The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I played for him. McGraw would love nothing better than to humiliate the Yankees—but he wants to do it on the field. He did it in last year’s World Series and he made Babe Ruth look like a bush-leaguer to boot.” To make it even sweeter for McGraw, it was the first World Series to be broadcast on radio. “He’s happy as he can be right now, and he’ll be gloating all year. No reason for him to do anything else.”

  “All right.” Luntz appeared thoughtful. “I suppose that makes some kind of sense—and I don’t intend to go asking McGraw if he had anything to do with it.” He poked the stem of his pipe in my direction. “How about you? You going to do anything more with this Spats Pollard thing?”

  “Yeah. Some of Pollard’s other teammates from 1918 are still playing. If the schedules work out so that our teams are ever in the same city at the same time, I’ll talk to them and ask if they remember anything about Pollard, or if any of them saw him again after that season.”

  Luntz nodded approvingly. “I don’t see how that can hurt. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I’m going to talk to Babe Ruth. You said he’s on Pollard’s customer list so I’m hoping he can tell me something about him, too.” That was a fairly faint hope, however, because Ruth was notoriously forgetful about people. This brought me to my next question for Luntz. “Can I see the other names on the list?”

  For a few seconds, his only response was a scowl. When he spoke it was only one word: “Why?”

  “It might help to know how old the list is, and if it was really Pollard’s or somebody else’s. If I talk to some of people on it, I should be able to pin that down.”

  Luntz puffed away for a while. “No,” he finally said. “I don’t believe I can allow that. There are some important names on that list. I don’t think it would be a good idea to bother them with a fishing expedition.”

  “But I—”

  “Sorry. The answer’s ‘no.’ ” He leaned back, took the pipe from his mouth, and gave me a quizzical stare. “Why are you doing all this anyway?”

  “You heard Ed Barrow. I’m doing this because he wants me to. And doing what he wants means I get to keep playing baseball.”

  “You must really love the game, then.”

  “More than anything.”

  Luntz slowly smiled. “Very well. Come see me again if I can help.” When I stood, he added, “Like I said, I don’t mind hoodlums killing other hoodlums. But I don’t like civilians getting hurt. So be careful.”

  Chapter Six

  No matter how many times I glanced over at the front row box—and it was often—I couldn’t believe what I saw: There was the President of the United States of America, less than twenty feet from where I stood. Warren G. Harding, the man who had promised the country “a return to normalcy,” was in a seat of honor next to the Washington Senators’ dugout. The presidential box was draped with patriotic bunting and a banner displaying the Great Seal of the United States hung from railing. I’d never seen a president in person before, and had assumed that the occupant of such an august office would have a more imposing appearance. Harding, who bore a resemblance to Ed Barrow, looked dignified in a black fedora and a Chesterfield coat, but weak and haggard.

  I was situated in the first-base coach’s box, where my primary responsibility was to remind Yankees runners not to get picked off. Coaching first base generally wasn’t considered an important assignment—it was usually filled by any player or coach who wasn’t otherwise engaged—but Miller Huggins had given me the task because he liked my aggressive base running in Sunday’s game. I’d had another good performance yesterday, too, coming in after Everett Scott had played the first three innings. I picked up two more singles in a losing effort against the Senators’ Cy Warmoth. Having gotten some rest, Scott today felt that his ankle was up to full strength and Huggins had agreed to let him play the entire game. At least my coaching assignment meant that I wouldn’t have to spend the game on the bench, but my position in the coach’s box required that my backside face the president. I worried a little that I was violating some kind of protocol.

  Ever since William Howard Taft initiated the practice in 1910, it had been an annual tradition for U. S. presidents to throw out the ceremonial first pitch for the Washington Senators at their home opener. They rarely appeared at other games, and today marked the first ever presidential visit to a New York ballpark. The current president was known to be a genuine baseball fan as well as a personal friend of Walter Johnson. With no advance notice, Harding had simply shown up at the stadium to cheer for his team. Even if he hadn’t been president, it would have been easy for him to get a seat. Only about one in ten was occupied, and I was sure Jacob Ruppert wished he could have advertised the president’s appearance in order to boost ticket sales.

  In addition to Harding and his small entourage, the sparse crowd included Margie, Tom Van Dusen, and Natalie Brockman. I had arranged for them to meet Babe Ruth after the game so that Van Dusen could talk to him about making a movie. I wasn’t looking forward to spending time with Margie’s coworkers again, but I was happy to set up the meeting as a favor to her.

  After the initial fanfare of the presidential visit settled down, Sad Sam Jones took the mound to face the Washington lineup. Jones, another pitcher acquired from the Red Sox, got his nickname because he wore his cap so low over his eyes that some thought it made him look mournful. It also made opposing batters wonder nervously if he could adequately see them. As a result, they were hesitant to dig in, eager to bail out, and susceptible to his masterful curveball. Relying largely on that curve, Jones set the Senators down in order in the first.

  During our half of the inning, with the Yankee bats equally ineffective, I had nothing to do but steal glances at the president. Harding had Walter Johnson’s young son balanced on his lap, and the chief executive looked like any other man out at a ball game.

  Jones continued his domination of the Senators. Then, with the game scoreless, the bottom of our batting order went on a hitting spree. Second baseman Aaron Ward singled as did Everett Scott, and Jones drove in Ward for the first run of the game. With two on and two outs, Ruth came up and knocked in both runners with a line drive to right. I cheered them all on from behind first base, but none of them required any coaching.

  When Wally Pipp grounded out to end the inning, I trotted to the dugout to take my place on the bench near Miller Huggins. Before I could step inside, I noticed Andrew Vey standing at the railing trying to get my attention. Even with the thin crowd, it was difficult to hear his high, weak voice calling my name. I thought if he didn’t wear his little bow ties so tight, he’d probably be able to produce more sound.

  When I stepped to the rail, Vey said, “Mr. Barrow would like to see you.” He pulled at one of his shirt cuffs, which must have been the wardrobe problem he was struggling with today.

  “Be happy to,” I said, although I wasn’t happy at all. “As soon as the game is over.”

  “Well—”

  I cut him off. “Mr. Barrow used to be a manager. I’m sure he knows not to bother a player during a game.”

  “Actually—” He tugged hard at his other cuff.

  “And in the future, I’d appreciate if you didn’t, either.”

  Vey’s face always had a slightly startled appearance, as if he’d just been slapped and didn’t know why, but now his eyes widened even more and his freckles seemed to burn. “I’m sure after the game will be acceptable,” he said.

  I stepped into dugout and gave one more glance at Vey. As he turned around to leave, I noticed he was trying hard not to grin.

  We held the 3-0 lead into the bottom of the fifth inning. Then Babe Ruth stepped into the batter’s box and with one swing of his bat gave the fans a far greater thrill than seeing the president. He connected with a high fastball and sent it on a towering flight to right field. As soon as he made contact there was no question that it was going over the fence—the only question was whether it wou
ld leave the borders of the Bronx.

  The crowd was instantly on its feet and Ruth went into his home run trot as they cheered wildly. When he got to first base, I jokingly coached him, “Turn left, Babe!” He roared with laughter and continued his triumphant circuit of the base paths. When he got to home plate, he pounced on it with both feet, then theatrically doffed his cap and bowed to the president.

  The crowd roared again, and Harding grinned with delight. The Babe went into the dugout and soon came out holding a bright red poppy. He brought it to Harding’s box and pinned it to the president’s overcoat. The game was stopped while photographers documented the meeting of America’s two most famous men.

  Ruth’s home run held up as the final tally of the game and Sad Sam Jones earned the Yankees’ first shutout of the season. Going into the clubhouse, everybody on the team was in high spirits. Except me. I had to see Ed Barrow.

  * * *

  Work on the business manager’s spacious office had been completed. The walls and trim were freshly painted, the furniture was carefully placed in position, and expensive area rugs covered most of the floor. Barrow had also decorated the walls with plaques, photographs, testimonials, and awards that documented highlights of his colorful career.

  The most unusual piece in the collection was a sepia photograph of a young bare-chested Ed Barrow in tight pants. His fists were raised in a boxing pose, and facing him in the picture was a similarly clad, and magnificently mustachioed, John L. Sullivan. Barrow made sure that everyone knew he had once boxed the former heavyweight champion of the world; although Barrow had never played professional baseball, his abilities in the ring earned him the respect of players who might have otherwise dismissed him as a mere administrator. In the photo, Barrow’s face exhibited the bulldog determination that stood him well in every confrontation from boxing matches to contract negotiations.

  The rest of the keepsakes were from his varied baseball career, starting as a concessionaire with Harry M. Stevens, then as owner of some small minor league teams such as the Class A Paterson Silk Weavers, and later as president of the Eastern League. There was a photograph of him with a young Honus Wagner, whom Barrow had discovered in 1896 and signed to his first professional contract. Of more recent vintage was a large engraved plaque honoring the World’s Champion 1918 Boston Red Sox whom Barrow had led as field manager—I had the feeling that this office was the only spot in Yankee Stadium where a Red Sox championship would ever be commemorated. After leaving the Red Sox at the end of the 1920 season, Barrow had come to the Yankees. He promptly helped build the team that earned the two American League championship trophies that rested on a shelf behind his desk.

  I had time to examine Barrow’s mementos because he was engaged in a telephone conversation and had yet to acknowledge my presence. Andrew Vey stood dutifully by his boss’s side while Barrow issued an uninterrupted stream of orders into the mouthpiece. From what I could gather, he was interested in acquiring a couple of pitchers from the South Atlantic League. He ended the phone call with, “Get me scouting reports on both of them—and they better be thorough!”

  When he hung up, Barrow fixed me with a stern expression. Without any preliminaries he said, “We might have a problem.”

  A bigger problem than a murdered man buried in the stadium? I wondered. “What is it?” I asked.

  “The newspapers are getting curious. Rumors have been making the rounds about dead bodies in the ballpark.” Barrow knitted his beetle brows. “Have you said anything to anyone?”

  “I’ve talked to a few people,” I readily admitted. “I have to, if I’m supposed to find out what happened to Spats Pollard.”

  “Of course you do,” he snapped. “But I expect you to be discreet.”

  “I’m only asking questions, and I’m only talking to people who might have information.” As soon as I spoke, it occurred to me that I did tell Karl Landfors about Pollard’s murder. But I was sure Landfors wouldn’t try to turn it into a news story. Well, I was almost sure.

  “Very well.” Barrow peaked his fingers and rested his chin on the crest. “So far, Mr. Vey has been able to dissuade the papers from publishing anything. However we don’t know how long they can be kept at bay.”

  I shot a look at Vey’s impassive freckled face. I was curious exactly how he had managed that dissuasion; reporters didn’t give up easily when they got wind of a juicy crime story.

  Barrow went on, “Also, Colonel Ruppert is becoming quite anxious over the state of the club’s finances. Do you know what today’s attendance was?”

  I gave my most precise estimate: “Lousy.”

  Vey uttered a soft chuckle and looked down at the shirt cuff that he was absently fingering.

  Barrow scowled. “Barely eight thousand. Not nearly enough to pay the bills.”

  I had no reply to that statement. My concern was hitting, catching, running, and throwing. Monitoring gate receipts and balancing the accounting ledgers was somebody else’s job.

  “I remind you,” Barrow continued, “that among those bills is your salary. Now, tell me what you’ve found out so far.”

  Okay, so maybe to some extent the team’s financial condition was my concern. I quickly gave Barrow a summary of my talk with Joe Zegarra at the concession stand and my meeting with Detective Luntz.

  Barrow briefly considered my report. “It sounds to me like you have a lot more work to do—and you have to do it fast.” He leaned back in his leather-padded desk chair. “You see, if this does hit the newspapers, we need to know how to handle it. Was Pollard’s death some random crime? Was it a conspiracy by Colonel Ruppert’s enemies?” He spread his hands. “We have to be prepared so that we can minimize the damage to our public image.” Sitting upright again, he added, “Frankly, the police don’t seem to be making as much progress as we had hoped, so we are relying on you.”

  It’s tough to make progress when you’re not doing anything at all, I thought. Luntz had made it clear that the murder of a small-time hood like Spats Pollard was not going to be a priority for him. It occurred to me that the Yankees didn’t care about his death, either, except for the fact that it might bring the club bad publicity. Nobody seemed interested in actually having Pollard’s killer brought to justice.

  “What are you planning to do next?” Barrow asked.

  We were leaving for Boston after one more game, so there wasn’t much more I could do in New York. “I’m having dinner with the Babe tonight,” I said. “His name was on Pollard’s customer list, so I’d like to find out how well they knew each other. I’m also planning to talk to some more players to see if they remember Pollard. He wasn’t in the majors long, but maybe somebody knew him in the minors.”

  “Sounds like a sensible course of action.” Barrow nodded approvingly. “Remember: Be discreet—and keep me informed.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “But not during games.”

  Barrow’s huge eyebrows twitched upward.

  “I’ve already told Mr. Vey, and I’m asking you: Don’t come to me with this business during a game. I’ll help you all I can before and after, but on the field my only job is baseball.”

  “Well… Yes, of course. My apologies.” Barrow gave his assistant a meaningful look. “It won’t happen again.”

  Vey responded with a hint of a smile and a small nod of acquiescence.

  * * *

  I was never a heavy drinker, but I’d certainly been in my share of saloons over the years, from richly appointed bars in upscale hotels to squalid blind pigs hidden away in dark alleys. The essentials were all the same: an almost exclusively male clientele, a long bar equipped with a brass foot rail, and a few tables for those too lazy or too drunk to stand. The available beverages were generally limited to beer, whiskey, gin, or rum, sometimes accompanied by a heavily salted lunch spread of pickled eggs, stringy beef, or boiled ham. As far as I knew, such establishments were standard in every town and city in the country, and probably had been since before the nation was
founded. Now, however, it seemed they were becoming obsolete.

  Of course, putting saloons out of business was the goal of the Prohibitionists, but the Eighteenth Amendment inadvertently resulted in an expansion of drinking to new venues and new customers. Night clubs and speakeasies were taking the place of traditional bars, especially in the cities. Instead of a simple watering hole for men to talk sports and politics over their drinks, these new places provided diverse entertainments and catered to both men and women. There was a thrill and romance to indulging in illicit activity, and little risk since the law was seldom enforced, so it had become fashionable for couples and groups to go “night clubbing” together. New clubs were opening almost every night and vying with each other to offer the most enticing attractions. In New York City, there were thousands from which to choose.

  Our choice for this evening—more precisely Tom Van Dusen’s choice—was Katie Day’s on Forty-ninth Street. One of Manhattan’s newest hot spots, it featured an Irish theme that was overdone to the point of caricature. Almost everything in the club was colored in hues of green, from the streamers that festooned the ceiling to the seat cushions on the chairs. Pennants displaying the names and coats of arms of various Irish counties hung on the walls. Behind the stage was a large mural of a rainbow leading to a pot of gold. Half a dozen dwarves, dressed as leprechauns, cavorted about while a red-haired fiddler played a lively jig.

  The club buzzed with a hundred conversations and the fiddler had to play hard to be heard above the din. Tables were packed so closely together that we could barely squeeze between them. One of the leprechauns, with a realistic white beard, slowly ushered us to a prime spot that cost Van Dusen a ten-dollar tip, and we sat down at a small round table with a bowl of shamrocks as a centerpiece.

  Van Dusen wore a belted tweed suit with knickers and argyle socks; his outfit looked like something that the Griffith studio’s wardrobe department might have assembled for the role of an English squire. Natalie Brockman was in a low-cut fringed black dress that contrasted sharply with her pale skin and platinum blonde hair. She had a thoroughly bored expression on her face, for which I couldn’t fault her. We were all weary of Van Dusen’s grousing by now. After the game, the four of us had met for dinner at a small German restaurant. Throughout the meal, Van Dusen did nothing but complain about failing to get his picture taken with President Harding. Van Dusen had made a fool of himself at Yankee Stadium, first pleading and then ranting, trying to convince anyone who would listen that the president would certainly want to meet such a famous movie director as himself. No one in Harding’s entourage had heard of Tom Van Dusen, however, and his request for a joint photograph was unceremoniously declined.