The Cincinnati Red Stalkings

by Troy Soos

  While Margie placed the phone call, I looked around the parlor. Everything of obvious value—Victrola, mantel clock, silver candlesticks—were still there and looked untouched. My desk appeared to be the only thing in the room that had been disturbed. The stacks of guides and magazines were in disorder and the desk drawers were open. But from what I could tell, nothing had been taken.

  While waiting for the police to arrive, Margie checked the kitchen, and I looked around upstairs. She then put on a pot of coffee.

  A disheveled young officer eventually arrived in a patrol car. He looked like he’d been asleep not long before. “You called about a break-in?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Margie and I answered in one voice. I then gave him the story in all its brevity.

  “Well, let me take a look-see.”

  Margie offered him a cup of coffee, which he accepted and sipped as he walked around the house, checking the front and back doors and the windows. “Doesn’t look like a forced entry. You keep your door locked?”

  Who locks their doors? “Not when we’re home.”

  “Could have walked right in then. What all was taken?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think.” I pointed to the messy desk. “He went through that, though. Probably looking for something.”

  “Probably,” he repeated. The officer scribbled in a notebook, muttering to himself, “No forced entry. Nothing taken.” He gulped the last of his coffee. “Well, I’ll file a report, and we’ll keep our eyes open.”

  “That’s it?” I wasn’t sure what I expected, but I assumed the police could do more than this.

  “For now.”

  I touched the back of my head, where a lump had started to bloom. “He knocked me out.”

  The cop grunted. “But you’re all better now?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Good.” He wrote some more in the book, reciting aloud, “Assaulted resident. Minor injury.” He then thanked Margie for the coffee and advised us to lock the door from now on. “Good neighborhood, but you never can tell,” he said.

  After he left, we followed his advice, locking the doors and windows. Then we went back upstairs to try and get some rest. I lay on my side to keep my bruised head from touching the pillow, but I never did get to sleep.

  By eight-thirty, with Margie still asleep, I’d taken a hot bath and eaten breakfast—the cookies I’d wanted last night. I was on my fourth cup of coffee and holding the second bag of ice to my throbbing head. This was one of the rare times I was hoping not to play; my head and eyes were in no shape to pick up a fastball.

  I was thinking about the break-in, and was struck by the similarities with the one at Ollie Perriman’s office. Detective Forsch had never talked to me again after I’d met with him at police headquarters. Maybe I should contact him.

  I phoned the Crime Bureau and was put through to Forsch. “Glad you’re there,” I said after identifying myself. “Wasn’t sure if you worked Sundays.”

  “They don’t give us weekends off,” he replied. “Fridays and Saturdays are the big crime nights. Matter of fact, I got a stabbing on Front Street I need to look into. So what’s on your mind?” I heard him take a drag on a cigarette.

  I told him of our intruder.

  “So what do you want from me?” the detective asked. “You reported it, the local cops looked into it, end of story. Who knows—maybe they’ll find him. Did you give a description?”

  “Never saw the guy. Just felt whatever he hit me with.”

  Forsch’s grunt was as unsympathetic as the patrolman’s.

  I went on, “The reason I’m calling you, is because he was interested in the things Ollie Perriman gave me—those are the only things he touched. So I figure it was probably the same guy who broke into Redland Field and killed Perriman.”

  “Well, that may be what you figure, but I don’t see that there’s any connection. You know how many burglaries we have in a week? Dozens. You’re just one of the statistics. As for the Perriman case, we did a thorough search. Whoever killed him must have left town.”

  I thought I knew why Forsch was being stubborn: he’d put on enough of a show to satisfy Garry Herrmann, and opening things up again wouldn’t do him any good. “They have to be connected,” I said. “Why would—”

  “I have to be going. If you have any more trouble, contact your local district.” With that, he hung up. I had the feeling that to him my little break-in was in the same category as a couple of roustabouts fighting over a bad batch of liquor.

  I sat down at the desk. I was sure nothing had been taken. Same as in Perriman’s office. Was the robber really looking for something, though? Or was it a cover, a way to maintain the pretense that robbery was the motive behind the break-in at Redland Field? But if the police were no longer pushing the Perriman investigation anyway, why take the risk of breaking in here?

  Oh, jeez. This wasn’t all that Perriman had given me. There were also the cards that I’d given to Patrick Kelly. Could those little pieces of pasteboard have been what he was looking for? What if the killer goes after them? I thought hard, and when I was sure that I hadn’t told anyone about giving the boy the cards, I felt some sense of relief.

  But I felt no more at ease about what had happened here. It was more than a bump on the head. I felt violated. I’d had apartments and houses before, and lived in hotel rooms on the road, but this place was different. Margie was living here with me. This was the first time I’d shared a place with a woman, and that made it a home.

  What if Margie had been the one to come downstairs last night? Perriman had been killed; the same could have happened to her.

  Then it occurred to me that with nothing missing, either from Perriman’s office or from my desk, the robber—killer—might be coming back for another search. And judging from Detective Forsch’s attitude, I sure wasn’t going to be able to depend on the Cincinnati Police Department for help if he did.

  Chapter Eight

  The Island Queen pulled away from the Public Landing, her bells clanging and whistles shrieking. As the elegant steamboat started up the Ohio River, Margie and I maneuvered our way through the crowd, ushering Erin and Patrick Kelly along with us. Margie had offered to take the children to the big Fourth of July fireworks show, and their aunt had given her ready consent.

  Like most of the others on board, we were dressed up for the occasion. Margie looked stunning in a teal silk skirt and embroidered white shirtwaist. The children’s clothes were styled a bit too young for them, Erin wearing a frilly white organdy dress and Patrick in a serge knickerbocker suit. I wore blue seersucker and a crimson necktie with blue-and-white polka dots. That same color scheme was all about us; the steamboat’s railings were swathed in patriotic bunting, and many of the passengers were waving small American flags.

  All five decks of the vessel were packed with holiday revelers, but we managed to work our way to the front of the middle deck, where we had a marvelous view of the river stretching ahead of us.

  The side-wheeler’s smokestack was tilted back to prevent it from being shorn off by the bridges we passed under, first the Central, then the L. & N. To our left was Mount Adams with the chimneys of Rookwood Pottery visible on top of the hill. To our right was Newport, Kentucky, then Bellevue and Dayton.

  Music from the Island Queen’s calliope attracted those on land to the grassy riverbanks; they waved to the passengers and we returned the greetings. It reminded me of when I was a kid in New Jersey, waving to the engineers of passing trains, who’d blast their whistles in reply. Boats were my least favorite mode of transportation, but even I was having fun.

  Altogether, it had been a good day so far. Thanks to Larry Kopf twisting an ankle, I spelled him at shortstop in the afternoon game, going 3-for-4 in another win over the Dodgers; and Margie and the children were on hand to witness my performance. My head felt good enough to play; the only lingering effect from the attack Saturday night was that I required a slightly larger cap to accommodate the bump.
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br />   It took almost an hour for the steamboat to complete the eight-mile journey, during which Erin and Patrick took turns asking if we were there yet. Margie had answered “Almost” for the twentieth time, when the splashing of the paddle wheel diminished and the boat pulled up to a landing in front of an entrance arch with a sign that read CONEY ISLAND.

  The site was originally “Ohio Grove, the Coney Island of the West,” but soon became known simply as “Coney Island”—no Cincinnatian was going to mistake it for the one in Brooklyn. For me, though, the name brought back memories of the original Coney. I’d first met Margie in Brooklyn, when I got a bit part in one of her moving pictures, and the amusement park had been the site of some of our earliest dates.

  With Erin and Patrick in tow, Margie and I filed down the gangplank with the rest of the crowd, and through the park entrance. There was a small group of people in the sheltered pavilion waiting to take the steamboat back to the city, but most were staying for the evening festivities.

  This Coney Island was noted as much for its beautifully landscaped grounds as for its amusements, and was a favorite place for picnicking. Many of those pouring into the park with us were carrying wicker baskets and would be heading for the picnic areas.

  We hadn’t brought our own food, so we made the concession stands our first stop. Erin and Patrick had eaten enough molasses popcorn at Redland Field to feed the entire Cincinnati team, but they were ready for more.

  After buying weinerwursts and soda pop, we found an empty table and sat down to eat.

  The children and I had finished, and Margie was on her last couple of bites, when Patrick turned to me. “Miss Turner said you wanted me to bring them baseball cards.”

  “Yes. Do you have them?”

  He eyed me warily. “You gonna take ’em back?”

  “No, I’d just like to see them.” I wanted to reassure myself that they weren’t anything a burglar could have been after. And I hadn’t wanted Patrick to bring them to our house—I was probably being overly cautious, but preferred to err on the side of safety.

  Patrick didn’t look totally reassured that he was going to get the cards back, but he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a box that had once held packages of Seidlitz Powder, and handed it to me.

  I removed the cards and put them on the table.

  “Who’s ready for ice cream?” Margie asked.

  I’m sure it came as no surprise to her that we all were. While she and Erin went to the Creamy Whip stand, I examined the cards one by one, under Patrick’s vigilant stare.

  I first checked for anything written on them. Then I brushed my thumb over the corners of the cards to see if they would peel apart—maybe there was a rare stamp or something glued between the layers of pasteboard. Nothing. And the cards themselves were creased and scuffed so they weren’t worth any money—not that there was such a thing as a valuable baseball card anyway. When I finished my inspection, I handed them to Patrick.

  Relief showed in his face. After the cards were back in the Seidlitz box and the box was tucked securely in his pocket, he asked, “Did you find out what happened to that other Red Stocking—Dick Hurley?”

  I’d almost forgotten about Hurley. “No, I’m sorry.” And now I could never ask Ollie Perriman about the old utility player. “There might not be anyone who’d know about him anymore.”

  Margie and Erin arrived with the ice cream, and we all concentrated on eating the dessert before it melted. This course was followed by cotton candy washed down with root beer.

  The kids had now consumed twice their body weight in food and drink, so of course the next thing they wanted to do was go on the rides. Margie and I watched as they rode the Sky Rocket, the carousel, and the Dip-the-Dips. Then they talked us into joining them for a run on the roller coaster.

  With daylight waning, we proceeded to an open field to catch Lieutenant Emerson and His Flying Circus in the final air show of the day. Emerson, who billed himself as “The Daredevil of the Clouds,” put on a spectacular exhibition, including a stunt where he stood on the top wing of his biplane while another pilot did a double “loop the loop.” For his finale, he leapt from one plane to another and then parachuted to the ground.

  Finally, there were the fireworks, a marvelous display of rockets and flares that filled the night sky with dazzling colors.

  By this time, Erin and Patrick were barely awake enough to walk to the pavilion and board the Island Queen to begin the journey back to the city.

  Margie took the Kellys home while I went on to our house. I preferred to avoid the children’s aunt; the woman was happy enough to let her niece and nephew spend time with us, but whenever she saw Margie or me she always made a point of mentioning that she disapproved of our living arrangement.

  I unlocked the front door and poked my head in tentatively. There’d been no more break-ins, but neither had there been any calls from the local police or from Detective Forsch to inform us they’d arrested anyone. So the worry lingered, and the same questions ran through my mind every time I came home: has the place been ransacked? ... is somebody inside? ... if there is, will he have a gun?

  The parlor appeared as it had when we’d left in the morning, so I hung my boater on the hat rack and went over to my desk.

  As I sat down, I found myself wondering what it had been like for Ollie Perriman when his killer broke in. Had Perriman been looking through his magnifying glass, trying to identify players in an old photograph? Or maybe writing up caption cards to label the exhibits? Had he ever expected that he might not live to see the opening of his museum?

  All that was going to be there of him now was the collection itself. And that behemoth bat with his name painted on the side. I remembered what Nathaniel Bonner had said when he made the presentation: that the bat from 1869 was the artifact Perriman had most wanted to find. And I imagined that the new bat, too, might end up lost someday, to be unearthed a hundred years from now by some baseball fan who would read the name and think that Oliver Perriman must have been the greatest slugger of his day. I decided that as awful as the ceremony had been, the bat was a pretty good gift.

  Recalling Bonner’s words, there was something I hadn’t picked up on during his speech: “Fifty-two years ago yesterday,” he’d said, his father had donated the original bat to the president of the Red Stockings. Ollie Perriman’s memorial had been on July second. So Josiah Bonner had made his presentation on July 1, 1869. I glanced up at the old ball on top of my desk. The date painted on it was: July 2, ’69.

  “Everything okay?” Margie asked as she came in.

  “All safe,” I said.

  “I’m exhausted. Those two are darling children, but tiring.” She began undoing her hair, letting the long brown tresses fall about her shoulders. “You ready for bed?”

  “Just want to look at a couple of things. I’ll be up in a bit.”

  “I remember when you used to want to come to bed with me.” She started to unhook her skirt.

  I smiled. “You said you’re exhausted.”

  “I am. Just checking to see that you’re not avoiding me.”

  I got up and kissed her. “I’ll be up soon.”

  After Margie went upstairs, I sat back down at the desk and reached for the old baseball. The coincidence in the dates seemed odd, but then I remembered that the date on the ball wasn’t accurate, anyway—Spalding baseballs weren’t manufactured until years after the Red Stockings folded. There was something else odd about the ball, I now realized: recorded on the others in Perriman’s office were the names of the opposing teams—the Eckfords, the Mutuals, the Buckeyes. This one simply said Cin’ti BB Club.

  I plucked the Ellard book, Base Ball in Cincinnati, from the shelf. Most of the volume was devoted to the 1869–1870 Red Stockings. I turned to a list of game scores for 1869 to see who they’d played on July 2. The team had returned from a triumphant Eastern tour on July 1, and played a “Picked Nine” in an exhibition game at the Union Grounds, defeating them 53
–11. Before that game was the presentation of the bat, and there was a banquet in honor of the club that night. The team’s next game was two days later, against the Washington Olympics. There was no game on July 2.

  I turned the old ball around in my fingers. It had to be about the poorest forgery ever created. Red stitches when black was the color then in use; a brand that hadn’t existed yet; a date when no game was played. And there was something else wrong that hadn’t occurred to me before. Ollie Perriman had speculated that kids used the ball and restitched the cover when it came loose. But the ball wasn’t in bad shape—the leather was good enough to read the Spalding trademark. So why would the stitches have gone bad? I rubbed my thumb on the seam, and felt that the threads weren’t very tight.

  What the hell. This ball wasn’t a real piece of history anyway, I told myself as I reached in a drawer for my pocketknife. I flicked open the blade and stuck the tip into one of the seams, tearing open a stitch. I continued ripping through the stitches as bits of red thread fluttered over the desk top.

  The horsehide cover was stiff and I had to pry it off. Between the leather and the tight yarn core was a folded piece of onionskin paper. Putting the eviscerated ball down, I opened the paper. Neatly scripted in black ink was the message:

  On July 2, 1869, a girl named Sarah was murdered.

  She was from Corryville and about sixteen years of age.

  She is buried in Eden Park.

  Jeez. So this is what it’s been about.

  “Really, Mickey,” Margie said from the top of the stairs. “You don’t need to guard the place.”

  I beckoned her. “Found something.”

  “What?”

  When she got to the desk I handed her the note. “My guess is this is what Ollie Perriman was killed for.”

  She read the note, then looked at me, a touch of fear in her eyes. “You are going to get involved, aren’t you?”

  “I think I already am,” I said. “Whether I want to be or not.” Trying to find a bright side, I added, “But at least now I have a starting point: I know what the killer was looking for.”