Murder at Ebbets Field

by Troy Soos

  “Vitagraph is going to make it?”

  “Yes, if they ever come to their senses. I will finance the film myself. I’ve already been acquiring the costumes and sets. It will be the definitive Hamlet. ”

  “How well did you know William Daley?” I asked, trying to move off of the subject.

  “Fairly well. Fine man, he was. A bit of a rogue in his earlier days, I believe. But a good producer. In fact, I had some business with him myself. Invested in some of his shows, made me a decent sum of money.”

  “Were you in on the World Baseball Tour?”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t invest in baseball. When that tour was going on, I was appearing in Hamlet, keeping myself in practice for the movie. Little theater in Somerville, Massachusetts. Went over quite well, if I do say so myself.” I didn’t think Carlyle had any inhibitions about saying so himself.

  For the rest of the journey, he proceeded to do just that.

  When we arrived at the Lambs Club, Carlyle announced, “Here we are, my boy.” Then he gracefully exited the cab, and conveniently became absorbed in staring at the six-story brownstone while I paid the driver the $1.30 fare.

  Carlyle led me in to the lobby where there was a sign that read Floreant Agni. I asked Carlyle what it meant, and he translated May the Lambs Flourish.

  I had to sign a guest book. I wrote my name big and bold, to thumb my nose at John McGraw if he were to see it.

  “Let’s go into The Grill,” Carlyle said.

  It was on the second floor, but he insisted on taking an elevator. Stairs probably weren’t stylish.

  The Grill was dark paneled with black beams supporting the ceiling. A long polished bar ran along one wall with a plethora of drawings and paintings above it. Carlyle pointed to one in a place of honor. “That is Charles Lamb,” he said, “for whom the club is named.”

  The rest of the room was filled with tables like a restaurant, and a number of men were dining. Most were just drinking. Carlyle suggested we stop at the bar first, where he ordered us both brandies.

  The room had an aura to it, a feel of comradeship and good cheer. Margie was wrong—this wasn’t for men to come and feel important, it was for men to come and be convivial. A place where you could swap yarns that you knew would stay within these walls, where they would remain and reverberate through the years. The very walls and tables had a warmth and hospitality to them.

  It reminded me of my uncle’s general store in Raritan, New Jersey. In winter, men would gather around the shop’s pot-bellied stove to talk baseball for long hours while I would keep the stove filled with wood and absorb their stories. It wasn’t fancy like this club, but it had the same friendly feel.

  A great circular table in the center of the room was the center of attention. The men there talked louder and laughed harder.

  Carlyle subtly pointed to it and said with reverence, “That’s the Round Table. Only the elders of the Flock may sit there except by invitation.”

  “Are you one of the elders?” I asked. Carlyle looked as old as any other man there, so I thought he might be.

  His face fell a little and I knew he wasn’t. But he took it as a challenge. “My boy, do you see that fellow with the meerschaum?”

  I nodded. It was impossible to miss him. The man’s enormous white pipe was carved in the shape of an animal—a lamb, no doubt. He was dressed nattily and his silver whiskers looked better groomed than those of the European kings whose pictures had been appearing in the papers. They swooped down from his sideburns and curved up to meet his mustache. His chin was bare, as was the top of his head.

  “That is Otis Haines,” Carlyle said. “The Shepherd.” It sounded like the equivalent of Pope. “And I will introduce you.”

  Carlyle went over to him by himself first. I could see Haines shaking his head no. Then Carlyle said something else, and Haines nodded.

  Carlyle returned to me. “Bring your drink,” he said. I’d have rather left it at the bar. Or traded it in for a beer.

  When Carlyle made the introductions, Otis Haines gave me a hearty handshake. “So you’re one of John McGraw’s boys,” he gushed. “I didn’t recognize you at first. I’m quite a Giants fan.” I decided not to tell him that I was no longer one of McGraw’s boys.

  “Very good to meet you,” I said.

  One of the men got up and gave me his seat next to Haines. Nobody moved for Arthur Carlyle. He excused himself to go back to the bar.

  “So what brings you to the Lambs Club?” Haines asked.

  I’d almost forgotten why I came. “I was told William Daley used to be a member,” I said. “I have a friend, a young lady—”

  “Ah, to the ladies,” Haines said loudly, holding up his glass in a toast. Everyone at the table drank from their glasses, and I followed suit, grimacing at the taste. The others then went back to their stories.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “she wanted me to find out whatever I could about him. Did you know him?”

  “Yes, I did. He lived here, in the rooms upstairs. This young lady, she wasn’t one of his paramours, by any chance?”

  “His what?”

  “Mr. Daley fancied himself quite a man with the ladies. And from what I understand the ladies fancied him.”

  “Oh no. She wasn’t . . . no. Just a friend. Just acquaintances, really. Did he have any particular friends here?”

  Haines looked grave. “I do not wish to speak unkindly of any Lamb. Especially one who has gone to the final pasture. Mr. Daley, however, was not held in high regard by the Flock.”

  “So he was disliked?”

  “I wouldn’t say disliked. He was a most friendly fellow and very good company. It was his professional ethics that were objectionable.”

  “What was wrong?”

  “He didn’t treat his investors very well. Mr. Daley perfected the art of creative bookkeeping.”

  “Did you invest in his shows?”

  “Good heavens, no. I’m no sucker. His investors always lost their money, even if the show was a smash.”

  “Did any Lambs invest with him?” I asked, though I already knew one had.

  Haines chuckled. “No. His reputation was well known. I don’t know anyone who was foolish enough to enter into a business venture with him.”

  I looked at Arthur Carlyle at the bar. He was engaged in telling a story with a lot of arm motions, but I could see him glancing at us.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Haines. I should probably get back over to Mr. Carlyle.”

  “Good meeting you, son. Give my best to Mr. McGraw.”

  Before going home, I remained with Carlyle at the bar for a while. I bought him a few drinks and tried not to let on that he was now a suspect in William Daley’s murder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  John McGraw was in a window seat that swayed like a rocking chair from the jostling of the train. He looked to be half dozing, with a stubby black pipe clamped loosely in his teeth and a copy of The Sporting News folded carelessly on his lap.

  “Mr. McGraw,” I said in the deepest voice I could muster. I stood in the aisle, holding the top of the empty seat next to him for support.

  He looked up at me, startled. “Rawlings,” he sputtered, “you—didn’t Latham tell you—”

  “That I’m off the team, yes.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?” He was fully awake now.

  “I bought my own ticket. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I don’t see what the hell good that’s gonna do. What’s done is—”

  “Didn’t I play hard enough? I know my batting average isn’t real high, but I thought I was doing okay.”

  McGraw paused. “Yeah, kid,” he conceded. “You did play hard . . . and used your head too, I’ll give you that.”

  I knew it wasn’t my play on the field that got me fired, but I wanted him to concede that first. I figured what I did between the foul lines was the most important thing.

  “Then why did you give me the boot?”

 
; He aimed his blue Irish eyes at me, and in his best Little Napoleon style said, “Because you didn’t do what I told you, and I don’t put up with that from nobody.”

  I didn’t have an answer for that.

  McGraw then settled back in his seat and said in a more relaxed voice, “You know, we had a fellow named Sammy Strang a few years ago. And there was a game at the Polo Grounds—the old Polo Grounds, before it burned down. Anyway, it’s a big game, against the Cubs, middle of September, both of us neck and neck for the pennant. We’re down by one run in the bottom of the ninth, but we got runners on first and second and nobody out. Sammy Strang comes up to bat and I give him the bunt sign. Hell, everybody in the goddamn ballpark knows that you bunt in a situation like that. So what does that sonofabitch Strang do? He swings away at the first pitch and knocks it over the left field fence. Home run. Game’s over and we win 4 to 2.

  “In the locker room after, Strang’s celebrating, thinks he’s a big hero. I ask him, ‘What happened? You miss the sign?’ He says, ‘Nah, I seen the sign, but he put the pitch right in my gut.’ I tell him, ‘Yeah? Well that’s a hundred dollar fine for ignoring the bunt sign. Stick that in your gut.’

  “See? I don’t put up with somebody not doing what they’re told.”

  “But you didn’t kick him off the team.”

  McGraw took the dead pipe out of his mouth. “No. No, I didn’t,” he admitted.

  “I’d have bunted,” I said.

  McGraw smiled. “Yeah, I believe you would have.” He put his thumb in the pipe bowl and tamped down the ashes. “Sit down,” he ordered.

  I quickly did so, eager to demonstrate how obedient I could be.

  “Look,” he said, “I told you to keep away from them movie people. And what do you do? You get your picture in the paper coming out of a gambling joint with one of them. You didn’t listen to me.” He shook his head. “I ain’t gonna put up with that.”

  “It won’t happen again,” I promised. “I mean the gambling won’t happen again. And I don’t want to be in the movies. But I still want to see Margie—Marguerite Turner. She’s a nice girl.”

  “I don’t want another Tom Kelly on my hands.”

  “Like I said, I don’t want to be a movie actor. I want to be—I am a ball player.”

  “It wasn’t just him going into the pictures,” McGraw said, dropping his Little Napoleon manner and adopting the tone of a beleaguered boss. “It was his goddamn head. It blew up bigger than one of them airships. Sonofabitch thought he could do whatever he wanted, as much as he wanted to. Boozing, women, the works. He figured that’s what a movie star was supposed to do.” McGraw shook his head. “He got a nice little wife, and he treats her rotten. I’ve paid bills for hotel rooms he wrecked and had to calm his wife down when he went whoring around.”

  “I won’t—”

  “Okay, okay. You’re back on the team. Now, I don’t mind a little gambling—I like to play the ponies, myself. And a drink now and then is okay. But don’t do nothing that will distract you from the game or look bad in the press. If you want to keep company with that movie actress, that’s your business. But keep it out of the papers, and leave it behind you when you’re on the field.”

  “I will, Mr. McGraw. Thanks.” I stood up to leave, then reached over to shake his hand.

  He took it and added, “Same as Sammy Strang though. It’s a hundred out of your next paycheck.”

  As far as I was concerned, he could keep the whole check. I just wanted to play baseball again.

  I walked through the train, looking for Arlie Latham.

  I found him in the club car, sitting alone. I told Latham I was back on the Giants and he looked pleased by the news. Then I sat down and asked him to tell me about when he played for the old Browns, and he looked even happier.

  While a brass band on the pitcher’s mound blasted its way through “The Star Spangled Banner,” I stood near third base holding my cap over my heart. Even though I wouldn’t be starting today, I was grateful just to be back on the team and standing among a line of Giants.

  The atmosphere in the park had the stirring feel of opening day or the Fourth of July. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped around the fence, and spirited Boston partisans crammed the park to standing room only.

  On the real Fourth of July, the Boston Braves had been in the National League cellar. Now, a month later, they were just two games out of first place and the city was aglow with pennant fever. Braves manager George Stallings was already being hailed as a local hero, and the papers were calling him the Miracle Man. If they could sweep this series from New York, Boston would be at the top of the standings.

  There was one peculiar aspect to this series, brought about by the Braves’ recent successes. We were in Fenway Park, an American League ballpark, home field of the Red Sox. More Boston fans now wanted to see their National League team play than the South End Grounds could hold. So a week before, the Braves abandoned their old park and arranged to use spacious new Fenway for the rest of their home games.

  The Braves also claimed they’d be playing World Series games in Fenway. But the New York Giants would have something to say about that.

  As far as I could tell, the Braves didn’t have a team that could win. In fact, they didn’t have a complete team at all. Other than their doubleplay combination—elfin shortstop Rabbit Maranville and ex-Cub Johnny Evers—and a solid hitting catcher in Hank Gowdy, the Braves had nothing but pitching. And a young pitching staff it was, untested in the pressure of a pennant drive and sure to fold when faced by Giants veterans Mathewson, Marquard, and Tesreau.

  It was little right-hander Dick Rudolph pitching for the Braves this day, against Rube Marquard. And by the sixth inning, my theory about Boston folding was looking pretty good. Marquard held the Braves scoreless while Rudolph faltered, and we were up 5—0. I could almost hear Margie’s voice whispering in my ear, They have the pitching. That’s ninety percent of the game. Hah! She should see this game.

  Although John McGraw was winning his tactical match with George Stallings, he was losing one he considered equally important—the bench jockeying duel. Like the Philadelphia Athletics’ Connie Mack, Stallings managed in a suit and tie rather than a uniform. Unlike the gentlemanly Mack, Stallings spewed out a constant stream of cusses—most of them aimed at John McGraw. McGraw dipped into his own repertoire of profanity in response but couldn’t match Stallings’s blue streak.

  While he cussed, Stallings paced in front of the Braves’ dugout, picking up every scrap of paper. No other manager would perform such groundskeeping duties, but Stallings was one of the most superstitious men in baseball, and litter in front of the dugout was considered bad luck—almost as serious as stepping on a foul line.

  I didn’t suffer from any such superstitions myself. Unless you count the fact that I never let other players use my bats. But it’s well-known that each bat has only a certain number of base hits in its wood—meaning if somebody else gets a hit with my bat, that’s one less hit that I’ll get. So that’s science, really, not superstition.

  McGraw and Stallings continued to curse each other, and the Giants continued to chalk up runs.

  We were ahead 8—0 by the time we batted in the top of the ninth. After our first two batters went down on strikes, McGraw put me in as a pinch hitter for Larry Doyle. I thought maybe he was putting me in the game to show he wasn’t mad at me anymore.

  As I approached the plate, umpire Bill Klem announced the substitution to the crowd. At my name, a chorus of boos rolled through the stadium. They remembered me! Nothing gets boos like coming back to a city where you once played.

  I stepped into the box, giving a cursory glance at McGraw. With nobody on, there shouldn’t be any signs, no play should be on. So why was he signaling for a sacrifice bunt? I stepped back out of the box and stooped down to pick up a handful of dirt. Rolling the gravel between my palms, I took another look at McGraw. He was repeating the sign: bunt.

  So that’s what
this was: not a show of forgiveness but a test. He wanted to see that I’d follow his orders even if I looked like a fool. Lay down a sacrifice with nobody on? I’ll be laughed out of the stadium.

  But that’s what I did. On Rudolph’s first offering, I squared around and dropped a bunt back at him. And I made sure it didn’t look like I was trying to drag it for a base hit.

  Then I ran like hell for first base. I must have caught Rudolph by surprise because I beat the throw. The boos were deafening now. I hoped McGraw was satisfied.

  He wasn’t. The next sign was for a steal. With us eight runs ahead, he wants me to steal. The Braves will kill me for showing them up.

  I stole anyway. Rabbit Maranville took the throw at second too late, then applied a hard tag to my head as I was getting up. I let it pass; I would have done the same.

  I guessed what was coming next, and sure enough McGraw gave me another steal sign. I didn’t care if I was out or safe, I just ran for third on the next pitch and slid safely under the third baseman’s tag. He then “accidentally” spiked my left calf as I lay on the ground. Blood spread in my sock, but I made no move to fight him, and I didn’t rub my leg.

  I stood up. As the third baseman tossed the ball back to Rudolph, McGraw vocally ordered, “Steal home.”

  “Just what I had in mind,” I growled.

  Dick Rudolph looked at me nervously. He didn’t know what crazy thing I would do next. The crowd was issuing one loud roar of disapproval at my actions. A few bottles came out of the stands. Stallings rushed out of the dugout to collect them.

  Rudolph went into his stretch, and I broke for home, dreading the collision with Gowdy. Then Klem threw his arms up and yelled, “Balk!”

  I trotted home to score, looking back at Rudolph. I wanted to apologize to him. He was suffering for the punishment McGraw was meting out to me. Gowdy stood over home plate with his arms crossed. I stepped around him to touch the plate, then trotted back to the dugout. I glared at McGraw, who refused to catch my eye.