by Troy Soos
“Uh, no.”
“Yet you come in here and essentially accuse me of killing someone. Doesn’t that strike you as a foolish thing to do?”
Well, now that he mentioned it ...
Harrington slowly sat upright. From a desk drawer he casually pulled out a colossal ivory-handled revolver and laid it on the desk, with the barrel pointed straight at me. “If the man you’re accusing really is a killer, he’s likely to have a weapon, don’t you think? And if he does, why shouldn’t he simply use it to kill you, too?” He put his hand over the weapon and cocked the hammer with his thumb. It clicked into place, sounding as loud as a gunshot.
I tried, but probably didn’t succeed, to appear unconcerned. “I didn’t need to bring a gun with me,” I said. “You’re not going to kill a Chicago Cub in your office.”
He smiled. Leaving the revolver on the desk, he leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. Sunlight sparkled off the weapon’s bright silver finish. My seat was too far from his desk for me to have a chance of grabbing the gun. Harrington was toying with me and enjoying it enormously. “This is where I killed Curly Neeman,” he said.
Damn! The only reason for him to admit it was that I wasn’t going to live long enough myself to tell anyone.
Harrington idly smoothed the ends of his black silk string tie. I desperately tried to figure out what to do, but all I could think was that I never expected that a man who wore a white suit would do his own killing. “I don’t believe you,” I said. “He was found in the river. You didn’t carry him all the way to the Chicago River dressed like that.”
The smirk disappeared from his face. He quickly recovered. “That’s true,” he said. “Two very nice police officers carried him off for me.”
“The police know?”
“Yes, of course. You see, I’m no murderer, Mr. Rawlings. I killed Mr. Neeman in self-defense and immediately reported it to the authorities.”
“Self-defense?”
“That’s what I told them.”
“The police?”
Harrington was in good humor again. “And other authorities. Very high authorities. I explained to them that Curly Neeman was committing sabotage in my plant. He tried to blow you up, by the way.” The smile that twitched at Harrington’s lips gave me the feeling that Neeman hadn’t done so on his own initiative. “In any event, it was decided that my encounter with Mr. Neeman should be kept quiet. National security, you understand. So the police were kind enough to dispose of Mr. Neeman’s body.”
Still trying to discourage Harrington from using the gun, I said, “Even the cops, or whatever ‘authorities’ you’re talking about, would be suspicious at a second self-defense killing in two weeks, not to mention a second Cub getting killed. You might have clout, but so do Mr. Weeghman and Mr. Wrigley and a bunch of the other owners who wouldn’t like losing their players that way.”
The humor vanished from his face. The look of frustration that took its place told me he knew I was right. After letting me squirm far too long, he carefully uncocked the hammer and put the gun back in the drawer. He then pulled out his watch and announced, “Your time is up.”
I was halfway to the door when he said, “Mr. Rawlings, permit me to give you some advice: don’t ever get in a poker game. I knew when you first came here what you were up to. You were looking into Willie Kaiser’s accidental death.”
Harrington didn’t have to shoot; his words—his message—stopped me as effectively as a bullet. I understood his meaning completely. He knew what I’d been up to all along, he was untouchable as far as the authorities were concerned, and if I continued poking around, I’d end up as dead as Curly Neeman or Willie Kaiser. And he, Bennett Harrington, was responsible for both their deaths.
“One more thing,” he added. “You’re fired.”
Freed of my duties at the Dearborn Fuel Company, I went to a picture show Monday night. By myself.
And I went back about ten years in time, to when I was a teenager, traveling from town to town with semi-pro ball-clubs, spending my free hours in little nickelodeons. I felt less alone in my travels knowing that I could stop in any local theater and see familiar faces on the movie screen. My favorite of those faces belonged to Mabel Normand, a brunette comedienne with wide, mischievous eyes and a small, teasing smile. I’d had such a crush on her that I named my favorite bat “Mabel” in her honor.
Now Mabel Normand was appearing in a feature movie at the White Palace theater on South Kedzie Avenue. The picture was Mickey, with Miss Normand in the title role. It was a little disconcerting to think of a female named “Mickey,” but I was also strangely flattered that they’d used my name for the title.
Mickey had been filmed two years before and was finally being released to tremendous fanfare. Because it had been shot before America had entered the war, the movie had no jingoistic political messages to deliver. It was advertised as “a wholesome romantic comedy adventure epic with thrills and heart.”
Somehow the picture managed to live up to its billing. The character Mickey was an orphaned tomboy raised in the West by an old prospector. The convoluted tale involved Mickey being sent to live with a New York aunt to learn to be a lady. The wicked aunt forces her to work as a maid, but Mickey soon gains the attention of a wealthy young admirer. The story was old-fashioned hokum, with holes in the plot and a happy ending that strained credibility—Mickey wins a horse race, learns that an abandoned gold mine she’s inherited had a major strike, and marries her suitor. In short, the movie was charming, a throwback to a simpler, more innocent time—pure entertainment, total escape, and a reminder of why I had once been so enchanted with Mabel Normand. I left the theater with a smile on my face and a light heart.
Back home from the picture show, I pulled three old baseball bats from the back corner of the bedroom closet. They were bats that I’d fashioned myself long before the Hillerich & Bradsby company had started manufacturing a Mickey Rawlings model. I hadn’t used them in years, couldn’t remember the last time I’d even touched them.
The one made of hickory wood was Mabel. With a dark rich luster, she stood out from all other bats as special. I’d painstakingly formed her on a lathe, turning her round and true, then carefully, lovingly, I’d sanded and honed her to a hard smooth finish.
I brought Mabel into the parlor and squeezed her handle between my fists. It seemed a childish thing to do, now, to have named a baseball bat. But I had a yearning to go back to childhood, to recapture some innocence.
Indifferent to the effect it might have on the furniture, I took a few easy swings. She felt good and right, like a natural extension of my arms. I ran my fingers along the barrel; the dry wood needed to be rubbed with sweet oil. Gripping her again, I took a closer look: there was a V-shaped chip missing from the knob. Noooo. Mabel wasn’t perfect anymore.
I was devastated by this blemish, as if some belief I’d long cherished had turned out to be a falsehood. I ran my thumb over the notch, hard, the sharp edges of the break biting into my flesh. The bat might as well have been shattered into splinters. It wasn’t the same anymore and never could be.
After some long minutes spent lamenting the damage, I realized you never get innocence back. The only way to go is forward.
Momentarily laying Mabel on the sofa, I pulled out one of the newspapers, dated July 5. I tore off the page with the story on Willie’s death and crumpled it into a ball. Setting it on the headrest of my chair, I took a rip with Mabel and knocked the paper ball into the wall.
One after another, I went through every page of every paper the same way, using them for an angry batting practice.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I knew who was responsible for Willie Kaiser’s death, both the man who’d pulled the trigger and the one who’d called the shot. I also knew why Willie had been killed. Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough information to solve the murder. Well, it did solve the crime; it just wasn’t enough to resolve it.
In th
is topsy-turvy year, the issue wasn’t who or why or how. Justice wasn’t going to come that easy in these turbulent times. It wasn’t even clear what justice was anymore. Not quite true—it was clear to me what was right. What I didn’t know was how the “authorities” defined it. The legal definitions of right and wrong kept changing too fast to keep track of them.
The real question that faced me was: What the hell could I do about Willie’s murder?
The answer that resounded back, loud and firm, taunting and haunting, was: Not a damn thing.
Could I tell the police that Curly Neeman had shot Willie from a Sheffield Avenue apartment and Harrington had been behind it? I could, but there was no reason to believe they’d do anything. The cops had already covered up Willie’s murder and helped Harrington dispose of Neeman’s body. They sure wouldn’t be eager to investigate a crime that could reveal themselves as accomplices, not even as unwitting ones.
The other way to expose Harrington would be to break the story to the newspapers, something I’d learn from my muckraker friend Karl Landfors. Again, though, that could only be done in normal times. These days the papers were all censored, and only “approved” news was printed. Which brought it back to the authorities and the police.
I hated what Bennett Harrington had done, and his arrogance was a challenge that I found irresistible. But it would be foolish to let my hatred of him cloud the fact that in reality he was right. For all practical purposes, he was untouchable.
I tried to console myself with the fact that at least I’d accomplished what I’d promised Edna I would: I found out who killed her brother. I never guaranteed that I’d get the murderer put in jail.
All I could do now was follow through on the rest of my promise and tell her what happened.
Edna Chapman and I sat in Willie’s old room, on the edge of his bed, with more distance between us than propriety required. Other than the empty space atop the dresser where the Mark Twain books used to be, the room was preserved exactly the way Willie had left it.
“Why don’t you move in here?” I asked her. “I’ll help move your things down if you like.”
“No, I better stay upstairs with Mama,” Edna said. “She wakes up in the night sometimes. Bad dreams.”
“Oh, okay.” I gathered my thoughts and my courage before announcing, “I found out who killed Willie.”
Edna’s eyes widened and sparkled. “Who was it?” Her tone was cool and controlled.
“You have to understand,” I began lamely, “it didn’t really have to do with Willie.” What a stupid thing to say. Of course it had to do with him—somebody had put a bullet through his chest.
“What did it have to do with?”
“Business,” I said sourly. I found it hard to believe that somebody could get killed for business. “And revenge.”
Edna’s eyebrows arched.
“Not revenge against Willie. Against Charles Weeghman.”
A small frown.
“See, Charles Weeghman is president of the Cubs,” I explained. “And he owns most of the team, but not all of it. There are other men, investors, who have shares in the team. Bennett Harrington is one of those. And he has it in for Weeghman.”
Edna said slowly, with no indication of comprehension, “Willie was killed because Mr. Harrington is mad at Mr. Weeghman?”
“Partly. See, Weeghman was one of the leaders of the Federal League a few years back. It was supposed to be a third major league. Weeghman owned the Feds’ Chicago team. And he built Weeghman Park for them to play in—‘Cubs Park’ now.”
Edna nodded to show she was following thus far.
“Two years ago, the Federal League folded. And Charles Weeghman was part of the reason. In exchange for abandoning the Feds, the National League let him buy the Cubs and move them to his new ballpark. The other Federal League owners considered Weeghman a traitor for selling out.”
“How does Mr. Harrington come into this?”
“He was one of the other Federal League owners. Not openly, though. He was a silent partner in the Baltimore team.”
“But I don’t understand. How does killing Willie get revenge against Mr. Weeghman?”
“Harrington wanted to put Weeghman out of business. Mostly for revenge, I think, but also for business. It’s a baseball owner’s dream come true—he gets revenge on another owner and he gets a good business deal. A double play.”
Edna frowned; this wasn’t the time for a baseball analogy. “Why is it a good deal?”
“Let me start at the beginning. Bennett Harrington has been having people sabotage Cubs Park all season. It did two things: it made Weeghman look bad, which he liked, and it cut down attendance, hurt business. Both these things put pressure on Weeghman to sell out his shares. And with attendance off, he’d have to sell cheap. Having somebody kill a Cub on the playing field was part of the sabotage.”
“Willie,” she said softly.
“Not him personally,” I said. “I think any Cub would have done.” I hoped it would make her feel a little better that her brother wasn’t personally targeted.
It didn’t. “So he was just any Cub,” she said, her eyes watering.
I had even worse to tell her. “The fellow who actually shot Willie, Curly Neeman, he’s dead now, too. Bennett Harrington killed him. So there’s no one to testify that Harrington was behind Willie’s murder. I was hoping we might get Harrington arrested for killing Neeman—the penalty’s the same—but the police already know about it. And they don’t care. In fact, they’re the ones who dumped Neeman’s body in the river. They’re calling it self-defense.”
Edna brought the tears under control. “So what’s next?” she asked in a high, tight voice.
Now for the really hard part. “There isn’t any next. There isn’t any hard evidence. And the authorities won’t do anything to Bennett Harrington while the war is on, anyway.”
“You’re giving up?”
Giving up. It was an accusation. A quitter was about the worst thing a ballplayer could be and not something any man wants to be called. “Not giving up,” I insisted. “Just waiting. Maybe when the war is over, the police will look into it for real.”
“You believe that?”
I shook my head, admitting that I didn’t. “But there’s nothing else to do.”
She nodded solemnly.
“I wanted to tell you everything. I know it doesn’t make things right, but at least we know who did it and why.”
“Thank you.”
“It may be best to let your mother continue to believe it was an accident. If there was anything else I could do ...”
She looked at me and nodded again.
I felt like a quitter.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Okay, maybe there was still something that could be done.
What I needed was to connect Bennett Harrington with Curly Neeman. By killing Neeman, Harrington had effectively severed the direct connection between them, but perhaps I could link them indirectly. There had to be some way of proving that Neeman had fired his rifle into Cubs Park on Harrington’s orders.
I remembered what Karl Landfors said about conspiracies: people talk. If anyone was likely to shoot off his mouth, it would have been Curly Neeman. When Willie was working in the chemical plant, Neeman taunted him with threats about the Knights; after he killed Willie, he couldn’t resist dropping hints to Aggie that he’d done it.
So I’d expect that if Curly Neeman shot a German, he’d want the glory of bragging about it to his comrades in the Patriotic Knights of Liberty. And if he was in league with such an illustrious figure as Bennett Harrington, he’d certainly want that to be known as well.
This was my one hope: that Curly Neeman talked before Bennett Harrington silenced him.
Wednesday night I went to where Neeman was most likely to do his talking: the Knights meeting in Cicero.
Unfortunately, Wicket Greene was absent again, so I couldn’t use him to introduce me to anyone. Without Greene
to smooth the way, I artlessly approached the Knights on my own, making inquiries of as many of them as I could.
I wasn’t subtle in my questions. I was too desperate at this point to have time for discretion. And I had no success. All I did was antagonize the good white men of the Patriotic Knights of Liberty to the point where I knew this had better be the last meeting I attended.
The next morning, I discovered the first evidence of compatibility between Agnes O’Doul and Willie Kaiser. Her small three-room apartment was as sparsely furnished and meticulously neat as Willie’s bedroom. I was sure it wasn’t their tidiness that attracted them to each other, and I knew that the heart can often find a compatibility where none is visible, but I was heartened to see that they shared this trait. It helped me imagine Aggie and Willie as a couple.
I took a sip of lemonade, then put the glass back down on a thick doily, careful not to let it touch the wood of the kitchen table. “When we talked last week,” I said, “you told me Curly Neeman called it a mistake to kill Willie. What did he mean by that?”
Agnes shrugged. “How should I know what he meant?”
Lemonade wasn’t my morning beverage of choice, but Agnes wasn’t a coffee drinker and had none to offer. I felt that I needed some badly. “Okay, let me get this straight: you’re holding a blowtorch to this guy, trying to find out if and why he killed your boyfriend—” To my surprise, Agnes blushed at the word “boyfriend.” “He admits shooting Willie, says it was a mistake, and you don’t ask what he meant by that?” I shook my head. “I don’t buy it.”
The color in her face remained, but her expression changed from embarrassment to defiance. “You really want to know?” She hurled the question like a challenge. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Yes. I really want to know.” How much worse could things be?
Agnes took a breath. “He was supposed to shoot you.”
I was stunned. When I regained the capacity of speech, I could only say, “Me? But why?”
