by Troy Soos
“Go on.”
“Well, to me, that sounds a lot like what Emmett Siever was doing.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. But it seems to fit. And there’s another thing. Siever left Connie ‘well provided for’ the way I heard it. But he’d been broke for years. Where did he get the money? Maybe he was paid by Donner.”
“I think you’re completely wrong,” Margie said.
“There’s more. Just a possibility. I mean, all sorts of things have been going through my head about what might have happened...”
She gave me a look that said, You’re not really going to go on are you?
I went on. “You said yourself Connie wasn’t too broken up over her father’s death. And that’s bothered me ever since I first met her. Even if he did abandon her when she was little, I’d expect her to have some reaction to his murder. So what I wondered is: what if she knew about her father being a traitor, and she knew about him being killed?”
Margie said derisively, “You think she had her father killed to inherit from him?”
“Not for herself, but maybe to help finance the cause. Or maybe she was loyal to the IWW and angry that he betrayed it.”
“I promised Connie I wouldn’t tell anyone about this,” Margie said. “But I think I better tell you before you go and cause her any pain. You’re right about her father’s interest in labor being recent. It was mostly because he wanted to please her. And to make up to her for what he’d done in the past. As far as inheriting, it was on an insurance policy that her father took out a year ago—he didn’t leave any money other than that. And as for why she wasn’t devastated by his death, it was because she was relieved that he was out of his suffering. Her father was dying of cancer.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I was convinced that I could ultimately get to the truth if the individuals who knew bits and pieces of the story would reveal what they knew. I was close, I felt, but the final answer was just out of reach. If I could only extract a little more information from the right people ...
Monday morning, I placed a call to Detective Francis McGuire at police headquarters. “I want you to set up a meeting with Calvin Garrett,” I said.
“What makes you think—”
“I know he’s in town, and I’m sure you know how to contact him. How soon can you set it up?”
There was a pause. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Thanks. And I want you to be there, too.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because I don’t trust him enough to be alone with him.”
McGuire came through. Ten o’clock the next morning, the three of us got together in a small, second-floor Griswold Street office that might have been decorated by my landlady.
Calvin Garrett sat behind a battered pine desk; McGuire and I occupied mismatched chairs. There were no other furnishings, and the top of Garrett’s desk was bare, leading me to believe that this room was used only as a meeting place, not a working office.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Rawlings?” Garrett asked, with a nod of his head.
“I’d like you to tell me the truth about what you were doing at Fraternity Hall.”
“I already did.”
“Your story doesn’t wash. You didn’t let yourself in the back door. I checked it. Somebody had to let you in—or you were already inside when Siever was shot. I think you must know who shot him, and I want you to tell me.”
Garrett cast a glance at McGuire, who squirmed in his overcoat. The main reason I’d wanted the detective here was as a bluff, so that Garrett might suspect he’d told me more than he actually had. “Unless you have proof to the contrary,” the GID man said, “I’ll stick to what I told you earlier.”
“Well, I can’t prove much right now. But I suppose I could go to the papers with what I know so far. I can put you on the scene when Emmett Siever got killed. And I can suggest a lot more. Might be an embarrassment for you, the GID, and Mitchell Palmer. I don’t expect he’d want a lot of publicity like that with the nominating convention next week.”
“I don’t believe you’ll do that,” Garrett said.
“Ask Hub Donner if I won’t.”
“Hub Donner was unprepared. I’m not.”
“What do you mean?”
“You already have a friend in jail—Karl Landfors. I’d be happy to arrange similar accommodations for Marguerite Turner if you insist on pressing the issue. Traveling interstate with known radicals to incite trouble in Tennessee ... Could get her quite a few years behind bars.”
“You would go after Margie to get at me?” I couldn’t believe he’d sink that low.
“Apparently, putting Landfors in jail wasn’t enough.”
“You ... ?”
Garrett bobbed his head and leaned forward. “Now, let me tell you what you are going to do for me. You are going to use your new friends in the IWW, and you’re going to talk to your teammates. And you’re going to find a connection between the players and the Wobblies.”
“What if there isn’t one?”
“Then suggest one, and I’ll take it from there.”
“You must be a big baseball fan,” I said facetiously, “to be so worried about the game’s welfare.”
“Can’t stand baseball,” Garrett answered seriously. “Football is my sport. Played a bit in college, matter of fact.”
McGuire piped up, “I was a tennis man myself.”
“Who cares?” said Garrett.
Maintaining an amused expression, McGuire shrugged and nestled a little deeper in his coat.
“You have work to do,” Garrett said to me. “Now get out of here.”
“And if I don’t go along?”
“Miss Turner will suffer the consequences.”
“Real gutsy going after a lady. Why don’t you come after me?”
“No need to. According to my information, the Wobblies will take care of you very nicely. They still haven’t settled on a new leader. Apparently, the unfortunate deaths of Emmett Siever and Leo Hyman have them concerned about security. Whoever can show they take care of their own will probably end up in charge. And your scalp would make a nice trophy for one of their candidates to show how strong he is.”
Defeated, I made a vague promise that I would see what I could do. I didn’t mention that what I’d be seeing about was how to stop Garrett.
Apparently satisfied, the GID agent called the meeting to an end.
When McGuire and I left the building, he said to me, “Nice try, but you’re out of your league.”
Hughie Jennings, completely ignoring reality, had decided that by pulling ourselves out of last place we were in contention for the American League pennant. He wanted to settle into a regular lineup, so I was out for the series against the Washington Senators.
We dropped Tuesday’s game, 7—4, to the Senators’ Tom Zachary. Wednesday, Jennings made a minor adjustment to the lineup: with Dutch Leonard facing Walter Johnson, Chick Fogarty got the start as catcher.
I was frustrated watching the game from the dugout. I wanted another chance to bat against Johnson. I kept getting up and down, changing my seat, and pacing along the bench. I finally succeeded in attracting Jennings’s attention. “If you don’t sit down and stay put, I’ll nail your ass to the goddamn bench,” he said.
My frustration grew as the game turned into a tight duel. By the bottom of the seventh inning, the score was 2—1 in favor of Washington. When Bobby Veach led off with a sharp single to left, a rumble rose from the stands as fans tried to inspire a rally.
Jennings gave the bunt sign and Babe Pinelli tried to execute it. But he popped up to the catcher, who threw to first, doubling up Veach. Two outs.
The groans were audible when Chick Fogarty stepped into the batter’s box. He worked Johnson to a full-count before lifting a drive over the center fielder’s head. Anyone else on the team would have had a triple, and Ty Cobb would probably have stretched it to an inside-the-park home
run, but the slow-moving Fogarty had to settle for a stand-up double.
Dutch Leonard was next at bat, with a chance to help his own cause. Fogarty was almost anchored at second base, taking only a short lead off the bag. Then, on Johnson’s first pitch, Fogarty tried to steal third. He’d barely reached shortstop by the time the ball was waiting for him at third base. The entire ballpark fell silent as we watched him lumber the rest of the way and be tagged out to end the inning.
Hughie Jennings went off like a pack of firecrackers, screaming at Fogarty for his blunder.
“Thought I’d catch ’em by surprise,” was the catcher’s explanation.
The curses piled up on Fogarty, with teammates and fans joining in the abuse. I was grateful to him though. He’d just given me one of the answers I needed.
Margie Turner pulled up in front of the ballpark in a rusty old Hudson. I hopped in and she asked, “Which way?”
“Down to Fort Street, then west.”
She’d made good time. I’d called her immediately after the final out of the game, then showered and changed. I hadn’t had to wait more than a couple of minutes before she met me outside the park.
“Where’d you get the car?” I asked.
“George, the stage manager. Sweet old man.”
“You gonna be in trouble for missing the show?”
“No more than usual.” She laughed.
I admired her driving skills as she maneuvered the automobile through the heavy postgame traffic. It was something I thought I should learn myself sometime.
Once on Fort Street, she picked up speed. Margie drove as if she considered the brake pedal to be a needless accessory, not bothering to slow down for turns or potholes. From the side of my eye I looked at her profile—chin tilted up, prominent nose looking like she could sniff out whatever was ahead, bright eyes eager to see everything. I loved the determined fix to her features, and the way she went into life head-on, with no apologies.
I directed her along the same course Leo Hyman had driven, through Woodmere Cemetery and across the shaky bridge to the shack on the other side.
Margie screeched to a stop in front of the dilapidated structure, raising a cloud of choking dust. “What do you hope to find here?” she asked.
“Not sure,” I admitted. “I know there was something going on, though.”
We proceeded to the door. Damn. I’d forgotten about the lock. f grabbed the padlock and shook it, an effort of total futility.
“Wait a minute,” Margie said as she ran back to the car. She popped the trunk and came back brandishing a crowbar. “I found a key!” Instead of giving it to me, she shoved the end of the bar behind the latch and popped it off herself.
I’d also forgotten to bring matches for the lamp. When we stepped inside, we left the door open, so the interior was illuminated by the waning daylight.
“Yech!” Margie said. “What a mess.”
I began to prowl the room, kicking at the boxes and cans and rapping on the warped walls.
“If you’re looking for anything besides junk, I think you’re out of luck,” Margie said. “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll help. There isn’t much daylight left.”
“What I’m—” That’s it! I looked closer at the walls. Three of them had sunlight squeezing through the cracks. The fourth was dark. Why would one wall be better constructed than the others? I went to the dark wall and ran my fingers over it; there were gaps between its boards too. “Can I have the crowbar, please?”
Margie handed it to me and I dug its tip between two of the boards. The thin wood pulled away easily. I could see that about two feet behind the first wall was a second. There was just enough space between the walls for a man to stand and listen to conversations in the shack.
I led the way outside and circled to the back wall. I felt around the edge and found it was secured to the rest of the structure by simple hooks. I grabbed hold of the wall and pulled it away. There was a small stool in the hiding space.
Calvin Garrett didn’t have to stand when he eavesdropped on my conversation with Boggs and Hyman.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After a night’s thought and a long discussion with Margie, I decided I had to keep squeezing—harder. Nothing more was going to come out of Calvin Garrett—nothing positive anyway—so it was on to the next candidate: Detective Francis “Mack” McGuire.
So far, McGuire had been the most forthcoming person in this whole mess. In my mind, that made him one of the good guys, so I hated to put the screws on him the way I was planning to. But since he’d already told me some things, he seemed the most likely to respond to pressure and come out with additional information. It seemed as unfair as the way nice guys lose close calls from umpires because the umps know they won’t squawk. But I could see no alternative.
Okay, I told myself as I picked up the phone, you’re just gonna have to play hardball.
When McGuire got on the line, I said, “You noticed I didn’t say anything to Garrett about you showing me the files in your office.”
“I noticed. And I didn’t think you would anyway.”
“Well ... There’s still more to this that you’re not telling me. And I don’t have time to get it from you one crumb at a time. I’d like you to tell me everything you know about the night Siever was killed.”
McGuire’s voice grew frosty. “I thought I was doing you a favor letting you in on anything at all.”
“You were. But teasing me with a little information and then going quiet on me doesn’t help. Either you open up to me, or I go see Garrett again—and I might not be as discreet this time.”
“You got an interesting way of showing your appreciation.”
“If you were in my position, what would you do?”
“I don’t know ... But I hope I’d know better than to try to blackmail a police officer.”
“Give me another option,” I said.
The line was silent for several moments. “I guess I did push you into this. Gimme your number. I’m gonna use another phone.”
While I waited for McGuire to call back, I thought Ty Cobb would be proud of me. I was playing the game exactly as he would.
Five minutes later, the detective telephoned. I could hear noise in the background; it sounded like he was calling from a hotel lobby.
“Cautious, aren’t you,” I said.
“Can’t be too careful with the GID involved. You better be cautious, too.”
“That never seems to work for me.”
“Well, it’s probably too late for you now anyway. Garrett wants you kept quiet, and he’ll find a way to do it.”
“Including killing me?”
“No. I don’t think so. I’ve seen my share of killers, and Calvin Garrett isn’t the type.”
“All right. What else do you know about what’s been going on?”
“Not as much as you seem to think. I can tell you who shot Emmett Siever though.”
“Who?”
“Calvin Garrett.”
“What? But you just said—”
“Garrett swears Siever pulled a gun on him, and he shot him in self-defense.”
“And you believe him?”
“I’m inclined to, yes. Hard to tell when these GID fellows are telling the truth—I think they’re trained to lie. But Garrett was shaken by what happened, said he’d never killed anyone before.”
“And then it turned out that maybe he didn’t kill him, that Siever was also stabbed.”
“Right. And I haven’t a clue as to how that happened.”
“Wait a minute. I thought GID agents aren’t allowed to carry guns.”
“Right. Not legally. But they all do.”
“Okay. If Siever pulled a gun on Garrett, where’d it go? Why did you have to plant one?”
“Well ... Sometimes it happens in a shoot-out that a gun gets dropped and skids off someplace. Garrett panicked when he went back to the body and the gun wasn’t there. That’s why he wanted me to bring on
e.”
“Why did he go back to the body in the first place? Why didn’t he just leave?”
“Told me he tried to but couldn’t get out.”
That didn’t make any more sense to me than the story about how he’d gotten in. “Okay, so he panicked when he didn’t see Siever’s gun and told you to plant one. You must have searched for the one Siever dropped.”
“We tore the place apart. Looked every place a gun could have gotten into. Never found it.”
Jeez. “Then Garrett shot him in cold blood.”
“It’s a possibility. But in my professional judgment, he didn’t. Partly it’s just my read on Garrett. And then there’s the phone calls—they support his story.”
“What phone calls?”
“Garrett called me twice that night. The first time was right after the shooting. He told me to order a raid on the hall to create some confusion. We’d had cops standing by near the hall that night—at Garrett’s request—so I sent them in. Then he called again. Told me Siever’s gun had disappeared and to bring one to plant on him. If Garrett had shot him in cold blood, there would have been no need for the second call.”
“Huh.”
“And there’s the fact that Siever was shot only once. Most of the time when somebody uses a gun in a murder, they fire several shots. Which brings us to Leo Hyman’s death.”
“You know what happened there?”
“Only that he had three slugs in him. Other than that, I’m staying out of it. I’m not assigned to that case and don’t intend to get into it.”
“Anything else you think I should know?”
“Well, this would have been a whole lot easier if you came up with something strong enough to turn the case back over to me. If you come up with some solid evidence, I’ll go to my captain and try to get it reopened.”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing better.”
“You getting anywhere?”
It seemed fair to tell McGuire what I had, although I was embarrassed at how little it amounted to. “I have a connection between Garrett and Hub Donner. A shack outside the Rouge Plant.”