by Troy Soos
The Mickey Rawlings Baseball Mysteries
Available from Kensington Publishing
MURDER AT FENWAY PARK
MURDER AT EBBETS FIELD
MURDER AT WRIGLEY FIELD
HUNTING A DETROIT TIGER
THE CINCINNATI RED STALKINGS
HANGING CURVE
The CINCINNATI RED STALKINGS
TROY SOOS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Author’s note
WAR HERO KILLS BOLSHEVIK
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to the many people who helped with this book.
I’d like to thank Kate Duffy, my editor, for her encouragement and guidance; Sara and Bob Schwager for their fine copyediting; Meredith Bernstein and Elizabeth Cavanaugh, my agents, for their continuing efforts on my behalf.
I am indebted to Darryl Brock for information on the 1869 Red Stockings, Jeffrey Marks for answering my many questions about Cincinnati, and Dave Collins for researching artifacts at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Also providing valuable research assistance were Detective Richard Gross and Specialist Cathy Boone, Cincinnati Police Department; Patricia Van Skaik and Rick Ryan, Public Library of Cincinnati and Hamilton County; Anne Shepherd, Cincinnati Historical Society Library; Debbie Mize, Seminole County Library; Jean Chapman, Society for American Baseball Research; Cindy Haigh; Greg Rhodes; Steve Cummings; Nat Rosenberg; Kate Buker; Leigh Shaheen; Naomi Diesendruck; and the staff of the Ohio Historical Society. I am grateful to all of these individuals and institutions for so generously sharing their time and expertise.
Chapter One
The old horsehide had a patina, dark amber in color, like the tint of an antique photograph. Appropriate, I thought, for this baseball was also a window to a bygone world. More than that—it was part of history, a relic from the days when baseball players were “ballists” and the game they played was just starting to be proclaimed “the national pastime.” And it was right in front of me, inviting my touch, offering me a chance to make physical contact with another era.
I couldn’t resist the invitation. I reached out ... and as soon as the ball was in my grip, I felt myself being tugged backward in time. More than half a century dissolved, as I slipped—willingly, eagerly—back to the summer of 1869.
The sensation was familiar to me; I’d made these journeys before. I wasn’t sure what it is about baseball that makes such a phenomenon possible, however. Perhaps it’s because the essence of the game has changed so little over the years; boys playing ball on paved city streets do much the same as their grandfathers did when those streets were village cow paths. Or maybe because baseball history is more a collective memory than a sequence of events; stories told by old-timers, personal experiences at the ballpark, and yesterday’s box scores all mingle together in one vast pool of shared experience. You can dip your foot in any part of it, stir up the mixture, and wade right into the past.
I cupped the baseball in my palm and gently ran the tip of my thumb over the scarlet stitches. Neatly lettered on the ball in dark red paint was:
Cin’ti BB Club
July 2, ’69
The first all-professional team in baseball history: the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869. Lead by the legendary Wright brothers, manager Harry and shortstop George, that pioneering ball club traveled from coast to coast, taking on the top teams in the country and never suffering a single defeat. Their winning streak captured the fancy of the nation and helped popularize the young game. As a result, Cincinnati became to professional baseball what Kitty Hawk and those other Wright brothers were to aviation.
I turned the ball slowly, studying the discolored leather. The stains could have been sweat from the hands of George Wright himself ... particles of earth and grass from the fabled Union Grounds ... maybe a shot or two of tobacco juice from pitcher Asa Brainard. It was as if a foul ball batted fifty-two years ago had just come down into my hands. I imagined myself sitting in the grandstand, watching the Red Stockings take their positions on the field—
“Don’t touch anything!”
The anxious yell jerked me back into the present. Once again I was in a second-floor office above the main entrance to Redland Field, home of the Queen City’s current professional baseball team, the 1921 Cincinnati Reds.
“Sorry.” I put the ball back down on the table, between a stack of scuffed baseball cards and a mangled catcher’s mask. “Just wanted to touch it. I didn’t hurt it none.”
A chubby fellow of about forty-five stepped quickly into the office, swabbing his high forehead with a wadded handkerchief. He slowed down as he drew nearer, and the worried frown that crinkled his round face softened. “That’s okay,” he sighed. “Didn’t realize it was from the discard table.” His brow was already dotted with sweat again, and thinning brown hair was matted to his scalp. He reached around to mop the back of his thick neck with one hand and extended the other. “Oliver Perriman. Everybody calls me ‘Ollie.’ ”
I returned his damp grip. “Mickey Rawlings.”
“Oh yes. You’re the ...”
“Utility infielder.” Over the years, I’d learned to say it with pride.
“Yes, of course.” Perriman hitched his shoulders uncomfortably, then started to peel off the jacket of his tan sack suit. “Warm in here.”
It was a glaring understatement. I’d been in steam baths that were cooler. Despite the sweltering summer hot spell, the office’s two windows were barely cracked open. The postgame sounds from Findlay Street drifted in—vendors hawking peanuts and lemonade, trolleys squeaking their way south on Dalton, automobiles bleating their horns to disperse slow-moving pedestrians—but little air came through. A single ceiling fan was motionless, probably a precaution lest anything in the room be disturbed by the breeze that it might generate.
Perriman carried the jacket toward a massive oak desk in the corner of the office and carefully draped it over a straight-backed chair that didn’t match the desk. The two pieces of furniture were about the only standard office furnishings in the spacious room. Bookcases and tables of various woods and styles lined the walls; they held hundreds of baseballs, dozens of bats, folded uniforms, gloves, caps, catcher’s gear, magazines, score books, and newspapers, all neatly arranged. Wherever shelving didn’t cover the walls, team photographs and player portraits hung in close formation. One long table in the center of the room was piled less neatly; it was there that I’d found th
e old ball.
Perriman turned back to me. Dark crescents were visible under the arms of his blue shirt, and his yellow butterfly bow tie was wilted. “Now, then.” He looked at me with big eyes that sagged at the corners like a basset hound’s. “Something I can help you with?”
I thought he already knew why I’d come. “Lloyd Tinsley said you wanted a player to appear at the opening of your museum here.”
“He did?” The creases in his forehead deepened. “He asked you?”
“Yes. Well, he asked all of us. He came into the clubhouse after the game, told us you were putting together some kind of exhibit, and said if any of us were interested, to come up and talk to you about it.” Tinsley, the club’s business manager, usually spoke to the players only about travel arrangements or contracts; his announcement about the museum was the first intriguing thing I’d ever heard him say.
“I thought he was going to ask Edd Roush,” Perriman said with obvious disappointment. “Or Heinie Groh . . .”
I didn’t feel offended; if I was in Perriman’s position, I’d have preferred to have one of the team’s stars, too.
“Maybe Eppa Rixey or Greasy Neale,” he went on. “Larry Kopf even ...”
Okay, now I was insulted. Before he named the bat boy, I said, “I’ll see if I can talk one of them into coming,” and took a couple of steps toward the door.
“No, no!” I turned back to see Perriman shake his head. “I’m sorry. Been under a lot of pressure lately.” He dabbed at his throat with the handkerchief. “Lloyd Tinsley’s been a bad influence on me I think—always pushing the business angle, and saying how we need publicity. Excuse me. Please. I’m really glad to have you here.”
“S’okay.” I returned to where Perriman was standing. “But you know, I don’t think you need a player to attract a crowd. It’s the history that’ll draw folks in. Just looking at these photos and the uniforms . . .” I picked up a pillbox-style cap with horizontal red-and-white stripes that probably dated from the 1890s. “Brings back the stories I heard when I was a kid listening to my uncle and grandfather talk about the old days. You know, there’s games I never saw myself, but I feel like I remember them better than some of the ones I played in!”
Perriman smiled broadly, and he shook my hand again. “I must say I’m delighted to meet someone else who understands!” He beamed at me for the better part of a minute, then asked, “Did Tinsley tell you what the exhibit is for?”
“Tribute to the ’69 Red Stockings, he said.” I gestured toward the walls. “But most of this has nothing to do with the old Red Stockings.” When I’d first come into the office I’d had time to explore the room and examine some of the materials. Most were of recent vintage, and a few had little or no relation to Cincinnati baseball at all.
“Yes, I know,” Perriman said. “A couple of reasons for that. First off, even if I could acquire everything that club ever had, it wouldn’t amount to as much as you might think. They didn’t use gloves back then, and there were no such things as shin guards or chest protectors or even catcher’s masks.” He paused, then recited like a schoolboy:
“We used no mattress on our hands,
no cage upon our face;
we stood right up and caught the ball
with courage and with grace.
“That’s from ‘The Reds of Sixty-nine’ by Harry Ellard,” he explained. “Lovely poem. Been thinking I might have it printed up and give it to everyone who comes in.” He touched my elbow and led me to the desk. “Now, let me show you”—his voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush—“the treasures.”
Several artifacts were carefully arranged on the scarred desk top. Perriman picked up a filthy lump of gum rubber. “This little mouthpiece is all the protection Doug Allison used behind the plate.”
It looked disgusting enough that I might have preferred broken teeth to putting that thing in my mouth. “Nice,” I said.
“This is where I keep everything from the ’69 team,” he said proudly. “Got some of their equipment, the score books, a few trophy balls . . .” He handed me a dingy white cap that was hard with age. “This was Asa Brainard’s.” It was shaped more like a golf cap, with a flatter crown and shorter visor than a modern baseball cap.
Mounted above the desk, like a rifle on a gun rack, was a willow bat, thick and long, without much of a taper. “Whose was that?” I asked.
“Charlie Gould’s.” He hesitated, then offered, “Go ahead. Take a swing.”
I lifted the bat from the brackets that held it, and took a couple of easy swings. As I pictured myself playing for the old Red Stockings, Perriman went on, “Only native Cincinnatian on the team, Gould was. Biggest fellow on the club, too—over six foot tall, and strong.” I could tell that by the weight of his bat. “Good-fielding first baseman; called him ‘the bushel basket’—and remember, there were no gloves, so it took some guts to catch a hard throw.” He took the bat from me and gently put it back on its mount. “Came back in ’76 to manage the club when Cincinnati was one of the charter franchises in the National League. Weren’t called ‘Red Stockings’ anymore, though. The new name was ‘Porko-politans.’ Dreadful thing to call a baseball team, but the club’s owner was a meat packer who wanted to advertise his product. Well, maybe it fit—the players turned out to be as bad as the name. Finished in last place, with only nine wins on the season. Charlie Gould retired the next year and became a streetcar conductor running a trolley on the ballpark line.”
I pointed to an odd metal device shaped like a large pencil sharpener. “And that?”
“Cigar cutter,” he answered, handing me the object. Red Stockings Cigars was barely visible painted on the side, and the figure of a baseball player adorned the top. “Fred Waterman—team’s third baseman—he opened a cigar store during the ‘69 season. Waterman was one of five paid players on the 1868 club, before the team went completely professional. Had a great throwing arm and was a solid hitter—he won the Clipper Prize that year as the best batsman in the country at his position. Speaking of the Clipper ...” He directed my attention to a framed page from the New York Clipper hanging on the wall. Formal portraits of the Red Stockings nine were arranged in a montage. “Here they all are. And this is Waterman.” He pointed to a man with a receding hairline and droopy, guileless eyes. “Called him ‘Innocent Fred’ because of the way he looked.” It occurred to me that there was a similar innocence to Perriman’s features. “Anyway, did pretty well for himself with the cigar store, stayed in business for several years.”
A glass display case was on a small table next to the desk. There were four ancient baseballs in it, with dates, teams, and scores marked on them in faded paint. “And these?”
“Ah, the trophies. In those days, one baseball had to last an entire game, and the winning team got to keep the ball.” I read the scores: 85–7, 63–4, 103–8, and a 40–0 shutout. “I wish I could have found more of them,” Perriman said wistfully.
“What about that ball I was looking at—why isn’t it with these?”
“Because it’s a fake.”
“Fake!” A sense of betrayal jolted me. “How do you know?”
“I’ll show you.” He led the way back to the center table and picked up the ball I’d been holding so reverently a short time ago. “The stitches, for one thing. They’re all red.”
I’d noticed the unusual color—I was accustomed to the alternating red-and-black stitching of National League balls and the red-and-blue pattern used in the American League—but assumed it had been adopted to go along with the team name. “What’s wrong with that?”
“The Red Stockings used the Ellard ball, made right here in Cincinnati. It was sewn with black thread.” Perriman pulled a magnifying glass from his vest pocket and unfolded the lens from its case. “And that got me to looking a little closer.” He handed me the glass and pointed to a spot on the ball. “See here?”
It took a moment, but I was able to make out the faint trace of a baseball-shaped trademark sta
mped on the leather with the word Spalding on it. “It’s a Spalding ball,” I said.
“Yes, and Spalding didn’t start making baseballs until 1876. And once he did, he used black stitches, too, up until about ten years ago. My guess is this ball was probably just used by kids, and they restitched it after the cover came off.”
“A fake . . .”
Perriman shrugged. “Got to expect some chaff with the wheat, I suppose.” He put the ball back on the table. “See, the other reason it was tough to acquire Red Stocking relics was because the club got rid of them all after the team broke up. Once the winning streak ended in 1870, people stopped going to the games. Two years later, the club was bankrupt and had to auction off everything from the balls to the bleacher seats—even the groundskeepers’ scythes and shovels. No record of who bought what. So I cast a wide net and offered a lot of money—too much, according to my wife and Tinsley.” He paced around the center table, looking over the walls packed with memorabilia. “Some took advantage. A lot of this is just old junk that people unloaded on me after clearing out their drawers and attics. I figured I’d keep some of the better material and expand the museum later. The rest I’m going to try to sell back. Kept an account of everything I bought.”
“How much did this ball cost you?”
He answered promptly. “Not a penny. It was donated. By Ambrose Whitaker. I’m happy to say that some of the more civic-minded citizens, like Mr. Whitaker, preferred to share what they had rather than try to make a buck off it.”
“You gonna give the ball back?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Don’t want to offend him. Mr. Whitaker seemed to think it was an important item. He was the bookkeeper for the ’69 club, so I had my hopes up that he’d be a good source for material.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“For the most part he was. Gave me some letters written by Harry Wright, and a marvelous photograph of the Red Stockings on the Forest City grounds in Cleveland——only photo I know of that shows the team on a playing field. Those were all real. But not the ball.” Perriman swabbed his throat with the handkerchief. “At least that was an honest mistake. There was one fellow tried to sell me shin guards he swore were worn by Doug Allison—I told him that must have been some trick since they weren’t invented till thirty years later.” He chuckled at the recollection.
