piece of pie, and it was almost seven-thirty.

I’d finally decided to go to her door when she stepped outside, almost bowling me over.

“What are you doing here?” The tone was brusque but not hostile.

I stepped back and mumbled something to the effect that I’d come to talk to her. I was struck by how different Agnes looked outside of the plant, out of her coveralls and cap. She was attractively dressed in a simple, trim frock of chocolate brown with a white scarf. From her yellow summer bonnet, chestnut hair hung almost to her shoulders. She wasn’t ever going to be on a burlesque stage, but there were aspects of her appearance that were most definitely feminine and appealing.

“How do you know where I live?” She sounded defensive.