The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery) Page 5

  I hung the repaired picture. “She seems so different from you,” I said. “Why do you still want to be friends with her?”

  Margie appeared thoughtful. “Because I remember who she really was—who she really is. Maybe someday that Natalie will come out again. And she’s always been nice to me. She went out of her way to get me the job with Mr. Griffith.”

  “Through Van Dusen?”

  “No, she persuaded Mr. Griffith herself.” Margie smiled. “I think at one time he was quite smitten with Natalie. Mr. Griffith often develops attachments to his actresses.”

  “And now she’s with Van Dusen.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think either of them takes it very seriously. Oh! Did you ask Babe Ruth about meeting him?”

  “Uh, no. He’s been surrounded by reporters and fans all the time. I hardly ever get a chance to talk to him.” Actually, I had never intended to tell him about Tom Van Dusen’s movie idea.

  “Could you?” Margie swung her legs off the sofa and sat upright. “Van Dusen may be a louse, but he is a capable director. He’d probably make a good picture.”

  I promised her that I would talk to the Babe and suggested we take a break. Margie got a bag of ginger snaps from the cupboard while I cranked a couple handfuls of beans through the coffee grinder. Soon we were sitting at our small dining table by the front window, with a pot of fresh coffee and a plate of not-so-fresh cookies.

  Looking down at the street, I saw a dozen shabbily dressed boys playing a noisy baseball game on the patchy asphalt. They had to avoid potholes as they ran, none of them had a glove, the only bat had a taped handle, and even from this distance I could see that the muddy brown ball was no longer round. But they were having so much fun that I almost wished I could go out and join them.

  Margie fingered the dingy green curtain that adorned the window. “I’m thinking of changing this. White would look cleaner. Maybe lace.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, absently dunking a cookie in my coffee as I continued to watch the game outside. The kids made some good contact with the ball but there was never the satisfying “crack” of a bat. The only sound it made was a feeble “squoosh.” I decided I would try to bring a couple of baseballs home from the stadium for them. And maybe a bat that wasn’t broken.

  Margie spoke up again. “Maybe I’ll make the curtains myself out of some of your old underwear.”

  “That sounds good, too,” I answered, before her words registered.

  When I looked at her, I expected to see the mischievous smile that I knew so well, but her face expressed only concern. “What’s bothering you?” she asked softly.

  I took a breath before answering. “They found a body in Yankee Stadium. Some crook who used to be a ballplayer. He was murdered.”

  Margie simply stared at me, her big bright eyes gradually growing wider.

  “And they want me to investigate,” I added.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” she asked.

  “Jacob Ruppert and Ed Barrow. Ruppert owns the team and Barrow runs it, so I really don’t have much choice.”

  “But why you?”

  I had asked myself that question a number of times. After all, if a New York City police detective couldn’t figure it out, how could a utility infielder be expected to solve the crime? Yet, for whatever reason, Ruppert and Barrow had decided that bringing me into the case was the best course of action. Sometimes I wondered how baseball owners ever made their fortunes, because they never seemed to be very smart.

  I gave Margie a complete account of the meeting in Barrow’s office, and concluded, “They seem to figure that since I was once teammates with Pollard, and because he might have had a connection to my new roommate, I might be able to get information that others can’t. Barrow also knows that I’ve been involved with some murder investigations in the past.”

  “Yes, too many of them!” Margie shook her head hard enough to make her lustrous brown hair flutter about her shoulders. “After what happened in St. Louis, you’re going to get involved in something like this again?”

  “I don’t want to, but—”

  “Then why do it?” Her voice rose. “You were almost killed last year! Can’t you just play baseball and forget about crime?”

  I wished that I could, but that didn’t seem to be what the Yankees had planned for me. “Mr. Barrow made it clear to me: If I want to stay on the team, I have to find out what happened to Spats Pollard.”

  “And if you do this for them, they’ll keep you?” Margie sounded skeptical.

  “No promise of that,” I admitted. “But I figure it’ll give me some time. Eventually the Yankees will need me to fill in for one of the other players. And when I get that chance, I’m gonna play so hard they’ll want to keep me no matter what.”

  “But—” Margie gave up on words and again simply shook her head. I knew she was worried.

  “I don’t see how I’m going to have any real trouble,” I said, trying to reassure her. “All I’m going to do is ask a few questions, report to Mr. Barrow, and that’s it. Besides, the police are looking into it, too, and if they find out what happened my job is done.”

  She didn’t appear convinced. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “I will.”

  There was a shout of joy from the street below and I watched a boy in patched knickers legging out a hit that had bounded off a parked Model T. That’s what I wished I could do: simply play baseball.

  * * *

  I kept my promise to Margie: I thought about it. And I was still considering exactly what to do when I left early for Yankee Stadium that afternoon. I didn’t know where it would lead, or how far I would go, but I decided to start by seeing where Spats Pollard had been entombed.

  As I approached the ballpark, soft breezes stirred dust clouds from the roads and parking lots surrounding it. They had been recently cleared and not yet paved. Much of the area around Yankee Stadium had a similarly barren appearance. The West Bronx was sparsely populated and so rural that New York Giants manager John McGraw derisively referred to the neighborhood as “Goatville.”

  With no land for a new ballpark available in crowded Manhattan, the Yankees had found an old lumberyard in the Bronx owned by the William Waldorf Astor estate. After purchasing the site, Jacob Ruppert’s partner Til Huston, an experienced civil engineer, personally supervised the construction. In less than a year, baseball’s most imposing edifice was unveiled. And, only a few days after opening, it was becoming known by the name sportswriter Fred Lieb had given it: The House That Ruth Built.

  Although enough construction had been completed to begin the season, as I neared the entrance I saw that some work was still being done. Construction trucks were parked haphazardly in the players’ lot and various craftsmen scurried about carrying pipes, paint buckets, and electrical cable.

  Inside the stadium, I passed dozens of men in overalls who were applying the finishing touches of paint and plaster. The clang of metal pipes reverberated throughout the corridors as plumbers did their work, and I had to step carefully because of electrical wires lying in loose coils on the walkways.

  Since I had telephoned ahead, I was let right in when I reached Ed Barrow’s office. The paint job in his office must have been completed because two burly workmen, grunting heavily, were moving furniture in place against the walls. Big Andrew Vey, who stood near Barrow’s desk, probably could have done the moving himself with no strain at all, I thought.

  Barrow peered up at me from under his bushy dark eyebrows. “Ah, Rawlings. I’m glad you’ve decided to help us out with this Pollard matter. I promise you I won’t forget it, and neither will Colonel Ruppert.” The business manager sounded genuinely pleased, but not at all surprised, that I was complying with his wishes. He made a slight gesture toward his assistant. “Mr. Vey will show you where the body was found.” Barrow’s gaze went down to the paperwork on his desk and I knew the conversation was over.

  Vey held the door open for me as we left the offic
e. He was again wearing a tiny bow-tie, this one solid orange. It was a poor color choice with his ginger hair and ruddy, freckled face. “This way,” he said in a reedy voice as he joined me in the hallway.

  We walked some distance without Vey speaking another word. He didn’t fidget in his suit jacket as he had the last time I’d seen him, but now and then he dug a finger into his stiff shirt collar as if it was too tight. I noticed that his freckled hand was the size of a small ham, the knuckles were lumpy, and his fingers misshapen.

  Since Vey was supposed to be my primary contact with the front office, I decided to get some conversation going. “You work for Mr. Barrow long?” I asked.

  “A while.” The words seemed to whistle from his broken nose.

  “What exactly do you do for him?”

  “I’m his assistant.” Vey tugged at his collar again.

  Geez, talking to this guy was like talking to a catcher’s mitt. “What do you assist him with?”

  “Whatever he needs.”

  “Such as?”

  Vey shot me a look and his broad face twitched in something like a smile. “I’m thinkin’ that if you keep after this Pollard thing the way you’re keepin’ after me, you’ll have it figured out in no time.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I replied honestly. “Detective—” I had to search my memory for the officer’s name. “Detective Luntz said that Spats Pollard has been missing for two years. This place was a vacant lot back then—so how does he end up in a wall that’s just been built?”

  “Yeah, that’s a puzzler.” Vey rubbed the palm of his hand over his unruly red hair causing it to spike up like a porcupine. “But Pollard ain’t in the wall no more. What do you expect you’re going to see?”

  “I don’t know yet. But what Luntz suggested about starting with the body makes sense. I know what Pollard was doing five years ago: pitching for the Cubs. And we know where he was a few days ago: buried in a wall. But nobody seems to know much about where he was between those times. I figure I’ll try to fill in that gap until we know what led to him being killed.” Five years was an awfully long period of time, though, and I was doubtful that I could fill it all in.

  On the left field side of the stadium’s mezzanine level, we reached a built-in refreshment stand. This was another innovation by the Yankees’ management. At most ballparks, fans could only get food and drink from vendors who hawked their goods in the grandstand. Yankee Stadium provided a restaurant near the main entrance and half a dozen refreshment stands conveniently spaced around the concourse.

  “This is the place,” Vey squeaked.

  The stand’s varnished wood counter was piled with trays of hot dog rolls and hamburger buns. They smelled freshly baked and sent a craving through my stomach. Along the wall behind the counter were a grill, a refrigerator, and a sink, all of them sparkling new and white enameled. Menu prices were written in chalk on a small blackboard above the grill. A door set in the side wall was open, revealing a storage area packed with wooden crates of green glass bottles. The stand was of simple, utilitarian construction; its only decorative feature was a brass chandelier with three frosted white globes painted to look like baseballs.

  Leaning against the refrigerator was a short round man who looked like a sixty-year-old Fatty Arbuckle. He was bald, with only a thin horseshoe of gray hair remaining above his ears. Dressed in sagging white cotton pants, with a shirt and apron of the same color and a black bowtie, he looked like a butcher or a baker. The man was supervising two younger ones, similarly dressed but with their ties removed and their shirts unbuttoned, who were moving cases of soda pop and near beer into the storage room.

  “Mr. Zegarra!” Vey called. When he got his attention, Vey said, “This is Mickey Rawlings. He’s going to be looking into that, uh, matter for us. Mr. Barrow would appreciate it if you would give him your full cooperation.”

  “Of course,” Zegarra replied in a strong Brooklyn accent. “Be happy to.” He waved me to come around the counter. “ ‘Rawlings,’ huh? Name sounds familiar.” Through deep-set eyes he studied my face as if trying to recognize me.

  “It should,” said Vey. “Rawlings joined the club this year. Plays a helluva second base. Good hitter, too.”

  I gave Vey a nod of appreciation. Since I hadn’t played for the Yankees at all so far, it was the kindest assessment I’d gotten this season.

  He nodded in return. “I’ll be in the office if you need me for anything.” With that, he dug a finger behind his shirt collar and walked away.

  “Well, well,” said Zegarra. “I never met a big-league ballplayer before.” He shook my hand enthusiastically and exposed his stained teeth in a broad smile. “I’m Joe Zegarra. Call me ‘Joe.’ ” His jowls quivered when he spoke.

  “Thanks, Joe. I won’t take much of your time.”

  In a lowered voice, he asked, “But why are yuh lookin’ here? I thought Mr. Barrow didn’t want no publicity.”

  “He doesn’t. I guess he figures it’s better if I poke around instead of the police or the newspapers. It’ll be quieter this way.”

  “Huh.” Zegarra jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. “But why you? I mean... you’re a ballplayer.”

  I stifled a chuckle. The “why me” question was a recurring one. “I knew the dead guy years ago. We were teammates.”

  “Oh, damn. Sorry about that.” Zegarra’s fleshy face drooped mournfully. “Was yuh close friends?”

  “No. Played ball together is all.”

  One of the young men set a crate of near beer down heavily, causing the bottles to rattle. Zegarra yelled at him, “Watch what you’re doing, dammit! Anythin’ yuh break is comin’ outta yer pay!” He said to me, “Nephews. Take my advice: If you ever get the chance to hire relatives, don’t.”

  I wanted to get to the purpose of my visit. “Where was Pollard found?”

  “I’ll show yuh.” He yelled at his nephews, “Get outta there, the botha yuz!” When they stepped out of the storage room, he led me inside. “Right there,” Zegarra said, pointing at the back wall.

  There wasn’t anything unusual to see. I stepped nearer to the wall and inspected it closely, even running my hand over the surface.

  “They got in quick and patched things up,” Zegarra said. “Soon as they got the body out, they had plasterers sealin’ the wall again.”

  “If he was inside a wall, how was he discovered?”

  “It was the damnedest thing.” Zegarra leaned lightly against a tall stack of crates. “Yuh know they’re still doin’ a lotta work on the joint, especially the plumbin’. There’s all those restrooms—sixteen, I hear—and water fountains, and of course we all need water for cookin’, so there’s a whole mess of pipes runnin’ through the building. I guess they got some of them hooked up wrong and had to redo some fittings. So they broke into the wall to get at the pipes... and there was your friend. With a couple bullet holes in him.”

  “You saw the body?”

  “Hell yeah.” Zegarra gave a shudder, causing his flesh to ripple. “And I don’t never want to see nuthin’ like that again.”

  “Were the bullet holes fresh, or did he look like he was dead for a while?” I had wondered if Pollard had been killed recently or if he’d been dead for the past two years and his body moved here.

  Zegarra took out a handkerchief the size of a pillow case and swiped it across his bulbous nose. “Well, I wouldn’t say nothin’ about him was ‘fresh.’ Smelled to high heaven, he did. The blood was dry, though, if that’s what yuh mean.”

  “How did you happen to be here when he was found?”

  “I hardly been anyplace else. I was workin’ day and night to get everything set up and runnin’. Most of my savings is in this little business.”

  “Doesn’t Mr. Ruppert own it?”

  “Nah. He got the main restaurant downstairs, but he leases out the stands. We each pay a monthly rent and Ruppert takes a percentage of the sales. This ain’t gonna make me rich, but if attendance keeps up and the
fans stay hungry and thirsty, I figure I’ll at least turn a profit.”

  A couple of scruffy delivery men brought some more cases of near beer and stacked them on the floor next to the counter. Each green bottle bore a red label that read Fervo. Before Prohibition, fans could enjoy Jacob Ruppert’s Knickerbocker or Ruppert brands. Now the closest they could get was a “cereal beverage” with less than half a percent alcohol. It couldn’t even be marketed as “near beer” since the word “beer” wasn’t allowed to be used. To me, the substitute brew didn’t deserve the name anyway—whoever first called it “near beer” must have been a terrible judge of distance.

  “You selling much of that stuff?” I asked.

  Zegarra laughed and his belly shook. “What else are people gonna do at a ball game ’cept drink beer? Of course, it ain’t exactly beer—but it comes awful close.” I suspected that “awful” was probably the apt description. He walked me a few steps on a tour of the refreshment stand. “Look at what I got here: sausages, burgers, soda pop and beer. That’s it. Let the vendors sell the nickel stuff—peanuts and crackerjack and candy. To me, that crap ain’t worth the space.”

  I looked it over and agreed he had a pretty good setup. “You said you’ve been here day and night. You ever see Pollard around here before?”

  “Never seen him before in my life.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “Yeah. I almost lost my lunch when they pulled him outta that wall.”

  “Who did pull him out? Who else was here?”

  “Oh, well, let’s see...” His brows went down, causing the fringe of hair around his scalp to bob up. “There was the workmen who broke into the wall... then a stadium cop... Mr. Vey and Mr. Barrow showed up... then a few more cops, and later a detective.” Zegarra paused, and seemed to give up the search of his memory. “I tell yuh, there was so many people through here I don’t know who they all was. Eventually a coroner took Pollard away, and they got the wall sealed up again.”