The Cincinnati Red Stalkings

by Troy Soos

  She bit her lip and nodded. “I’ll help if I can.”

  Chapter Nine

  I gave it a day, and I gave Detective Forsch another chance. On Tuesday, I telephoned him and reported what I’d found. His response was about what I expected: he was even less interested in a murder that took place half a century ago than he was in Oliver Perriman’s last week. He also pointed out that I really didn’t have evidence of a crime—what I had was a note, and in his view probably the result of a prank.

  To be fair to Forsch, I’m not sure any cop would have started an investigation based on what I’d found. In my mind it was clear, though, that something must have happened in 1869 that was still taking a toll in 1921. Somebody wanted that old baseball, and killed Ollie Perriman while trying to get it.

  The problem was putting together the chain of events that spanned those fifty-two years.

  I decided to begin by going back one link, to the man Perriman told me had given him the ball: Ambrose Whitaker, former bookkeeper of the 1869 Cincinnati Base Ball Club.

  There were several listings for “A. Whitaker” in the directory. A call to the operator pinned down the “A” who was Ambrose. She referred to him as “the railroad man,” implied that he was a well-known figure in this city, and gave me both his home and business addresses. I was less interested in his phone numbers, but jotted them down as well. When going to question people, I prefer not to call ahead; I don’t like to give them the time to plan their answers.

  Early Wednesday morning, with the sun already bright and the heat intense, I was in the heart of downtown Cincinnati, across from the Gibson Hotel on Walnut Street. The main offices of the Mount Auburn Electric Inclined Railway Company were on the top floor of a charmless six-story brick building.

  In the outer office of the railroad company, I asked an efficient-looking secretary of advanced years if I could speak with Mr. Whitaker.

  “Which Mr. Whitaker?” she asked.

  “Ambrose.”

  “Oh. You don’t have an appointment, do you.” She said it as a statement of fact, not a question.

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. But I’ll only take a minute of his time, if I may.”

  “And you are?”

  “Mickey Rawlings.” Her lack of a reaction prodded me to add, “I play for the Reds.”

  “Baseball?”

  No, glockenspiel. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wait here, please.” She left her desk, knocked on a nearby door of elaborately carved oak, and went into another office. A minute later, she reappeared. “Miss Whitaker will see you.”

  I started toward the door, then drew up short. “Miss Whitaker?”

  The secretary nodded, and I proceeded inside, the door shutting behind me. The interior wasn’t as lavish as the ornate door had led me to expect. This was a place for work, not ceremony. The modern steel furniture was sparse, and there was little decoration. Two telephones were on the desk, a Dictaphone on a table behind it, and a ticker machine chattered in the corner.

  A tall, trim woman with carrot-colored hair stood and offered her hand in such a way that it was clearly intended to be shaken, not kissed. “Mr. Rawlings, I’m Adela Whitaker.”

  She had a good grip. “Pleased to meet you, ma‘am. Thank you for seeing me.” I immediately worried that she might take offense at being called “ma’am”—Adela Whitaker was at that late-thirties-to-early-forties age when some women feel that “ma’am” makes them sound old.

  There was no indication that she was offended; in fact, there was little sign of any emotion or expression at all. Her tight-lipped face was hard like a mask; not unattractive but somewhat forbidding. She waved me to a small armchair in front of the desk. As I lowered myself into it, I said, “I actually came to see, uh . . .” I gave a nod to the portrait on the wall behind her. It was of a homely redheaded man I assumed to be her father.

  She confirmed the assumption. “My father retired two years ago, Mr. Rawlings. He’s no longer actively involved with the firm.”

  “Oh. I see. Would it be okay if I was to call on him at home, then?”

  “I’m sorry, but my father is not in the best of health. The stress of business is why he retired; so if it’s a business matter, I’d prefer that you speak to me.” She added as an afterthought, “Or my brother.”

  “I’m not sure ... I think your father’s the only one who could tell me what I want to know.”

  “Well, may I ask why you wish to speak with him?”

  I sensed the question wasn’t one of idle curiosity but a precaution; she was being protective of him. “You might have heard that there’s going to be an exhibit of old Red Stockings memorabilia,” I said. She nodded that she had. “I heard from Oliver Perriman, the fellow who was putting the exhibit together, that your father had some involvement with that club. I’ve been getting interested in the ’69 team, so I was hoping I might ask him what it was like back then.”

  She appeared thoughtful. “I don’t see any harm in your speaking to him, in that case. Baseball certainly isn’t a topic likely to cause much excitement.”

  She’d apparently never seen Ty Cobb run the bases or Babe Ruth swing a bat. “I promise to leave if he gets too worked up,” I said.

  “Very well. You can find him at the Zoological Garden.”

  “The zoo?”

  “Yes. That’s where he likes to go on Wednesdays. He’ll probably be near the band shell or in the Herbivora Building. Or if you’d rather see him tomorrow, you can try your luck at Chester Park—that’s where he spends his Thursdays.”

  I thought to myself that I’d have time to get to the zoo and back to Redland Field in time for batting practice. I nodded at the portrait. “And that’s . . .”

  “Yes. His hair’s a bit whiter now, but you should have no trouble spotting him.”

  The Number 49 trolley from Fountain Square let me out at the zoo’s main entrance on the corner of Erkenbrecher and Vine. I paid the twenty-five cents admission and joined the other visitors, mostly women and children, entering the beautifully maintained grounds.

  Immediately inside were formal flower beds set like jewels in the lush green grass. Beyond the gardens to the right was the Herbivora Building, less formally known as the Elephant House. It was an enormous concrete structure that looked like a Persian mosque, complete with a pointed dome. Since it was nearer than the band shell, I decided to try the Herbivora Building first.

  His daughter was right; I had no trouble identifying Ambrose Whitaker. He was standing in front of a cage that held mother and baby Indian elephants, staring at the animals while they did little but stare back.

  Whitaker was about my height, spare and rigid, wearing a pearl gray suit of old-fashioned cut and a homburg of the same color. He carried a silver-headed ebony cane, a watch chain was draped across his silk vest, and white spats covered the ankles of his high-buttoned shoes.

  “Mr. Whitaker?”

  He shifted his attention from the animals to me. “Yes?” His granite face looked no more lifelike than the portrait behind his daughter’s desk, and the steel gray hedgerows he had for eyebrows were like something that belonged on one of the zoo creatures. So were his hawk nose and loving-cup ears.

  “My name’s Mickey Rawlings. Your daughter said I might find you here.”

  “Well, she was right then, wasn’t she?” His tone was far warmer than his appearance. We shook hands. “Must tell you, I’m not used to getting visitors here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Your daughter said . . .”

  “It’s all right, son. What do you want to see me about?”

  “A baseball.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You gave a baseball to Oliver Perriman. He was organizing an exhibit on the old Red Stockings. And you gave him a ball from 1869.”

  “Oh yes. I believe I did. A few other things, too, as I recall. No sense keeping such things for myself at this point in my life. What’s your interest in it?” />
  “I play for the Reds, and I was going to help Mr. Perriman publicize the collection. He told me you were the bookkeeper for that team. Did you have the ball all these years?”

  “Assistant treasurer, I was. And, no, I got that ball sometime later.”

  I knew Whitaker couldn’t have had it since ’69 because the ball hadn’t been made yet, but I wanted to hear what he’d answer. “Do you remember who you got it from?”

  “Well ... Let me think. That was a long time ago ... I believe I bought it at auction after the team folded. Does it matter?”

  “No, just curious. The date on the ball says July 2, 1869, but I looked it up and there was no game that day. Does that date mean anything to you?”

  Fissures creased his face as he smiled. “How old are you, son?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “You remember anything about July 2, 1911?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “That’s only ten years ago. You expect me to recall what happened more than fifty years ago?”

  Okay, it was a dumb question. But the ball was all I had, and Ambrose Whitaker was the only known connection to it. I briefly debated whether to reveal the existence of the note, but decided against it—I didn’t want anyone to know the note was now in my possession, safely stuck in a volume of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi. I still wanted to see if I could get anything useful out of Whitaker, though. “I’m sorry. I’ve just gotten interested in that old club lately. Were you with the team long?”

  “As long as the club supported a team, I was.”

  I’d always thought of a ball club and a team as the same thing. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you mind if we walk outside?” he asked. “I’d like to be getting over to the band shell.”

  “Fine with me.”

  The baby elephant trumpeted shrilly when we left, and the sound reverberated throughout the building. As we walked at a leisurely pace toward the exit of the Elephant House, I noticed Whitaker didn’t use the cane for support.

  “See, the Cincinnati Base Ball Club was just that: a club,” he explained. “A gentlemen’s club. There were more than two hundred members and perhaps fifty of them ever played baseball. The club was primarily a social organization, not a business. Everyone who worked for it did so as a volunteer. As I did. I was only twenty when I was appointed assistant treasurer, and it was quite an honor. Mr. Champion—he was the president—served without pay also.”

  “But it was the first professional team, so they must have been paid,” I said.

  “The nine players were the only ones who received a salary,” Whitaker answered. “Using professionals was quite a scandal at the time. I’m sorry, there were ten players. I forgot about the substitute.”

  “Dick Hurley.”

  “Yes. William Hurley, actually. I don’t know how he got the ‘Dick’ tag.”

  I remembered Patrick Kelly’s question. “Do you know whatever happened to him?”

  “Afraid I don’t. He left the club in the middle of the season. Finances were always tight, perhaps he was released to save money.”

  “But the team went undefeated. Why didn’t it make money?”

  “It was expensive to pay a full team. More than $10,000 in salary, not to mention travel and lodging and equipment. We took in some money from gate receipts, and raised additional funds from the club members. Even so, the total profit in 1869 was $1.39. That’s a figure I’ll never forget. Won sixty-five games without a loss, and ended up with a dollar and thirty-nine cents in the till.”

  We emerged from the Herbivora Building into the bright sunshine. Whitaker removed his hat and ran a hand over his hair. There was an orange tinge to the gray, indicating his hair had once had the same color as his daughter’s.

  It sounded like we were in a jungle as we began to make our way around the lake; frenetic chattering came from the monkey house, there were eerie howls from the wolf dens, and innumerable birdcalls seemed to come from every direction. Over the noise, Whitaker went on, “The next year, 1870, things were looking better. The team was still undefeated, and crowds were getting larger, even on the road. Thought we might make a go of it. Red Stockings won the first twenty-seven games of the season—but then they went to Brooklyn to play the Atlantics. June 14, 1870.” He winked. “That’s a date I do remember. The first loss.”

  “The game was tied 5–5 after nine innings,” I broke in. “The Atlantics wanted to leave the game a tie, but Harry Wright insisted on continuing. Neither team scored in the tenth. Red Stockings got two in the top of the eleventh and it looked like they had it won. But then Brooklyn scored three in the bottom half to win 8–7.” I was embarrassed to realize that I’d interrupted Whitaker. “Uh, were you at that game?” I asked him.

  “No, we couldn’t afford travel for many of the club members.” He smiled good-naturedly. “But it sounds like you were there.”

  “My grandfather told me about the game.” He’d seen it in person. From his point of view, as a Brooklyn fan, it had been a glorious triumph made extra sweet by the fact that his favorite player, Bob “Death to Flying Things” Ferguson, had scored the winning run.

  “That was the beginning of the end,” Whitaker said. “The team lost a few more games, and people stopped turning out—in Cincinnati, anyway. Fans still came to see them play in other cities, but not at home.” He knocked a pop bottle aside with his cane. “The streak was a double-edged sword. The novelty of it brought people out, but it also gave the impression of invincibility. Once that notion was shattered, it was all over for the Red Stockings.”

  “The club disbanded?”

  “Again, club and team are two different things. At the end of the season, the club members voted to revert to amateur status and no longer finance a professional team. But other cities had started putting together professional nines, so there wasn’t much interest in an amateur team anymore.”

  “You said there was an auction?”

  “Yes. Terribly sad day. It was April of 1872, only three years after the streak began. The ballpark was partly dismantled—the wood had already been sold. Then everything else was auctioned off—the trophy balls, pennants ... everything.”

  “And that’s where you got the ball you gave Perriman.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So the whole club fell apart?”

  “Oh, some of the social activities continued. But it was never the same. I left the club myself after the ’70 season.”

  “You never played?”

  “Never more than a muffin.” He explained that a muffin was a poor player who muffed plays. “No, my association with the club was helpful in getting me some business connections, and I pursued those.”

  “The Mount Auburn Automated Trolley . . .” I couldn’t remember the exact name of his company.

  “Mount Auburn Electric Inclined Railway. That was later. The seventies were a boom for trolleys, and folks started expanding to the hills. I worked with Bill Price on Buttermilk Mountain—”

  “Where?”

  “Price Hill. It was the only incline without a saloon at the top, so it was nicknamed ‘Buttermilk Mountain.’ We developed a cable system to draw trolley cars to the top of the hill. Worked well enough, but had to rely on mule power. Then in the eighties, I got the idea to form my own company and electrify the inclines. First one I did was Mount Auburn, and the first route we ran was here to the zoo.”

  We’d reached the band shell where an orchestra was warming up.

  “You still own it?” I asked.

  “Own a number of companies, but never wanted to change the name. Should always remember where you came from. My daughter’s pushing for a more general name, though, something that sounds bigger.”

  “She runs the company now?”

  “Yes. She and my son. You didn’t see him at the office, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Not surprised.” He sat down on one of the benches, and I did the same. “I retired two yea
rs ago. Figured it’s time to give my children their chance with the business.” I noticed that he didn’t mention anything about bad health; maybe he wanted to make it sound like he’d retired entirely of his own volition. “So now I have fun,” he went on. “Look at the animals, watch the children, listen to music. You like opera?”

  “No, sir.” I knew that the summer season of opera at the zoo had recently started. It was cruel enough to keep animals in cages, I thought, without making them listen to opera. I also thought that Ambrose Whitaker didn’t look like he was having as much fun as he claimed. Perhaps after all those years in business, he had to learn how to enjoy himself. Maybe baseball. “You ever go to ball games anymore?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve lost interest.”

  “Well, if you’d ever like to, I’d be happy to get you tickets.” Right, Mickey, this man is probably a millionaire, and you’re offering him $1.50 seats.

  “I appreciate the offer, son.” A pleased smile etched deep creases in his face. “Who knows, maybe I’ll take you up on it someday.”

  On the bandstand, a singer began to screech her warm-ups. I thanked Whitaker for his time and said good-bye.

  I should have left for Redland Field, but decided I had time for a quick detour to the northwest corner of the zoo.

  Past a row of odd Japanese-styled structures that served as aviaries, was the Carnivora House, home to the zoo’s big cats. On the lawn near the building’s entrance was Margie, surrounded by about fifty children with attendant parents.

  She was dressed in the outfit that she’d worn most often in her movies: pith helmet, khaki shirt, jodhpurs, and high boots. A trainer held a bushy-maned male lion on a leash while Margie gave a talk on how lions lived in the wild, describing their diet, family life, and sleeping habits. It was only her second day on the job, but her performance was polished and natural.

  And she really came to life when the children started asking questions, fielding them with patience and charm. They asked everything from why didn’t the lion get a haircut to how did he get the title “King of the Jungle”—her answer to the latter question was, “Because he married the Queen of the Jungle.”