Murder at Wrigley Field (19 page)

C
hicago wasn’t the Windy City today. The air was stagnant and muggy, and the entire city sweltered in its sticky grip. Although noon was hours away, the thermometer had already topped ninety degrees.

The windows of Bennett Harrington’s corner office were wide open, but there was no cross-breeze. All that passed through them were the combative sounds of State Street. Tempers shortened by the heat had street car conductors ringing their warning bells at automobiles, motorists honking their horns at trucks, truckers beating their horses, the animals squealing their pain, and everyone yelling at pedestrians.

Still breathless from having battled my way through the traffic snarl, I was overheated and perspiring into a lightweight worsted suit that didn’t absorb moisture quite fast enough. I hoped the dark blue color would at least keep the sweat spots from showing through.

“You have ten minutes, Mr. Rawlings,” Harrington drawled drowsily from behind his immaculate desk. For the first time, his loose white Dixie attire seemed entirely appropriate and sensible.

“Thanks, Mr. Harrington.” I shifted carefully in my seat to keep from sticking to the leather upholstery. “I appreciate your seeing me without an appointment.”

His terse secretary in the outer office hadn’t appreciated it at all; it threw off “the schedule,” which must have been chiseled in stone the way she referred to it.

A benevolent nod from Harrington. “You said it was urgent.” He refreshed his water glass from the pitcher and took a sip. I eyed the glass thirstily, hoping he’d offer me some. He gave no sign of noticing.

Wiping a damp handkerchief over my sweating forehead, I said, “It’s about Charles Weeghman.” With my throat dry and my chair so far from his desk, I had to strain my voice to be heard.

“What about him?”

I had no trouble appearing convincingly nervous. “He’s out to get me.”

Harrington gave a small start. “Get you how?”

I shifted again. “He’s been mad at me ever since I gave Willie Kaiser’s mother my uniform to bury him in. Weeghman got bad publicity because of it and seemed to think I did it intentionally to hurt him. I didn’t. It was just that Willie’s mother asked me to and I couldn’t say no.” Harrington nodded impassively. “Anyway, now Weeghman says he’s gonna drop me from the team and let me be drafted unless I take a pay cut.” This was another lie, which I chose to think of as a “story.”

Harrington chuckled. “That’s a good one. I don’t think even Charlie Comiskey has thought of that yet.”

“It’s blackmail is what it is.”

“Well, some people might describe it that way. Others might call it negotiating.”

“Whatever you call it, it ain’t right.”

He shrugged. “Why come to me about it? Mr. Weeghman runs the ballclub. I’m merely a shareholder.”

“Well, like I said, the thing with the uniform wasn’t intentional. But now I wouldn’t mind doing something to Charles Weeghman that was intentional.”

“I don’t follow,” Harrington said flatly. His sleepy left eye snapped awake, and both eyes sparkled in a way that suggested he followed just fine.

“People talk,” I said. “I know you’ve had guys doing things—arranging accidents and such—to try and put Weeghman out of business. I want to help. I figure if somebody else—you or Mr. Wrigley maybe—takes over, I might get a fair shake.” My voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.

Harrington took a long slow sip of water. I’d have been grateful for a chance to lick the droplets condensed on the outside of the pitcher. “These people that talk. Who are they?”

“I don’t rat.”

He nodded approvingly. “And what have they been doing to hurt the Cubs?”

“Sawed the bleacher seats, put pretzels in the concession stands, those smoke bombs that cleared out the park at the end of June...”

“Why did they do these things?”

“Because you wanted ’em to. I figure you want to take over the team.”

Harrington pulled his watch from a vest pocket, checked the time, then snapped the cover shut and tucked it back in his vest. “Actually,” he said, “it’s the National League that wants me to take control.”

“The league?”

“Yes. The other owners and the league president.”

The National League president? “John Tener knows about this?” This wasn’t at all what I was expecting.

“Mr. Rawlings—you mind if I call you Mickey?”

Oh jeez, he’s going to take the chummy approach. I nodded, but a warning flag went up in my head, similar to when he’d put his hat over this heart while referring to “this great game of ours.”

“Well, Mickey, I’ll trust you to keep this between us. Although much of it is public knowledge.”

Doesn’t take a whole lot of trust to confide something that’s public knowledge, I thought. “I’ll keep it to myself,” I promised.

“You must be aware that Mr. Weeghman was one of the ringleaders of the Federal League.”

“Yes. And in exchange for selling out the Feds, he was allowed to buy the Cubs and move them into his Federal League ballpark.” I had as much public knowledge as any other member of the public.

“Selling out the Feds,” Harrington repeated with a smile. “Appropriate choice of words.”

“Uh, thank you.”

“See, that’s precisely the problem with Charles Weeghman. He’ll sell out his own mother. The man simply is not trustworthy. It was in the interests of the National League to let him in a couple years ago. In fact, the league put up $50,000 toward the purchase price and helped him find additional investors like myself—”

“And Mr. Wrigley and Mr. Armour?”

“Yes, that’s right. But now it’s time for Mr. Weeghman to go. He turned on his fellow owners once before. He might do it again. These are difficult times, and we all have to be able to trust each other.”

I didn’t expect their motives were quite that pure. “Of course, Weeghman hurt the National League owners by starting the Federal League. Maybe revenge is another reason they want to get rid of him now?”

He chuckled and the droopy left eye appeared to be winking. “You are an astute judge of human nature, Mr.—uh, Mickey. During its existence, the Federal League did inflict a great deal of damage to organized baseball. And I expect the other owners do indeed have long memories—”

Bursting through the air came an explosion of horns, screeching brakes, an equine scream, and furious shouts. Another traffic accident. Harrington twisted in his chair and glanced at a window. “Sounds like a good one.” He then turned slowly back to me; it was too hot to get up and look.

One thing didn’t make sense to me, not even in this crazy year and not even for baseball magnates. “The league approved
throwing games?”
I asked.

Harrington frowned. I hadn’t included that before when I’d rattled off the other mishaps at Cub’s Park. “What makes you think games are being thrown?”

“It’s what I heard.”

“Well, it’s not true. It is not sanctioned by the league anyway. Although they do not care—and do not want to know—how Mr. Weeghman is put out of business, that is not an option of which they’d approve.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “That’s one thing I won’t do.”

“You have some scruples.”

“Yes. Not many, but some.”

“In that case,” he laughed, “you should have a bright future ahead of you.”

Yeah, I thought, if I ever wanted to be a businessman.

The ruckus outside subsided into sporadic shouts of anger. Harrington checked his watch again. I was sure I’d exceeded my ten minutes.

“So what would you like me to do to help get Weeghman out?” I asked.

“Whatever you like. I don’t want to know any details.”

“But in general.”

“No generalities either. Do whatever you think is appropriate.”

“Same as the other owners, you don’t want to know.”

“Exactly.”

It followed the same principle that I’d suggested to Weeghman on the train: you can’t be held accountable for what you don’t know. “Okay. Count me in.” I stood to go. “And when Mr. Weeghman is out, my job is secure?”

“What are you batting?”

“Two-sixty-eight.”

“Keep it over two-fifty, and there will be a spot for you on the roster.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harrington.” I turned away, then back. The same thing that bothered me about William Wrigley wanting to harm the club came to mind. “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “doesn’t hurting Mr. Weeghman hurt you, too? If a business goes down, everybody with a share in that business loses, don’t they?”

He smiled. “Ah, but if the share becomes larger, an investor can still do better than break even.”

I didn’t get it.

Harrington noticed. He tried to explain, “Let’s say profits drop by a third. But your share is doubled at no cost to you. Then you come out ahead.”

I still didn’t get it.

Harrington’s face showed that his confidence in my bright future was diminishing. “Don’t worry,” he concluded. “We will be adequately compensated for any fall-off in revenues. Good day.”

I exited past his agitated secretary. From her scowl, she looked like she could have been Charles Weeghman’s sister.

On the street, I saw the aftermath of the accident: a dead horse was being carted away and a uniformed street car conductor and a burly truck driver were grappling on the sidewalk and cursing like ballplayers. There were other scuffles among those crowded around them, as onlookers took sides and argued about who was at fault.

I watched the proceedings for several minutes. It was kind of nice to see people fighting about something I could understand for a change.

After the final game with Pittsburgh, before going to the Wednesday meeting of the Patriotic Knights of Liberty, I gave Karl Landfors a call.

Once the social niceties were out of the way—they were generally over in a matter of seconds when talking to Landfors—I asked if he’d gotten any dope on Frank Timmons yet.

“Some,” he said. “Not a terribly interesting character, as far as I could find out. Appears to be a salesman more than a crusader. You were right about him being with the Ku Klux Klan in Georgia, and he made a bundle of money for himself by selling them robes and hoods.”

“Is that why he left Georgia—they didn’t like him making money off them like that?”

“On the contrary. He was a terrific organizer. The Klan sent him to Chicago to organize here. With all the Negroes that have been moving north in the last couple of years, they thought the area would be ripe for recruiting. You know, scare the whites into thinking it’s some kind of invasion and then convince them that they need the Klan for protection.”

“But Timmons isn’t with the Klan anymore?”

“No. He broke off with them. Like I said, he doesn’t seem to have any particular cause, as long as he can make a few bucks. So he started his own group. With the war coming, he probably saw he could cash in more by scaring people about Germans. But ‘Patriotic Knights of Liberty’ is a broad enough name that when the war’s over he can easily move on to other enemies.”

“Huh. Anything else?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. Well, keep me—Oh, could you check on somebody else for me?”

“Sure. But I hope it’s somebody a little more interesting than Frank Timmons.”

“It’s Bennett Harrington.” I filled Landfors in on what I knew and what I suspected. “I’m curious about why he came to Chicago. He’s from Baltimore originally and seems out of place here.”

Landfors was excited about digging into Harrington’s past. Going after a “robber baron,” as he called almost any businessman, was one of his favorite pursuits.

Frank Timmons had completed his sermon and moved to the merchandise table to hawk his wares.

I was looking in vain for somebody to talk to. Although I didn’t like anyone here, I liked being alone even less. I wanted to find somebody I knew, but the ranks of the Knights were dwindling.