Murder at Ebbets Field

by Troy Soos

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Mickey . . . Mickey . . .” The sound was dim; it barely penetrated the shroud of slumber that covered my ears. The smell of coffee woke my nose before my ears could respond to words.

  My eyelids cracked open. Margie stood over me, already dressed in her yellow frock, a steaming cup in her hands. The way the sun reflected from her dress, she looked like an angel.

  “G’morning,” I croaked in my morning voice.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked with a smile.

  “Oh, yes. Thanks.” I started to lift myself up, then remembered that I had no shirt on. Only a thin cotton blanket covered me.

  Margie noticed my predicament. “I’ll leave this here,” she said, putting the cup on an end table near my head. “I need to do my hair.”

  After she left the room I hopped up and quickly put on my shirt and collar. Then I folded the blanket neatly and put it on one end of the couch. I sat back down and took a sip of the coffee. It tasted better than any I’d had before.

  I could hear Margie humming in her bedroom and the click of hairpins on her dresser.

  This was so . . . domestic. Delightfully so. Even the photos on the wall seemed to look at me a little more kindly. I could get used to this, I thought.

  A burst of yelling broke out in the apartment next door and then the sound of breaking glass. Not everyone in this building was in a state of domestic bliss.

  Her hair done, Margie and I left her apartment. We didn’t worry about nosy neighbors—this wasn’t the sort of place where eyebrows would be raised over a man spending the night in the home of an unmarried woman.

  On our way to the trolley station, we had to step around a drunk sleeping it off on her front steps. It was probably rude, but I couldn’t help observing, “This doesn’t seem like the best neighborhood. I thought movie stars all lived in mansions or fancy hotels.”

  “But it’s a lot cheaper to live in a dump,” she said with a laugh. “I’m saving my money for when the movies go out of business.”

  “You think they will?”

  “Sure. It’s like the bicycle craze. Ten years ago absolutely everyone was riding around on bicycles—old people, young people, couples on bicycles built for two. Now only delivery boys use them.”

  “Huh.” The passing of the bicycle fad was no great loss, as far as I was concerned. But I didn’t at all like the idea of no more movies.

  On the trolley ride to Flatbush, I said to Margie, “You remember that friend I have who works for a newspaper?”

  She nodded.

  I leaned toward her until my nose was almost touching her ear. I caught a whiff of perfume. “He thinks maybe William Daley didn’t die from food poisoning. He thinks maybe he was poisoned intentionally.” I felt Margie flinch. “And maybe Florence was killed by the same person,” I added.

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to ask you. Can you think of any reason why somebody would want to kill them both?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide with a mixture of bewilderment and fear.

  I didn’t tell her about Hampton being Landfors’s sister. I figured that was private. “What do you know about William Daley?” I asked.

  “Not too much. Libby didn’t tell me anything personal about him. I just know what everybody else does: he was a producer, although I’m not exactly sure what that means. He was involved in theater, but he wasn’t an actor or a writer. He just organized things, I think. Raised money for the shows, promoted them. Things like that.”

  “Do you know where he lived? Before they got married, I mean. Or anything about his family or background?”

  “Not about his family, no .... I don’t know about his background either. I think he was in the theater business for quite a few years though. I’m not sure where he lived either. It might have been at the Lambs Club. Libby did tell me that he spent a lot of time there.”

  “The Lambs Club?” It rang a bell. “I’ve heard of that before. What kind of club is it?”

  “Theatrical. All the bigwigs in the theater belong to it. It’s the kind of club men join to feel important.”

  I remembered now. John McGraw and Arthur V. Carlyle were members. But why would John McGraw be in a theatrical club?

  And what made Margie think she was such an authority on men?

  As Margie and I walked through the front gate of the Vitagraph complex, security guard Joe Gannon gave us a friendly salute and a broad wink.

  When we entered Studio B, Elmer Garvin’s greeting was far less friendly. He stood just inside the studio door, rocking on the balls of his feet. Both hands were in his pockets, stirring coins to a jingling crescendo. A folded newspaper was tucked between his left arm and his hip.

  “Miss Turner,” he said through gritted teeth. “We need to have a little talk.” Completely ignoring me, he pulled a hand from his pocket and led her twenty feet away to where a group of unused spotlights were clustered.

  Because of construction noise, I couldn’t hear what he said, but he was clearly upset. He unfolded the newspaper and waved it in front of Margie’s face. Then he flailed his arms the way he had when he’d tried to talk McGraw into giving him a player for Florence at the Ballpark. Margie didn’t say anything; her head was lowered and she nodded every so often.

  After a final warning wag of his forefinger at Margie’s nose, Garvin walked off toward one of the sets. Margie came back to me looking chastened.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Mr. Garvin isn’t very happy with me,” she answered softly.

  That much I’d already gathered. “But why?”

  She raised her head. “There’s a picture of us, you and me, on the front page of the Public Examiner, coming out of Kitty’s last night. Mr. Garvin says he doesn’t want that kind of publicity for Vitagraph. And he says I’ll be looking for another job if it happens again.”

  I took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll talk to him,” I said. But while I was trying to comfort her, I was thinking that Garvin’s reaction was nothing compared to what I’d be getting from John McGraw.

  “It’s okay,” Margie said. “I have to get into costume.” She suddenly threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. Then she walked off to the ladies’ dressing room.

  I followed her with my eyes for a minute, then pulled them off and looked around for Arthur V. Carlyle. Not seeing him, I shifted my gaze to Elmer Garvin. He was positioning some sleepy-looking cowboys in a Western barroom set.

  I walked over to him and interrupted, “Mr. Garvin?”

  He turned around. “Yeah?”

  “I want to apologize. About Miss Turner being at Kitty’s. That was entirely my fault. It won’t happen again.”

  “Yeah . . . . well, she should have known better anyway.” He sounded somewhat mollified. “You gotta watch what you do in this business. The press’ll murder you if they can get a scandal on you.”

  “I’ll keep Miss Turner out of trouble,” I promised.

  “Hell, if you can do that, you’re a better man than me. She’s a wild one.”

  She was indeed. And I liked her that way.

  “Oh, by the way, is Mr. Carlyle here today?” I asked.

  “He damn well better be.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Garvin was ready to get on with his scene. “Look for sideburns and a mustache,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s doing a Civil War picture today,” Garvin explained.

  “That’s his standard Union officer look. Oh, he’s a Confederate today. He’ll be wearing a goatee, too.” Then he turned his back to me and moved a yawning cowboy to a bar stool in front of a jug marked Redeye.

  When Carlyle came out of the men’s dressing room, he was sure enough wearing a white goatee with matching sideburns and mustache. A saber dangled from a scarlet sash on his gray uniform. He carried himself with the bearing of a real general.


  I was admiring his outfit when he spotted me. “Well if isn’t young Mr. Rawlings,” he said. “How is the world treating you, my boy?”

  “Fine, thanks. Good to see you again, Mr. Carlyle.”

  With a confidential voice he inquired, “And how is Miss Turner?”

  “She’s okay.” Then I got to the point. “Uh, Mr. Carlyle, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “You’re in the Lambs Club, right?”

  “Of course I am. It is the club for men of my profession.”

  “Well, I was interested in William Daley. For a friend of mine. I hear he was involved in the club, and I was wondering if you could introduce me to people who might have known him.”

  Carlyle let his eyes drift heavenward. “Yes, Mr. Daley was one of our most active members. A fine man. The Fold isn’t the same without him.”

  I didn’t know what a “fold” was. “You knew him?” I asked.

  “Everyone knew Mr. Daley.” He stressed the “everyone” so it implied everyone who was anyone. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I will bring you to the club and introduce you to a few of the fellows.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “Tomorrow night?” he suggested.

  I was planning to see Margie—not that we really had any plans, but it would be Saturday night. “Could I bring Margie?” I asked. “The Giants are leaving for Boston on Sunday, so it’s my last chance to see her.”

  Carlyle looked as if I’d asked to bring a kangaroo. “My boy,” he thundered. “No female shall ever cross the threshold of the Lambs Club. Never!” His hand moved to the hilt of his saber as if he would personally skewer any woman who tried.

  So I agreed to go alone and thanked Carlyle for his help.

  I was worried this plan might not fit with Margie’s definition of investigating together though. I was also looking forward to my first visit to a gentlemen’s club, no matter that she didn’t seem to approve of them.

  When Margie came out of the dressing room in her khaki jungle costume, I told her of Carlyle’s offer. “I asked if you could come,” I added, “but he said it’s for men only.”

  She gave me permission to go by myself. “That’s fine,” she said. “I should probably go to the Vitagraph party Saturday anyway. Mr. Garvin would like that.”

  “Does he go to the parties?” I didn’t remember seeing him at the Sea Dip Hotel.

  “No, they’re supposed to be for us to have fun without him watching. But he finds out everything that goes on. I think the weekly parties are really to keep us all together on Saturday nights and out of trouble.”

  I thought if that was the goal, it wasn’t much of a success.

  After exchanging another hug—a tighter and longer one—I left the studio and headed to the Polo Grounds to face McGraw’s wrath.

  McGraw said nothing at all to me. He never even mentioned my name, omitting me when he read out the lineup before the game and ignoring me again when he called three pinch hitters and one pinch runner off the bench in the late innings.

  Reading the sports page of the New York Press on Saturday morning, I saw the long list of Giant names in the box score; everybody but me and a few pitchers had been used. I also saw that the Boston Braves hopped over the Cubs and Cards in the standings; the Braves were in second place now, two and half games behind us. Margie would be happy about that; it was almost a relief that I’d be with Arthur Carlyle tonight instead of her—I wouldn’t have to listen to her gloat. No, that wasn’t true. I’d much rather be with her, talking and dancing . . .

  I picked out the latest issue of Photoplay from my book case. There were ads in the back of it for everything from bust enlargers to watch fobs. And dance lessons. I clipped an ad for the Herschelman Dance Studio in Milwaukee:

  Be Popular! Learn the Latest Dances!

  The Turkey Trot and the Bunny Hug

  taught in the privacy of your own home . . .

  My thoughts of dancing with Margie Turner were interrupted by a timid knock at the door.

  It was Arlie Latham, a 55-year-old former player whose wiry body was still in good enough shape that he’d gotten into a game at age fifty. McGraw kept him around officially as a coach and in reality as an assistant and team jester.

  Latham’s usually smiling face was somber and I knew something was wrong.

  “Hi, Arlie,” I said. “Come in.”

  He nodded and stepped in. An equipment bag was in his hand. “McGraw asked me to stop by,” he said. “I have . . . uh ...” He held out the bag.

  I grabbed it and looked inside. This was my stuff! It should be going on the train tomorrow. What the hell?

  “I’m sorry,” Latham said.

  McGraw’s not taking me on the road trip? Oh, jeez. Am I—

  Latham said quietly, “McGraw says he’ll send you the release papers Monday.”

  Yes, I’m fired.

  “Would you like coffee?” I offered, trying to keep my composure.

  He answered something that sounded affirmative, and the next thing I knew I was bringing him a ginger ale.

  “What about today’s game?” I asked.

  Latham shook his head.

  Damn.

  He then grew talkative and tried to cheer me. “You know,” he said. “I’m more surprised than anybody about this. I know McGraw really liked you. Said you had a good head, that you play the way we did in the old days.” Like McGraw, Latham had been a third baseman—Latham a star with the St. Louis Browns in the 1880s and McGraw the ringleader of the fabled Baltimore Orioles a decade later.

  Latham leaned forward and said with reverence, “McGraw once told me that you could have been an old Oriole.” This was the highest praise that could be given to a player, and I did take some comfort from it. They invented strategies that are now considered fundamentals: the bunt, the hit-and-run, the Baltimore chop.

  Latham then launched into a few stories about the old Orioles, all ones that I’d heard many times before. The ones about planting extra baseballs in the long outfield grass, tripping base runners when the umpire wasn’t looking, using mirrors flashed from the bench into the eyes of opposing fielders, substituting softer baseballs when the other team was at bat.

  Latham settled back on the couch. “You see,” he said. “McGraw’s used to doing anything—stretching the rules, sometimes breaking them. And he does it until he gets caught.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “You know, I umpired for a couple of years,” he said going off on a different course. “When Bill Klem first broke in as an umpire, he had a run-in with John McGraw. And McGraw said he’d have Klem’s job before the year was out. Bill Klem, he didn’t blink an eye. He just told McGraw that if he could get his job, it wasn’t worth having. And then he made sure McGraw didn’t get it. Stood his ground and McGraw had to back down.”

  An umpire got McGraw to back down. I pictured Tom Kelly in his umpire outfit with Florence Hampton on his arm. No way was I going to be outdone by an umpire again.

  Latham stood up. “Well, I got to be heading back to the clubhouse. Got to pack up all the gear and uniforms and—”

  “What time’s the train leaving, Arlie?”

  He smiled. “Eight in the morning. Track twelve.”

  After he left, I thought McGraw did have some good qualities keeping a guy like Arlie Latham around. He had a real soft spot for old ball players. Hell, the gatekeepers and watchmen now working at the Polo Grounds could have been an all-star team from the 1890s. There was Dan Brouth-ers, the slugger of the old Orioles; Amos Rusie, the Hoosier Thunderbolt; and Smiling Mickey Welch, the old Giants pitcher I was named after. Some of the current players were rude to the old-timers. I respected the former stars, though, and tried to learn from them. There’s a lot to learn from guys like Arlie Latham.

  I picked up Arthur Carlyle at the Vitagraph Studio at six o’clock. Margie was still filming, so I didn’t see her. And I made no
effort to. I didn’t want to tell her I’d been dropped from the Giants.

  Carlyle insisted that we take a cab to the Lambs Club. I thought it extravagant, but he said going by trolley wasn’t stylish.

  Joe Gannon at the gate called us a taxi. When it arrived, we settled in the back of the green Chandler. “To the Lambs Club, my good man,” Carlyle ordered the driver in his finest thea-tuh voice.

  The driver pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth. “Gimme an address, pops.”

  “Forty-fourth Street. Number 134,” Carlyle directed him in a seething voice.

  The driver clamped the cigar back between his jaws, where it remained for the rest of the journey.

  As we left Flatbush, I tried to make up for the driver’s rudeness. “I really appreciate you taking me to the club,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” Carlyle said. “Not many young people have respect for the traditional things anymore.”

  “How long have you been a member?”

  “Almost fifteen years now.”

  “I thought the club was for actors. Why is John McGraw a member?”

  “Oh, Mr. McGraw likes to hobnob with the luminaries of the theater. Wouldn’t everyone?” I think I was supposed to be honored to be in Carlyle’s presence. “A number of prominent men are members who aren’t actors,” he said. “Robert Ingersoll was a member. Victor Herbert. And Stanford White—he designed the Fold.”

  Stanford White was the only one I’d heard of. “What’s the ‘fold’?” I asked.

  “Our home. The club building.”

  “Are you the only movie actor?” I asked, hoping he could name some people I’d heard of.

  “I am not a movie actor,” Carlyle roared. “I am appearing in motion pictures for only one reason: to have my Hamlet preserved on film.”

  “Like Sarah Bernhardt?” I asked. Two years earlier she’d made a film of Queen Elizabeth, a poor movie but one that she said gave her immortality.

  “Yes, all the best actors are filming their most important roles. James O’Neill in The Count of Monte Cristo. James K. Hackett in The Prisoner of Zenda. ”Those, too, I thought to be poor movies, but maybe I just didn’t appreciate plays. “So I will film Hamlet.” He added with pride, “Sir Henry Irving himself told me I was the best Hamlet since Edwin Booth.”