Murder at Wrigley Field (26 page)

From Landfors’s expression, he was having a tough time understanding the business side of baseball. “But why kill Willie Kaiser?” he asked next.

“Same reason: to scare away fans and pressure Weeghman into selling the team. That took a while for me to figure out, too. Most of the sabotage wasn’t violent—annoying, frightening, but not really dangerous. I didn’t think killing Willie was part of the scheme because it was so different from the rest of the pattern.”

“So how did it fit in?”

“Wally Dillard gave me the clue when we were playing catch. He said he was eager to get to the Cubs before Secretary of War Baker shut down major league baseball. It looked like he might do it any day, remember? Harrington must have had the same worry. If the season was canceled, it could have taken the pressure off Charles Weeghman. By next year, people would have forgotten about the sabotage and Weeghman might have had time to regroup financially. So Harrington tried to finish him with one blow, something he thought would totally kill attendance. He had a Cubs player murdered in the ballpark in full view of a packed crowd.”

“What do you think—”

“That’s all I know,” I cut him off. All that I intended to tell him, anyway. “It’s over. Let’s leave it at that.”

Landfors started to open his mouth, then nodded in agreement and took a gulp of ginger ale.

“One other thing,” I said. “I’ve paid a few months ahead on my rent. You want to stay here until...”

“Until you get back?”

“Right. Till I get back.” I fully intended to be coming back.

“Sure,” he agreed. “Thanks.”

“Good. You can keep an eye on the hot water tank for me,” I said with a smile.

Landfors chuckled, but he soon turned serious again. “You know,” he said, “Newton Baker may not think so, but what you’ve been doing here, playing baseball, is important, too. I didn’t know until I was over there how much baseball means to Americans. It’s what the doughboys play when they get a break from the battles. And they follow the pennant races to take their minds off the war.” His voice rose. “Don’t underestimate how important the national pastime is for morale. Baseball is—”

“Karl,” I said, interrupting before he got around to using the phrase “this great game of ours.”

He pushed up his slipping eyeglasses. “Yes?”

I leaned forward. As if revealing a great secret, I whispered, “Karl, baseball is a game that you play if the weather’s nice.”

Not long ago, I’d have slugged Landfors if he’d said such a thing.

E
ight and a half pounds of black walnut and blue steel, carefully assembled into a balanced instrument forty-three inches long. Standard issue of the U. S. Army’s Ordnance Department: a Springfield .30-06.

“Tennn ...
hut!”

A rifle. Bolt-action, .30-caliber, fed by a five-round box magazine, with a bayonet attachment on the barrel. An instrument complicated in design, yet simple in purpose: to kill.

“Presennnt ...
ahms!”

In the hands of a trained soldier it could do so in many ways. And during the last two weeks, I’d learned most of them. I could disembowel a straw-filled dummy with the bayonet, use the rifle stock as a cudgel in hand-to-hand combat, and fire a bullet into a target seventy-five yards away. Not often in the bull’s-eye but usually somewhere in the target.

“Shoorrr...
ahms!”

With a brisk move I slammed the rifle to my shoulder. As always, the heft of the thing felt wrong; it was unwieldy, tricky to handle, and no amount of practice could make it feel comfortable in my hands. I was intimately familiar with every component of the weapon, having assembled it, broken it down, and cleaned it a hundred times. Yet it remained alien to me, and a little repellent.

Our entire company stood in formation on the rain-soaked parade ground of Fort Benning, Georgia. I was no more comfortable with my gear and uniform than I was with my rifle. Everything the Army put on my body seemed intended to restrict movement. Heavy boots anchored my feet in the mud, the puttees wrapped from boots to breeches bit into my calves, and the stiff brown wool uniform was like a scratchy strait jacket. Strapped to my back was sixty pounds of additional equipment. I had to lean slightly forward to keep my balance.

“Fowarrr...
march!”

I promptly plucked my left foot from the grip of the mud and stepped forward, as did every other recruit.

As we plodded through the soupy red clay, the drill sergeant, whose personality combined the worst elements of Ty Cobb’s and John McGraw’s, barked, “Left... left... left, right, left.” In unison, our boots responded: Squish,
plup,
squish,
plup
...

This outfit had been drilled to perfection. When we passed the reviewing stand, the order came “Eyes
right!”
and I could almost hear the eyeballs click into place as they turned to face the officers.

My mind wasn’t nearly as disciplined as my body. I knew that at the same time I was marching in Fort Benning, the Chicago Cubs were taking the field in Fenway Park for what could be the final game of the 1918 World Series.

While I was learning the rudiments of war, baseball had gone on without me. The regular season ended on Labor Day, a month earlier than usual. To save a month’s payroll, the owners promptly gave unconditional releases to all the players, after agreeing among themselves that they wouldn’t steal any ballplayers “freed” by another club.

The World Series opened on September 5, with Boston’s big left-hander Babe Ruth outpitching Hippo Vaughn for a 1–0 win. A few days later, Ruth won his second game of the Series, beating Shufflin’ Phil Douglas. If the Red Sox took today’s game, they would be world champions for the third time in four years. And with Babe Ruth pitching for them, the Sox would probably keep winning World Series for years to come.

Someday, though, I’d be playing in one of them.

The scene on the parade ground began to dissolve before my eyes and transform itself into a brighter vision: the felt campaign hats became baseball caps; the suffocating uniforms were now baggy, pinstriped flannels; and instead of marching in formation, we were stepping onto the green living turf of a baseball field for the opening game of the World Series. I imagined the cheers of the fans and the feel of the breeze blowing the flags and pennants. I hadn’t missed my chance to get into the Series, it had merely been deferred.

I now felt more confident that I’d be coming home alive from this war. No way was I going to die without getting into a World Series.

Yes, somehow or other, I would manage to survive. I’d even use my rifle if I had to. But I wouldn’t feel truly alive again until I had a Louisville Slugger in my grip.

A
fter selling a controlling interest of the Chicago Cubs to William Wrigley, Charles Weeghman resigned as president in December 1918.

The baseball park Weeghman built, variously known as Weeghman Park, Whales Park, and Cubs Park, was officially renamed Wrigley Field in 1926.

Wrigley Field is the only remaining Federal League ballpark.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 1996 by Troy Soos

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-8741-0

eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8780-9
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8780-1

First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2013