The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery) Page 20

  He seemed surprised at the question. “Oh, yes sir. Finest food on the island.”

  I doubted that claim, but we let him show us to a table. The dining hall was large, which made the lack of customers all the more noticeable—and depressing. Only four other tables were occupied in a place that could fit a hundred diners. Where a full dance band had once played, there was now a just a sleepy-eyed violinist scratching out a mournful tune for a couple who tipped him to go away. The chandelier that had once sparkled with light was swathed in cobwebs and there was a rancid smell of spoiled food that mingled unpleasantly with smell of the ocean outside the open windows.

  We were about to sit down when I noticed our tablecloth had a large red wine stain and crumbs from a previous meal. “Maybe we should go someplace else,” I suggested. I did not want this night to be anything less than perfect.

  “This will do fine,” Margie insisted. “We’ll have a lovely evening here. It’s always going to be a special place for me.”

  The clerk, who doubled as a waiter, moved to hold Margie’s chair but I edged him out of the way to do it myself. He lit a wilted candle, which did add a romantic touch, and said, “I’ll be right back with your menus.”

  “No need,” I answered. “We know what we want.”

  “Our fare might be a bit limited, I’m afraid,” he said. “We don’t have much of a kitchen staff on duty tonight.”

  “They won’t have to do any cooking,” I replied. “All we want is fresh oysters and a bottle of your best champagne.”

  Margie smiled with delight.

  The waiter promised to see what he could do, but cautioned that their wine supply was as limited as their dinner selections.

  When he left, Margie and I tried to make small talk, but we kept stumbling over our words. I tried to remember my script and replay it in my mind like a movie reel, but it was more like a single frame that had gotten stuck in the projector and melted away. I did the best I could, but was pretty sure I said some things that made no sense at all. And I wasn’t certain what Margie was saying. All I knew was that she looked radiant and had a contented expression on her face.

  The waiter returned with a dusty bottle. “Veuve Clicquot,” he announced proudly. “Pre-war. Our very best, and we only have a few bottles left in the cellar. But it is a bit pricey, sir. If you—”

  “It will do nicely,” I said. Tonight, money didn’t matter.

  With a tremulous hand, he filled two champagne flutes and left.

  When I lifted my glass to make a toast, I noticed that my hand was shaking a bit, too. “To us,” I said, my voice cracking slightly.

  “To us,” Margie responded in little more than a whisper. We clinked glasses and each took a sip. The champagne was no disappointment; it tasted better than any I’d ever had.

  I quickly reviewed in my mind what I had planned to say and took a deep breath. My mouth suddenly went dry and I drank a little more champagne to wet it. Margie sat quiet and expectant.

  Just as I was about to speak, the strolling violinist appeared at my elbow. He began playing something classical and out of tune. I gave him a generous tip, hoping he’d leave. I must have tipped too well, for he began working the bow with additional energy. He seemed determined to give us a complete concert. I began trying to indicate with my eyes, then my head, for him to go away. Eventually he finished, bowed low, and went to sit in a chair near a broken window.

  Margie and I smiled at each other, took another sip from our glasses, and I again prepared to speak. As soon as I opened mouth, the waiter came by with our oysters. Were we never to be left alone?

  I squirmed impatiently as he told us how fine the oysters were and where they had been harvested. He refilled our glasses and made suggestions for dessert afterward. I was tempted to stab him with my fork to drive him away.

  As soon as he left, I quickly glanced about to be sure no one else might interrupt us and blurted to Margie, “There’s something I wanted to tell you. Ask you, I mean.”

  “What is it?” Margie murmured invitingly.

  Now that I had my chance to speak, I couldn’t remember the words that I’d so carefully composed. “Well, it’s like this…” I halted when I realized those weren’t the words I had planned to open with. What the hell, I decided. I would just have to tell her what was on my mind.

  “Yes?” Margie prompted in a soft voice.

  I took one more quick gulp of champagne, then forced myself to speak as best I could. “You see, I’ve been very wrong about something: I’ve always thought that baseball was the most important thing in the world to me. But it isn’t. You’re the most important thing in my life.” I had a pang of worry that I shouldn’t have referred to her as a “thing,” but quickly went on, “I love you, and I want to keep you in my life forever.”

  Margie’s eyes welled with tears, and I don’t think I’d ever seen so much happiness in her smile.

  On impulse, I slid out of my chair and got on one knee next to hers. I took Margie’s hand in mine and discovered that we were both trembling. It was a long moment before I could say the rest. I’d phrased it so many ways, so poetically, but none of those compositions came to mind. All I could do was come right to the point. “Would you marry me?”

  She didn’t keep me in suspense. “You know I will.” There was a mix of laughter and sobbing in her voice.

  I stood, and Margie got to her feet with me. We embraced and kissed, oblivious to anyone else in the room.

  The violinist was soon a few feet from us again. He began to play an easy waltz with every note in tune. Margie and I started to sway, then the swaying turned into dancing. We waltzed across the floor together in perfect step.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was strange, but now that I had a whole new future ahead of me with Margie, other matters seemed considerably less important and not nearly as exhilarating. Even baseball, my lifelong love, was no longer uppermost in my heart.

  Prior to the first game after Margie accepted my proposal, it was something of a struggle for me to get through batting practice. This was a pregame ritual that I’d always looked forward to, especially since I so seldom had a chance to hit once the umpire called “Play ball!” Now I had difficulty hitting the easy pitches offered up by Carl Bilancione. My mind was elsewhere and my insides were roiling with a joy that threw off my timing and had me swinging wildly.

  At least I knew that baseball would come back to me. In time, I would settle down and again be able to concentrate on playing to the best of my ability. One thing that I did not want to coming back to me was the problem of Spats Pollard’s murder. The threat from Leo Kessler hung over both Margie and me, and I wasn’t going to live with that. I needed to get the entire situation resolved. Fortunately, I felt I was close to doing so.

  Immediately after the game, a 2-0 shutout of Cleveland that I watched from the bench, I met with Andrew Vey. Ed Barrow was away from the stadium, scouting some hot new prospect, so Vey and I had his office to ourselves. A lot of assistants would probably make themselves comfortable in their bosses’ chairs, and maybe put their feet up on the desks, but Vey had too much respect for Barrow to do that. The two of us instead sat at a side table under a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant, in whose honor Barrow had been given the middle name “Grant.”

  I had several reasons for speaking with Vey, not the least of which was to demonstrate that I was still working on the case. I hadn’t been playing much lately, so this task might be the only thing that was keeping me on the team’s roster.

  I first filled him in on my most recent encounter with Leo Kessler on Webster Avenue. I wanted to be completely upfront about Kessler’s attempt to bribe me. That way, if it ever came up later, the Yankees would realize I hadn’t been concealing anything from them. I also wanted them to know that I had emphatically turned it down.

  As I told him about Kessler, Vey kneaded his big misshapen hands and had a look in his eyes that indicated he would like to get those hands around Leo Kessle
r’s neck someday. It occurred to me that Vey hadn’t been fidgeting in his clothes as I’d seen him do in the past. I finally noticed that he was wearing a suit of blue seersucker that fit him perfectly and a butterfly bowtie that was an appropriate size for his thick neck. A triangle of white silk handkerchief poked up from his jacket pocket.

  Vey realized that I’d been studying his sartorial transformation. “My fiancée,” he explained sheepishly. “She took me shopping and picked out these clothes for me—said I needed to dress better.”

  “Looks great,” I said. “I didn’t know you were engaged. Congratulations.” He nodded his thanks, and I added impulsively, “I have one, too.”

  “One what?”

  “A fiancée.” It was the first time I’d used the word to describe Margie. I wouldn’t be able to use it for long, since we’d agreed to be married as soon as possible.

  “Congratulations to you, too! When’s the wedding?”

  “No date yet. We just got engaged.” The only other person I’d told was Karl Landfors. I didn’t know why I had just made Andrew Vey the second recipient of the news, other than I was bursting to share it.

  I then went on to where matters stood on the Spats Pollard murder. “So far,” I said, “I don’t think there’s anything that can reflect badly on the Yankees. Pollard was trying to line up customers for his bootleg booze, but didn’t seem to have any success. I think he was working from somebody else’s customer list, maybe trying to steal them away. I’d say Pollard had no connection to Babe Ruth at all.” I was sure that was the club’s main concern, since Ruth got most of the team’s publicity.

  “Good,” said Vey, nodding. “Mr. Barrow will be happy to hear that. But why was Pollard killed? Who put him in that wall?”

  “I’m getting close to answers on those,” I said with a confidence that I truly felt. “And I think you can help—if you’re willing.”

  He frowned slightly. “How?”

  “There are six concession stands, right?”

  “Yes. And the main restaurant downstairs.”

  “But it’s only the stands that are rented out. Can you find out who has the concession on each one of them?”

  Vey considered my request. I was sure he was debating whether or not Barrow would approve. “Yes,” he decided. “You know, we don’t really control them. They rent the space and run their own businesses. You think it’s important?”

  With a man found dead in one stand, and another concessionaire nearly beaten to death, how could it not be?

  * * *

  Tillinghast L’Hommedieu Huston grew up badly in need of a nickname. As a young man, he earned one—“Cap”—by serving as a Captain of Engineers in the war with Spain. Huston remained in Cuba for several years after the war, building the fortune that enabled him to purchase the Yankees with Jacob Ruppert in 1915. During the Great War, Huston served his country again, this time with the Sixteenth Engineers; he achieved the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, but was still popularly known as “Cap.”

  Cap Huston’s engineering experience made him the logical choice to direct the construction of Yankee Stadium, and he went about it as if launching another military campaign. He coordinated the architects, engineers, and construction workers, and completed the ballpark in a timeframe that most thought impossible. Huston’s drive and dedication got the stadium built in less than a year. His success in constructing the team’s new home did nothing, however, to repair his rift with Ruppert. The relationship between the two Colonels had deteriorated to the point where one of them had to go—and it was no secret that Huston was the one who’d be leaving.

  I knew that Jacob Ruppert was unlikely to approve of me meeting with his partner and enemy, but I needed information on the ballpark’s construction. To save time, I decided to start with the man who was in charge. When I contacted him, Cap Huston agreed to meet with me at his favorite watering hole, the lobby of the Commodore Hotel.

  The palatial hotel, named for “Commodore” Cornelius Vanderbilt, was part of Terminal City, a complex of luxurious hotels and offices connected to Grand Central Terminal. The Commodore had opened only a few years earlier, boasting a capacity of more than two thousand rooms and “The Most Beautiful Lobby in the World.”

  I was convinced of the truth of that claim when I walked into the lobby for the first time. It was a clean, open space with a glass roof and elegant archways. The lobby was designed to look like a Mediterranean courtyard, with a tile floor, hanging plants, wrought iron furniture, and alabaster urns. There was even a waterfall along one wall.

  It was difficult to believe that such a tranquil place could be found in the busiest part of downtown Manhattan. It was also hard to imagine that this peaceful room had been the scene of a notorious temper tantrum by Cap Huston last October. After the Yankees lost the World Series to the Giants for the second year in a row, Huston went into a rage in this lobby, knocking glassware and bottles onto the floor and screaming that Miller Huggins had managed his last game for the club.

  When told of the incident, Jacob Ruppert overruled his partner, stating that he would not fire a man who had led the team to two straight pennants. After this public disagreement, the partnership was doomed and all that remained was to finalize the details for severing the relationship. The two men were so different in personality and background that perhaps it was inevitable they would have to part.

  The aristocratic Jacob Ruppert was born into wealth and high society, and was attended by a retinue of servants. His political connections helped him to win four elections to the United States Congress. A lifelong bachelor, Ruppert collected oil paintings and Chinese porcelain, and maintained an exotic menagerie at his country estate in Garrison, New York. He owned a yacht, dabbled in horses, drank little except his own beer, and generally led a life free from scandal.

  Cap Huston was a gregarious self-made man who had served in two wars, enjoyed hunting at his lodge in Georgia, and had a number drinking companions that included Babe Ruth, Brooklyn manager Wilbert Robinson, Red Sox owner Harry Frazee, and most of the newspaper writers in New York. He was as slovenly in appearance as Ruppert was fastidious, often wearing the same suit several days a week. His simple tastes included food and beer, and lots of both, making him considerably overweight.

  I found Huston sitting near one of the lobby’s archways, in a massive chair of carved walnut and tooled leather. A whiskey glass and a half-filled crystal decanter were on a side table next to him, and he was speaking to a bellman about getting a sandwich. When Huston dismissed the bellman, he noticed my presence, flashed a ready smile, and heaved his bulk off the chair, staggering a little as he did so.

  “Rawlings,” he said, slurring the “s” and pumping my hand. “Good to finally meet you.” His tie was stained, the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles were smudged, and it looked as if he’d slept in his sack suit. The fifty-five-year-old Huston had a face that could have been formed of putty and his hair had receded almost halfway up his head.

  “I appreciate you seeing me, Colonel.”

  “ ‘Cap’ will do,” he said, lowering himself into the seat again. He motioned for me to pull up one of the nearby wrought iron chairs, and said, “You were in the war, too, weren’t you?”

  I removed my straw boater and sat down. “Yes, sir, but only for a few months before the Armistice.”

  “It doesn’t matter for how long. You served your country, and I respect that.” He drank a slug of whiskey. “Say, I just ordered lunch, and I’d be happy to get you some, too.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll have to be getting to the ballpark soon, and don’t want to take up any more of your time than I have to.” I also figured that since the man was already a little tipsy, I’d better talk to him while he was still relatively clear-headed.

  He nodded and took another swallow from his glass. Before I could ask anything of him, Huston suddenly turned to me and demanded, “What do you think of Miller Huggins?”

  I answered with
out reservation. “He’s about the best manager I’ve ever played for.”

  Huston raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware that I never liked him?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that.” Huston and Ruppert had feuded over the manager for years and the World Series quarrel was merely the latest.

  “You want some kind of favor from me, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes…”

  “Then don’t you think you’d stand a better chance if you agreed with me about Huggins?”

  “Maybe. But you asked me a question and I gave you my honest opinion. If that means you won’t help me, I’m sorry, but I told you the truth.”

  “Hmm. At least you have the guts to disagree with me to my face.” He shifted in his seat. “Ruppert stabbed me in the back when he hired Huggins. I wanted Wilbert Robinson for the job, so Ruppert waited until I was overseas in the war. Then he went and signed that little runt.” Robinson was a pretty good manager, I thought, but it was common knowledge that his main qualification as far as Huston was concerned was that the two men were buddies.

  I didn’t want to debate the merits of Miller Huggins with Huston, so I moved on to my reason for meeting with him. “I understand you oversaw construction of the new ballpark,” I said.

  “I did,” he answered proudly. “You know, I do believe Yankee Stadium is going to last as a monument for the ages.”

  “It’s an incredible accomplishment,” I said. “Not only what you built, but how fast you got it done.”

  Huston’s sandwich arrived, served on a silver tray along with fried potatoes and a pile of cole slaw. He again offered to buy me lunch, too. When I politely declined, he forked some potatoes in his mouth before answering. “Well, I knew my time with the team was almost over, so I wanted to make a contribution that people would remember me by. Players and managers will come and go, and there’ll be good years and bad, but through it all, Yankee Stadium will stand—and people will remember that I’m the man who built it.”