Murder at Ebbets Field (10 page)

“Besides,” I said. “I owe John McGraw. He took me from nowhere and put me on a world champion team.”

“Where was nowhere?”

“Beaumont, in the Texas League. That’s where I played all last year. After the season was over, I stayed and played winter ball until spring, when the Giants came down. They have their spring training in Texas—in Marlin, outside of Waco. So I went for a tryout. And McGraw signed me.”

“He must have been impressed with you.”

I laughed. “Not especially, but he didn’t have a lot to choose from.” Normally I would have let the misconception stand, but with Margie Turner I felt compelled to tell her the unremarkable truth. “McGraw was on Daley’s world tour, managing the National League all-stars. When he got back to the States, he found that the Giants’ owners sold off half his infield. And the players who were left were threatening to jump to the Feds. So McGraw went to spring training without an infield. That’s why he signed me. You got to have nine players on the field come opening day.” I sighed, remembering that McGraw had then signed a few more infielders and I was once again relegated to a utility role.

“Strange how things work out,” Margie said wistfully. “That damned world tour helped you get a job and it cost Libby her husband.”

There was no blame in her voice, but the observation made me uncomfortable. “Why ‘Libby’?” I asked. “I can see how you get ‘Margie’ from ‘Marguerite,’ but how do you get ‘Libby’ from ‘Florence’?”

“I don’t know . . . . she never told me her real name, I don’t think.”

“Her real name?”

“Sure. ‘Florence Hampton’ was probably her stage name. Like ‘Mary Pickford.’ ”

“Gladys Smith,” I said.

“That’s right.” Margie laughed. “You really are a movie fan. Bet you don’t know my name though.”

“It’s not Marguerite Turner?”

“Nope. Margaret Groot.”

“Why’d you change it?”

She laughed again. “I just told you. Because my real name’s Margaret Groot. The fan magazines would choke on that one. I grew up near Turners Falls, in Massachusetts, so I took Turner for a last name. Then Margaret Turner sounded a little too plain, so I made my first name more exotic: Marguerite. But I still prefer ‘Margie.’ ”

Yeah, she was definitely more of a Margie than a Marguerite. Margie Groot from Turners Falls. The different name made her seem different. It made her even more of a regular person to me.

Maybe Florence Hampton was really a different person, too.

The Hoosiers ended up winning the game 1–0 on a pinch hit double by young Edd Roush.

I looked around before we left the park, giving one last thought to Peter Kurtz’s offer. Although it might not have been an offer as much as a threat.

That’s a good way to recruit players: get them banned from organized baseball and then they have no choice but to sign with an outlaw team.

I might end up playing here after all if that scorecard ends up in John McGraw’s hands.

I
was at the Municipal Building at 8:30 Tuesday morning and waited until it opened at nine. This time I wasn’t looking for the district attorney’s office. I wanted a marriage license.

The Marriage License Bureau was on the third floor. The only person in the office was a young man standing behind a counter with a glass front; it was like a bank teller’s, with a hole in the glass to talk through and a small gap between the glass and the countertop to exchange papers. The clerk’s slicked back red hair was parted perfectly in the middle and he wore a massive green bow tie with vertical gold stripes. He had an expectant smirk on his face as I approached his window.

“I’d like to see a marriage license,” I asked through the hole in the glass. “From June 1913. The groom’s name was William Daley.”

The smirk vanished. “You want to see a license. Somebody else’s license.”

I thought it a straightforward request, but he didn’t seem to understand. “Yes.” How much more could I elaborate?

“Most people want one of their own,” he said.

“I don’t. Can’t I see his? Isn’t it a public record?”

“Of course it is.”

“Then what do I have to do to see it?”

Here I was, his first customer of the day, and already I was throwing his routine out of whack. He tilted his head to look around the rest of the office and appeared disappointed. I think he would have liked to tell me to keep the line moving, but there was no line. “All right,” he said with a sigh. He stepped away to a set of oak file cabinets behind him. “June of last year, you said, right?”

“Yes.”

He ran his fingers down a row of drawers, checking the labels on the front, then pulled a drawer halfway out. “Do you know the date?”

“No. Sorry.”

“How do you spell ‘Daley’?”

Everything was a challenge for this guy. “D-a-l-e-y.”

He flipped through all the documents in the drawer. “Nope. Nothing here for a Daley,” he reported gleefully.

Jeez. I thought for sure ... “Oh! The wedding was in June. Maybe he got the license earlier.”

“That’s usually the way it works,” he sniffed.

I started to suspect that the glass above the counter was to keep people from smacking him. “Could you look?”

“Of course,” he said sourly. He pulled out the drawer above the one he’d just gone through and flipped through its contents while muttering to himself, “I am a civil servant. It is my pleasure to serve the public.”

He withdrew a pale green paper from the drawer and brought it to the counter. Instead of sliding it through the gap, he held it up against the glass. “This is an official document. You can see it, but you can’t touch it.”

I didn’t need to touch it. Having read the name of Daley’s bride, I’d seen enough.

From the Municipal Building, it was three blocks to Spruce Street and the offices of the
New York Press.

The
Press
city room was just as I remembered: loud. It was noisier than a game at Ebbets Field. There was a ceaseless din of typewriters clattering, telephones ringing, and people shouting. Apparently no one got up from their desks to talk to anyone, they just yelled across the room in a raucous crossfire of conversations.

Karl Landfors’s desk was in the same distant corner of the room where I’d first gone to see him two years ago.

Since then, he’d turned it into something like a private office. He used the back of his rolltop desk as one wall, an overflowing bookcase made another, and a row of battered file cabinets a third. Actually, it was more like a nest: the furniture was all old, chipped, and mismatched. I could picture Landfors going around collecting pieces that had been abandoned by other reporters to build his “office,”

Landfors had his back to me. He was seated at his desk, typing rapidly with all his fingers—I didn’t know men could do that. His jacket hung on the corner of the bookcase and his derby was hooked over an unplugged gooseneck lamp clamped to the edge of a shelf. The desk top was stained with spilled ink and scarred with carved names like a schoolboy’s. A large map of Europe was tacked to the wall next to him.

I rapped on the side of a file cabinet to get his attention.

“Ah, Mickey!” he said in a startled tone.

“Hi, Karl.”

He pointed to a straight-back chair that still had most of its legs. As I slowly took off my hat and coat, Landfors’s eyes swept back and forth over me, curious to know why I was there. By the time I sat down, I had his full attention.

I came right to the point. “There’s no James Bartlett in the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, Karl. You lied to me.” I said it matter-of-factly, not as an accusation.

“Well ... of course not. He’s with the Brooklyn office, not Manhattan. I told you it was Brooklyn. You must have—” He didn’t have much conviction in his voice.

“No, Karl. You told me Manhattan, and there’s no James Bartlett.”

Landfors slumped his shoulders in surrender.

I went on, “There’s something else, Karl. I went to the Marriage License Bureau this morning.” His eyebrows rose above the rim of his glasses. “Florence Hampton had to use her real name on her marriage certificate: Elizabeth Emily Landfors.”

Karl took off his spectacles and laid them on the desk. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, and with his thumb and forefinger rubbed the red indentations on the bridge of his nose. “Libby,” he sighed. “My sister.”

I couldn’t be mad at Landfors for lying to me. His sister was dead. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. Not that I blamed him. The way we went at each other, I’d never given him a reason to count on me for much support.

Landfors shrugged and his jaw started flexing, but no words came out. Then he spread his hands. “I’m not sure exactly. When I first heard about her drowning, I knew something was wrong—she never would have gone into the water of her own free will. So I tried to focus on finding out what happened to her instead of grieving for her. I don’t know ... maybe it was just easier for me to think of Florence Hampton being dead instead of my sister Libby. If I thought of her as my sister, there would have been too much for me to think about. We’d had some . . . uh, disagreements.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police? There wasn’t any political scandal to worry about.”

“Libby’s name was dragged through the mud often enough. Even as Florence Hampton, she was still my sister. I didn’t want to stir up any more gossip.”

“You knew she was afraid of the water.”

Landfors nodded. “When we were kids—she was six, I was nine—we were ice skating on a pond near our home. Our mother told us not to, said the ice was too thin. I talked Libby into going anyway. Sure enough, she fell through. I tried to go out to her, and I fell through, too. I kept pounding on the ice in front of me, breaking it up, and slowly swimming out to her.” Landfors’s eyes were wide open and staring, as if the event was happening right in front of him. “Took forever. She kept going under, and every time I thought it would be the last, but eventually she’d come up shrieking again. You can’t believe how loud a six-year-old girl can shriek. Anyway, I got her, and we managed to get on firm ice and back to shore. She never would go near any water outside of a bathtub after that. Said she imagined being pulled under and solid ice closing up over her head.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scuffed sepia photograph. He held it out to me. “This was taken just before I went to college.”

I looked at the two young people in the photo: Karl Landfors, smiling broadly with his arm around his sister Libby. She already showed the features that would make her a movie favorite. “I guess she got the beauty and you got the brains,” I said.

“She had
both
,” he snapped.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything . . .” My mouth sure liked to shoot itself off at the worst times.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said after a pause. “Libby was smart. I thought she should have used her brains . . . for women’s suffrage, for political change. She could have been another Jane Addams or Margaret Sanger. Instead, she decided to become another pretty face in Ziegfeld’s chorus line. We haven’t—hadn’t spoken for more than three years.” He sighed. “You know what bothers me most?”

I shook my head no.

“I realized a while ago that it was her choice to make. Not mine. And I never told her that. I was too stubborn to tell her I was wrong.”

Now he couldn’t tell her anything. He’d waited too long. “Did you go to any of her movies?” I asked.

“Just about all of them . . . except the last one.” His face suddenly brightened. “And you know what? She kept up with my career, too.” He pried open the bottom drawer of his desk. “I was given all her effects.” He pulled out a copy of
Savagery in the Sweatshop.
“This was hers,” he said with a smile. “She read my book.”

I kept my mouth reined in and didn’t point out that the fact that she had it didn’t necessarily mean that she’d read it.

“But what’s really interesting,” he said, “is what I found inside.” He flipped open the front cover and some folded papers fell out. Landfors opened them up and laid them flat on the desk, rubbing the creases out with his palm.

There was the passenger list of the
Lusitania
and William Daley’s death certificate, as well as the ship physician’s notes. Another page, in a lady’s handwriting, was headed “Arsenic.” What did this mean?

“She was investigating her husband’s death,” Landfors said proudly.

B
efore talking to Karl Landfors, I thought the Hampton investigation—we both continued to call her by her stage name—was finally taking shape. I’d managed to narrow the focus by eliminating the political angle.

Now I saw that all it really did was change shape, like a squeezed balloon. It became narrower, yes, but longer, stretching back in time to encompass the death of William Daley.

With the assumption that Daley was murdered, Landfors and I came up with two possible motives for Florence Hampton to be killed.

Landfors suggested that if Daley’s murderer found out that Miss Hampton was looking into the death, he might kill her to stop her from finding him out.

I came up with another possibility: what if somebody wanted both Daley and his wife dead from the start. Was there somebody who would benefit from their deaths—inherit maybe? Karl said he was the beneficiary, but the look on his face showed it was no benefit.

This was a hell of a thing for Landfors. I was sorry for him, and I felt badly that he didn’t feel he could tell me the truth from the start. The differences between us were so pronounced that sometimes they were all we saw in each other. I knew he thought playing baseball for a living was no kind of career, and I secretly worried that maybe he was right. There were more important things a man could do with his life. But there were similarities between us, too: we had the same basic ideas about right and wrong . . . and justice.

Before I left him, Landfors typed up copies of his sister’s documents for me. He confirmed that the arsenic notes were in her handwriting; they read like something copied from a textbook and generally jibed with the description of Daley’s symptoms written by the ship’s doctor.

But it was the passenger list that I found really interesting. Among its names were Virgil Ewing, Sloppy Sutherland, and Tom Kelly.

Just as I was about to leave my apartment for the Polo Grounds, the phone rang. It didn’t ring often enough for me to let a call go unanswered, so I picked up the receiver.

“Mickey! I think I have some information which might be of interest to you. Of course, then again, it might not be either, in which case no harm done. But in the event that it is—” He didn’t give his name and didn’t have to.

“Hi, Casey. What’s up?”

“Well, like I told you before, Sloppy Sutherland, he doesn’t run much with the rest of the guys on the club. But I did find out where he’s going to be tonight . . . in case you want to go see him.”

“Sure I do! Where’s he gonna be?”

“Kitty’s. In Harlem, on 131st Street, between Lenox and Seventh, I think.”

“Kitty’s?” The name sounded like a brothel. “What’s Kitty’s?”

“A gambling joint. For high-rolling society types.”

“Oh, okay. What time do you want to go?”

“Well, he’s going to be there around ten.” Stengel hesitated, then he added in a sober tone, “Thing is, I really don’t want to go there myself. Now, I like a little cards and dice as much as the next fellah, but that’s just having fun and killing time. Kitty’s is for the serious stuff. This place is run by the kind of people you don’t want to know. And it can hurt a career to be seen there. Come to think of it, you might want to skip it yourself, and maybe see him some other time.”

I didn’t want to wait. This was Thursday. After a three-game series against the Cubs, we would be leaving for Boston on Sunday. “That’s all right, Casey. I appreciate you telling me. I’ll go myself.”

“Hope it goes all right.”

“Thanks.”

I clicked off the phone, then immediately placed a call to the Vitagraph studio.

I was kept waiting fifteen minutes. Good thing I always showed up at the ballpark an hour before anyone else. Today I’d barely make it in time for batting practice.

Margie finally picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Margie. It’s Mickey. Sorry to call you at the studio, but something just came up.”

“It’s okay. I was between scenes anyway. I’m supposed to be attacked by a lion, but the poor old thing is sleeping and they can’t wake him.”

“Oh.” A
lion
? “Well, I found out where Sloppy Sutherland is going to be tonight. I thought if you like, the two of us could go talk to him together.” Eventually I learn.

“Of course I would. Where and when?”

“In Harlem, about ten o’clock. I can come down after the game and pick you up.”

“That’s silly. Why come all the way here just to turn around again? I can find it.”

I gave her what I knew about Kitty’s location and wished her luck with the lion.

The food, music, and fashion of half a dozen cultures all mingled together on 131st Street. A few blocks to the south, the neighborhood was predominantly German and Jewish; to the north was a growing black population. On this street, the shops, restaurants, and apartments represented a little bit of everything in a relaxed colorful mix.

There was only one problem: the only “Kitty’s” on the street was a tiny coffee shop, not a casino. It advertised “Open All Night” but looked closed.

I walked up and down the street, from Fifth Avenue to Seventh, looking for another “Kitty’s.” There wasn’t any other. How was I going to explain this to Margie? How did Casey make such a mistake?

Margie came up behind me as I was pacing and pondering in front of the coffee shop. “Is this the place?” she asked eagerly.

“Well . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it.”

“Let’s go in and see.”

I opened the unlocked door. One bare light bulb on the back wall dimly lit the inside. There were three small tables with chairs hooked upside down over them. Five wooden stools were lined up before the counter; the one farthest from the front door was the only one occupied.

The bulky man whose generous bottom spread over the stool had a steaming coffee mug in front of him and a
Daily Racing Form
in his hand. He gave us a token glance and said curtly, “We’re all outa coffee.”

“We’re not here for coffee,” I said.

“This is a coffee shop. What else would ya be here for?”

“Sloppy Sutherland asked us to meet him here,” I bluffed. “He said we could find a game.”

“Yeah? What’s yer name?”

“Mickey Rawlings. I play for the Giants.”

“Uh-huh. And who’s she?” He jerked his head at Margie.

She answered for herself. “Marguerite Turner. Who are you?”

He made a noise that was part laugh and part cough. “I’m Joe.” He took a closer look at Margie. “You look familiar,” he said. “You been here before?”

“Once or twice,” she answered.

“Hell, I know where I seen you! You’re the girl that does them jungle movies.”

“Yup, that’s me,” she said.

“I love them pictures,” he said. “You can go on up.” He pointed to a back door. “Next time use the door off the alley. It ain’t good for appearances to have people coming through the front.”

We walked past him. Just before stepping out the door he’d indicated, I looked back and saw a shotgun under the counter.

As we climbed a narrow staircase that led upstairs, I said to Margie, “You didn’t tell me you’ve been here before.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “But I figured he might let us in if he thought I had. I’ve heard of places like this—the coffee shop is called a ‘front.’ ”

I had the feeling that Margie knew many other such bits of information.

Upstairs, we were met at a closed door by a man in white tie and tails. He could have been the maitre d’ of a fancy French restaurant, except he had a bulge under his left arm that I was sure wasn’t a menu. “Good evening,” he said with a toothy smile. “Welcome to Kitty’s. What will it be tonight? Baccarat perhaps? Or would you like to try black jack? It’s the latest thing, very exciting game, and we’re the only establishment in New York where you can find it.”

“We’re looking for Sloppy Sutherland,” I said. “He asked us to join him.”

“Ah, very well. I believe Mr. Sutherland is at the roulette table. Go right in.”

Kitty’s interior looked like the set for one of Vitagraph’s society pictures. The wide open room was covered with plush red carpeting, and floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes hung along the walls. Polished mahogany tables held roulette wheels, card games, and slot machines. Most of the men were dressed in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Waitresses and cigarette girls moved about the room carrying trays loaded with food, drinks, and cigars. Soft background music came from a grand piano.

Nobody seemed to be having much fun though. They all seemed too restrained. It seemed a waste to me. What was the fun of being upper class if you had to work so hard at appearing bored?

I spotted Sloppy Sutherland at a roulette table on the far side of the room. With a nudge, I said to Margie, “He’s over there.”

“Why don’t you go talk to him by yourself,” she suggested.

That took me by surprise. “Are you sure?”

“He’ll probably open up more if I’m not there. Men talk differently when there’s a woman around.” That was true, but I wondered how she knew it. Then I wondered if women were the same way. “I think I’ll just walk around,” she said.

“Okay.”

I walked over to the roulette table and took a spot next to Sutherland. His dark hair was perfectly coiffed, the color and sheen almost a perfect match for the black satin lapels of his tuxedo jacket. His narrow face was shaved so closely that it looked plucked, and his finely chiseled features were so delicate they seemed almost feminine. I knew he was a lot more than just a pretty boy though. I knew what that right arm of his could do when he was on the pitcher’s mound.

“Hey, Sloppy,” I said in my friendliest tone. “How are you doing?”

He gave me a sharp glance and reprimanded me, “It’s
Walter
in here.”

It never occurred to me that he would object to his nickname. Perhaps this wasn’t the sort of place to admit to being a ball player at all. Maybe that was to my advantage, maybe he’d overlook that debt he owed me for spoiling his shutout.

“Of course. Sorry, Walter. Are you winning?” Piles of blue chips in front of him suggested he was.

“I’m doing all right.” He had a tight, controlled voice, as if he were speaking carefully and watching his diction.

I wasn’t sure how to launch into the questioning. Sometimes the direct approach was best—it could catch somebody off guard. I didn’t think that would work with Sloppy Sutherland. He seemed too much in control of himself.

“This is my first time here,” I said.

“Really.” He placed a stack of chips on the line between the 19 and the 20 on the numbered layout in front of the roulette wheel.

“Don’t you have to put it on a number?” I asked.

“It’s a split bet,” Sloppy explained. “I can win on either number.”

The croupier spun the wheel in one direction and sent a silver ball spinning around the rim in the opposite direction. We said nothing until the ball rattled into a pocket, and the croupier announced, “Twelve! No winners.”

As he raked in Sutherland’s chips, I murmured, “Hey, that’s too bad.”

“There’s more where that came from.” He carefully put another stack of chips directly on the 6.

“Actually,” I said, “it was Marguerite Turner who wanted to come here. She’s a little more for this kind of thing than me. So what could I do? Women, you know.”

A hint of a smile crossed his face. “Yes, I know.”

“Oh, did you meet Marguerite? We were at that party in the Sea Dip Hotel . . . where you and Virgil Ewing were dancing with Florence Hampton.”

“No, I didn’t meet her. I saw her though—very attractive young lady.”

“Yeah, she is. Thanks.” I had a sudden idea. “Say, I ran into Ewing the other night. You know, I would have sworn that you were getting the better of it with Miss Hampton that night. But he said he ended up leaving with her.”

“The hell he did,” Sutherland snapped. Yes! A crack in his stiff facade.

“Oh, so did you end up with her?”

“Twenty!” the croupier announced. “No winners.”

Sutherland watched his chips swept away again, this time with some sorrow in his eyes. “No,” he said. “No, I came here after the party. Lost two hundred bucks that night.”

“Then how do you know Ewing didn’t get her?”

Sutherland bit his lip. “Because the lady had taste,” he finally said.

That was the last thing he was willing to say to me. I watched him lose a few more spins of the wheel, then excused myself and wandered away.

I found Margie at the craps table. She was the shooter, shaking the dice in her fist, muttering, “Come on. Eight the hard way.” With a flick of her wrist she flung them on the table.

“Box cars,” said the stickman when the dice landed with two sixes showing. “You lose. Next shooter.” He pushed the dice to a man standing at her left.

“Aw hell!” Margie cursed the results. When she saw me, her frown was replaced by a smile, and she left the table.

“How did it go?” she asked when she was next to me.

“I’m not sure. Not badly, I don’t think. The problem is I can never tell if people are lying to me or not.” Margie took my arm and we started to walk slowly toward the door.

“Did he say where he went after the party?” she asked.

“He said he came here.”

“Then he lied.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to a couple of the waitresses. The place was raided that night. It happens a lot this time of year—elections coming up and all.”

Oh yeah, the elections that didn’t have any James Bartlett running for anything. Either Sloppy hadn’t heard about the raid or, more likely, he just didn’t think I was capable of discovering the truth. Although it was Margie who did that. I was amazed that she broke his alibi before she even knew what it was. “That’s pretty good,” I complimented her.