Murder at Fenway Park (18 page)

“M
ickey! Telephone!” For a small woman, Mrs. O’Brien could bellow louder than an umpire.

I raced downstairs. Fletcher? Or a Fletcher impersonator?

“Mickey? This is Peggy.” The whisper wasn’t Fletch’s, but it didn’t sound like Peggy either.

“Yeah?” I asked cautiously.

“I need to see you,” the soft voice breathed. “It’s urgent. I’m at the Majestic Theater—next to Jacob Wirth’s. Do you know where that is?”

I still wasn’t sure of the caller’s identity. And I wasn’t going to be set up again. “Who’s my favorite movie actress?” I asked.

“What?”
blurted into my ear. The whisper was gone, blown away in astonishment at my question. Then I heard giggling, and Peggy answered as if giving a secret password, “Mary Pickford.”

“I know where the Majestic is. I’ll be right there.”

Back to an urgent whispering, she said, “I’m in the lobby. Hurry!”

Without a thought to changing my clothes or combing my hair, I ran straight to the front door. But just before yanking it open, I remembered that somebody had been spying on me for Bob Tyler. I didn’t want any more trouble from Tyler, and I sure didn’t want to lead anyone to Peggy. I spun around, and flying past a startled Mrs. O’Brien, went out the kitchen door instead.

Staying off the street, I assaulted the backyard barriers of our neighbors, fighting my way around bushes and squeezing through hedgerows. I came out on Columbus Avenue, certain that I had eluded any observers.

It took five minutes of hard sprinting for me to reach the Majestic Theater. My hair was plastered across my forehead and rivulets of sweat trickled down my neck. I was wheezing for air as I entered the lobby.

Peggy was standing just inside, looking out the glass door. She grabbed my elbow and turned me around to face the door. “Over there,” she whispered, pointing out the pane. She showed no signs of returning to normal behavior.

“Where?” I whispered back. “And why are we whispering?”

“The restaurant. Mr. Tyler is in there.”

“Then he can’t hear us, can he?”

“You never know who’s around.
Look.
”

There was nothing to see that I could tell, but I looked across the street at Jacob Wirth’s restaurant. “What is it I’m supposed to be looking at?”

“Just watch the door. Mr. Tyler’s in there with another man. You need to see what he looks like.”

We stood side by side staring out the glass, talking earnestly at the door. We must have looked ridiculous.

“Why
do I need to see this guy?”

“I think he’s—shhh! Here they are.”

Tyler came out of the restaurant working a toothpick through his teeth with one hand and swinging his cane with the other. Behind him came a man who stood a head taller than Tyler—six foot six, easy. It wasn’t his height that struck me, though. It was his outfit: checked lime green suit, vest open, yellow cap slung low over his eyes. He bit the end off a stout black cigar and spat it out. This was the man Hal Chase had been talking to in the box seats at Fenway.

“Do you know him?” Peggy asked.

I hesitated. “Uh, why? Should I?”

“I don’t know. It’s too bad his hat is covering his eyes. Do you think you could recognize him if you saw him again.”

“I think so.” I was sure I could, even if he wore different clothes and shaved his mustache. I clearly remembered his face from Fenway Park. And now I’d seen how tall he was.

“Okay.” Peggy sighed. “We can let them go.” As if we could have prevented them from going.

Tyler and his friend walked out of view. I touched Peggy’s arm gently. “Please. Tell me what this is all about.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “All right. Let’s go back to my house.”

I vetoed the suggestion. Not with Tyler and who knows who else around here. I was not going to attract danger in Peggy’s direction. “I can’t wait,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”

I crossed the lobby to buy tickets for the movie. The ticket clerk eyed me with a quizzical look; she must have been watching Peggy and me at the door. I fished in my pockets and ordered, “Two, please.”

“Be our guests,” the girl said. “Just go right in.”

Peggy had moved up behind me. “Thank you, Emma,” she said. She plucked at my sleeve and we moved inside through the open door. “Emma’s a friend of mine,” she whispered. “She let me use their phone to call you.”

We had no intention of watching the pictures, so I pointed to the back row and she said, “Fine.”

Our seats were still squeaking from settling in when I demanded, “Okay. So what’s going on?” I didn’t have the patience to start with the
How’ve you been? You look wonderful
routine. Although I wondered about the former and noticed the latter.

Peggy tapped her lips with her forefinger and murmured to herself, “Where to start...”

“Wherever you like.” Just please get started.

“All right,” she said. Then the torrent began. “I was following Mr. Tyler. That’s why I knew he was in the restaurant. And was with the tall man. And that’s why I called you, so that you could see him—oh, maybe I should back up.” I thought maybe she should. “Let’s see... I read about Mr. Macullar being murdered in the paper. I suppose that’s what started it. I didn’t do anything after you were last over...I had the feeling you wanted to be left alone.” She was right about that, but I didn’t want to say so. And I couldn’t contradict her convincingly, so I said nothing.

Peggy sighed and went on, “You said that Mr. Macullar told you about the body being moved—Mr. Corriden’s body. So when I read he was killed—Mr. Macullar—I thought it could be because he knew about it. And then I realized that you knew about it, too. And I thought you could be in danger of the same thing.” She showed a worried frown, then brightening up she said, “So I decided to do some investigating on my own.”

“That was nice,” I conceded. “What did you do?”

“Well, the obvious starting point was Robert Tyler.” Why was that obvious? She picked up steam as she rolled on, “Mr. Tyler already committed other crimes. Having the body moved—that’s obstruction of justice. And he took bribes when he was the American League secretary—remember what Karl found out?” I nodded. Of course I remembered. I also noticed that she called every man
Mister
somebody except for that infernal Landfors—he was
Karl.

“So I looked into Mr. Tyler and what he did when he was in Boston. And I found that he lives in hotels.
Two
of them.”

“Two?”

“Yes, one is the Copley Plaza. He has a suite there—it must cost a fortune. And here’s the odd thing: he also keeps a room at the Charles Inn.”

I thought it odd for anyone to need two places to live in the same town. Peggy made it sound so meaningful, though, that I expected I didn’t quite grasp the full significance of her finding. “Why is that the odd thing?”

“It’s a shabby hotel, almost falling apart. It doesn’t fit him at all. And he keeps it under a false name. An alias. Robert Smith.”

“Huh. Which one does he live at?”

“The Copley. He uses the Charles only now and then. For entertaining, uh, young ladies. Inexpensive young ladies.”

“Oh. How do you know that?”

“From the desk clerk. I followed Mr. Tyler a few times to see where he spent his time and whom he associated with. Two days ago, I followed him to the hotel and waited outside until it was obvious he was staying the night. I went back this afternoon, and described him to the desk clerk. He thought I was looking for Mr. Tyler—he seemed to think I was there to, uh, meet him. The way that clerk leered at me, I wanted to slap him. Anyway, he gave me Mr. Tyler’s name as Mr. Robert Smith, and the room number, and of course he revealed the reason for the room.”

Peggy slowed her speech. “I was walking out of the hotel ...and Mr. Tyler came walking up with that man... I wondered why he would be bringing a man to his trysting place. And then I thought: well, maybe he keeps the room for another reason, too—to meet people he wouldn’t want seen at the Copley Plaza. People like that Mr. Rothstein or Mr. Chase that Karl told us about.

“So I went back in, past the clerk and upstairs to Mr. Tyler’s room. I listened through the door. They weren’t in there long... I heard them coming to the door and I ran to the next room pretending it was mine and I was having trouble with the lock...” I was impressed; Peggy would make a better detective than me. As good a one, anyway. “I gave them time to get downstairs... then I went down, too ... and I followed them outside. I stayed far enough away that I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. When they went into Jacob Wirth’s, I figured they would be eating dinner, and there would be enough time for you to get here. To see the man with Mr. Tyler.”

“But
why
did I need to see him?”

“Oh! Because you’re in
danger.
What I heard in the hotel room—let me get this exactly right—yes, I have it. I heard Mr. Tyler say,
‘I called Rothstein. He says if the—’
I’m going to say this exactly as I heard it,
‘if the bastard keeps stirring up trouble, you’re supposed to take care of him.
’Then the other man mumbled something that I couldn’t make out. But Mr. Tyler’s answer to him was
No, not a warning. He’s had plenty. Take care of him for good. ’
”

I
was determined to make sure of one thing: that I wouldn’t let Peggy get into trouble for my sake.

Only one way to prevent it came to mind.

Peggy would have to decide on her own to stay out of the Corriden and Macullar cases. I would just have to help her reach that decision. I didn’t like it, but there seemed no other choice.

I called Peggy from Mrs. O’Brien’s. Using the phone was cowardly, but it was also a safeguard. I didn’t believe what I was going to say, and didn’t want my face to give away what I really felt.

She picked up on the second ring and sang, “Hello-o-o?”

“Peggy, this is Mickey.”

“Oh! I’m glad you called. I had an idea—”

“No! No more ideas!” I snapped. There was silence on her end. Then, in close to the same tone that Tyler had used on me, I poured it on slowly and emphatically. “No more investigating, no more following people—nothing. That’s man’s work. Playing detective is no kind of thing for a girl to be doing.” There, I’d said it.

“Is that a fact?” she asked softly. The receiver suddenly felt cold in my grasp.

“That’s right it’s a fact. I can take care of myself. I’m not going to have you running around trying to protect me.”

“Well. I didn’t realize you felt that way. I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do then but wish you luck. Good luck, Mr. Rawlings. And goodbye.” The soft click that followed left a deafening echo in my ear.

It was as if the World Series had come a month early this year. Or more like the World Series and a heavyweight prizefight and the Fourth of July all rolled into one grand extravaganza. The event: Walter Johnson and Smoky Joe Wood facing each other in a Friday afternoon baseball game at Fenway Park.

This season of unprecedented winning streaks would reach its pinnacle on September 6 when Walter Johnson came to town. Johnson had put together a win streak that ended at sixteen in August, good enough for a new American League record. But Joe Wood was still rolling along with thirteen straight. The public clamored to see Johnson and Wood go head to head, to see Johnson defend his month-old record. Jake Stahl gave in to the fans’ wishes—perhaps as part-owner of the Red Sox he was eager to see the ticket sales for such a match. Wood was originally scheduled to pitch Saturday’s game, but Stahl moved him up to Friday to face Johnson with one less day of rest.

The buildup during the days before the big game blew the Olympics, the presidential race, and everything else out of the newspapers. Writers filled their columns with endless profiles of the two pitchers. Statisticians put together lists comparing the men, not only their pitching records, but height, weight, arm length... It was Smoky Joe Wood the challenger going up against reigning champion Walter Johnson the Big Train. Was this going to be a baseball game or Jim Jeffries versus Jack Johnson?

As the day of battle drew closer, the city of Boston was absolutely crazed with excitement and anticipation. I caught some of it—a
lot
of it—mysetf. It was a welcome break from the thoughts and fears of murder that lately occupied too much of my attention.

I became fixated on the upcoming game, and decided that I wouldn’t be able to stand the torment of watching it from the bench. I wanted, more than anything else in the world, to get a chance to hit against Walter Johnson.

It wouldn’t matter what happened afterward. If O’Malley and Tyler succeeded in framing me for killing Jimmy Macullar, so be it. If this game lived up to expectations, it would be an historic one, and if I played in it, I’d have my niche in history.

I was so desperate to get into the game, that I went to Stahl’s office to let him know how I felt. Through Jake’s open door, I saw that he was alone at his desk reading a newspaper. I knocked to get his attention.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, Jake...”

Stahl looked up. “Yeah, kid?”

“This game with Washington... well, I been hitting pretty good lately... got that homer off Ed Walsh. I
really
want to get in this game... I’ve never been up against Johnson before... and, well, if you play me you’ll get everything I got.” I felt silly for begging to get into a ball game.

Stahl didn’t respond as angrily as he had to Billy Neal’s demand for more playing time. Of course, I asked a whole lot nicer than Neal had. Stahl smiled and said, “You
always
give a hundred percent, kid. That’s why I want you on my team. Thing is, a hundred percent of you is about a quarter of Tris Speaker.”

Though probably accurate, I felt hurt by that evaluation and Stahl must have noticed. In a kinder tone he said, “It just isn’t enough, Mickey. I’ve got to go with the regular lineup in this game. Fans want to see the starters, and they
are
our best chance to win.”

“It wasn’t
Speaker’s
spot I was asking for. I don’t have to start... I just want one at bat against Johnson. Just one.”

Stahl thought a bit. “If I can, kid. We’ll see how the game goes. If something comes up, I’ll try to put you in.”

“Okay. Thanks, Jake.”

I left speculating on the “somethings” that could come up and give me a chance to get in the game. Let’s see... one of the starters could get knocked unconscious by a Johnson fastball to the head... or maybe break a leg sliding into base. Hmm, not very promising.

Friday finally came, and brought with it the largest crowd that the young ballpark and this young ball player had ever seen. Fans overflowed the stands and filled the perimeter of the field. Along the outfield fence, thousands of spectators lined the wall in fair territory. A rope was strung in front of them to mark the limit of the shrunken playing field.

The players even had to relinquish the dugouts to accommodate the deluge of fans. Along the sidelines, just a couple of feet from the base paths, the two teams sat in folding chairs, pressed from behind by the crowd. There was almost no foul territory; the starting pitchers had to throw their warm-ups on the outfield grass.

In this atmosphere, feverishly charged with expectations and hopes and anxieties, Smoky Joe Wood took the mound to face the top of the Senators’ batting order. The duel of the century was underway.

With eager spectators crowding the field from every direction, I had a momentary flash of fear, wondering what their reaction would be if Wood and Johnson succumbed to the massive pressure and were knocked from the box. Would we have a riot of angry baseball fans?

Both Smoky Joe and the Big Train quickly made it clear that I needn’t have worried. If anything, the intense pressure simply added to the speed of their fastballs and the sharpness of their control.

Joe Wood had a baby face that a few years ago allowed him to pass for female as the star pitcher of the
Bloomer Girls
barnstorming team. He also had a dynamo for a right arm, which he used now to snap lightning-bolt strikes across home plate.

Walter Johnson was a physical curiosity, with stretched out, dangling arms—it looked as if he could scratch his toes without bending. When he threw, his right arm would rapidly unravel like a long uncoiling watch spring as he propelled fastballs past our batters.

I’d never known a game to be so totally absorbing. Every fan and every player hung on each pitch. The entire stadium hushed each time the pitcher went into his windup. Through the silence, one could then hear the
whizzz
—perhaps audible, perhaps imagined—as the ball hurtled to the plate. Even from the bench I felt drained from total involvement.

Through five innings, the contest was locked in a scoreless tie. Neither pitcher looked to be tiring. On the contrary, they made the early innings look as if they had been only warm-ups.

In the bottom of the sixth, the crowd itself was involved in a critical play. Tris Speaker got hold of one of Johnson’s fastballs and knocked a drive into the outfield. The ball carried into the overflow of fans, and was declared a ground rule double. Duffy Lewis then followed with a legitimate double to drive Speaker home and give Joe Wood a 1—0 lead.

Johnson got back on track to strike out the rest of the Sox hitters and end the inning. There was no more scoring through the next inning and a half.

Jake Stahl led off the bottom of the eighth, with Rough Carrigan up next. Stahl had only a brief stay in the batter’s box while Johnson threw three quick vaporous strikes past him.

Stahl came back to the Red Sox seats fuming. Carrigan went up to the plate and Larry Gardner hopped out of his chair to go on deck. Stahl waved him back down and barked, “Rawlings! You’re up for Gardner.” As I walked past him to get my bat, Jake growled at me, “Here’s your shot, kid. Let’s see if you can hit the stuff that son of a bitch is throwing.”

From the bat rack, I chose Mabel. I hadn’t touched her since May. She felt good, her hickory wood hard and sleek in my grip. I squeezed her tight, and felt her strength flow into my arms.

After Carrigan struck out, I walked slowly to the batter’s box. I wasn’t worried about the final outcome of my turn at bat; since Johnson was mowing everybody down, there would be no humiliation in adding one more to his strikeout total. I walked deliberately because I was bracing myself for the way I planned to bat against him.

I took my stance with no intention of swinging at the first pitch. I wanted a good close-up look at just how fast Walter Johnson really threw a baseball before complicating things by trying to swing at it.

I saw Johnson go into his motion and unleash that infinite right arm. Then I heard the catcher’s mitt go
Pop!
and Billy Evans yell, “Strike!” Wait a minute, here. I missed something. I was supposed to see the ball go past me ... Did I blink or something?

I stepped back out of the box and quickly decided that, for lack of any other plan, I would carry through with my original scheme. I moved up as close as possible to the plate, my toes just an inch or two away from it. Then I leaned over and crouched low. In that position, a fastball that would otherwise be a strike, letter-high on the inside corner, would instead blast into my left ear and exit my right.

With this batting stance, the strike zone was effectively reduced to one-quarter its usual size. I still wouldn’t necessarily be able to see what I was swinging at, but with the smaller area, there was at least a greater possibility of the ball hitting the bat.

It was pretty common knowledge that Walter Johnson’s only fear was that he might someday kill somebody with his fastball. I felt slightly guilty about taking advantage of his compassionate nature, but this was my only chance—the only way I could compensate for the disparity in our abilities.

I steeled myself for Johnson’s second pitch, putting my head and life at the mercy of his soft heart and fine control. He wound up, let loose, and I swung at the low and outside part of the strike zone. The ball grazed the bat for a foul tip. Well, that’s a piece of it.

Oh-and-two now. He should be wasting this next pitch. Okay, so I’ll be taking. Here it comes. Ball one! Way outside. Hah! Guessed right!

Now I’ve got to be swinging. I was tightening up in this cramped position, so I backed out once more. Okay, here we go. I crouched over again, ready to punch out at the ball. Johnson lets that arm unwind and here it comes. I take a rip, and... contact! A solid shot up the first baseline. Double written all over it.

The first baseman plunges in a desperate dive and—damn! He’s got it. If the son of a bitch was left-handed I’d be pulling into second base, maybe third. Nope. Just a loud third out.

Well... It
was
a helluva shot—and it was off Walter Johnson.

The game ended with the 1—0 score holding up for Joe Wood. He could break Johnson’s record now with three more wins.

The locker room celebration after the game was surprisingly mild. We were more relieved and relaxed than boisterous. It was the biggest game most of us had ever played in, but we were all too drained from the intense pressure of it to have much energy for horseplay.

Jake shook me up when he came over with a furious look on his face. In a loud angry voice that could be heard by everyone, he demanded, “Who the hell taught you how to bat? Sticking your head in the strike zone... you’re goddam lucky Johnson didn’t kill you out there!”

Then, with a laugh that made it was clear he was only pulling my leg, he said, “That took balls, Mick. Way to go.” I tried not to, but I could distinctly feel myself puffing up a bit—yes, down there, too—at the compliment.