Hunting a Detroit Tiger Read online

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that wishful thinking wasn’t going to make my problems disappear. What had me in trouble wasn’t what I was going to do in the future, but what people thought I had done to Emmett Siever last week. The IWW would still want revenge—to throw me from the train, as the phone caller had phrased it. Nor did Hub Donner appear likely to let go of the change to capitalize on Siever’s shooting by using me for antiunion propaganda.

  The only way for me to get in the clear was to find out who really killed Emmett Siever. That should satisfy the Wobblies, Hub Donner, and my teammates. It struck me as odd that the police weren’t on that list. The police should have been the most interested in solving his murder, but they were the only ones content to leave the case alone. More than that, they’d gone to the trouble of planting a gun on Siever so they could dismiss me as having killed him in self-defense. Why would the police care about me? Why plant the gun? Why invent the self-defense story?

  When I entered my apartment, Karl Landfors was sitting primly on the sofa, one hand holding a hardcover book close to his face. He lowered it enough to peer over the top. “I think it’s obvious who killed Emmett Siever,” he said, smirking.

  I hung my jacket on a nail in the back of the door and hooked my straw boater over the resulting lump. “Not to me,” I said. I stepped into the kitchen and was annoyed to discover that there was no ginger ale left in the icebox. In its place were bottles of Moxie that Landfors must have bought. I opened one of them and brought it into the parlor. Seating myself in the rocking chair, I took a long swallow. It tasted like carbonated vegetable juice—the perfect beverage for Karl Landfors, I thought.

  My houseguest used a dust-jacket flap to mark his page and put the book on the coffee table. Looking exasperated, he said, “Aren’t you going to ask who it is?”

  I twisted my head to see the title of the book: Main Street by Sinclair Lewis. “That any good?”

  “Yes.”

  Landfors was getting peeved, and I felt pleased at having brought that about. He was such a natural irritant, that it was fun to outdo him now and then. But I wasn’t cruel enough to torment him for long. “Okay, Karl. Who done it?”

  His face made a rapid transition from peeved to smug. “Aikens. Or whatever his name really is. Except for you, he was the first person in the back room after it happened—he probably just stayed there after he killed Siever. And there’s no real Detective Aikens on the police force. Why would he impersonate an officer if he didn’t have something to hide?”

  I took another sip of the Moxie and craved a beer. “I don’t think it’s him, Karl, whoever he really is.” I’d already considered the possibility of Aikens being the shooter.

  “And why not?”

  “Two reasons. For one thing, if he shot Siever, why didn’t he just leave? There was a back door. Why didn’t he use it to get away? If you murder somebody, I’d expect the natural impulse is to get away as fast as possible. Why stay around with the corpse?”

  “Maybe the door was locked.”

  “Don’t see how. There was a crossbar on the door—on the inside of the door. I saw it when we were there with Leo Hyman. That would keep people from coming in, not from leaving. All the killer had to do was lift the bar, and he’s out.”

  Landfors frowned. “You said ‘two reasons.’”

  “The second thing is that Aikens must be some kind of official, even if he’s not with the Detroit Police.”

  “And how did you deduce that?”

  “How else did the cops know to pin the shooting on me? Aikens was the only person who talked to me after it happened. He must have been the one who told the cops I was back there.”

  “Oh.” Landfors picked up Main Street and cracked it open. With thorough indifference, he asked, “Did you win today?”

  “No. We got clobbered.” His attention had already gone back to Sinclair Lewis. “Say, Karl . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You said Emmett Siever has—had—whatever—a daughter living here.”

  “Yes. Constance.”

  “Could you take me to see her? I’d like to tell her that I’m sorry about her father, and tell her I didn’t have anything to do with his death.” I also wanted to find out if she knew anything about the gun that her father supposedly tried to shoot me with.

  “Sure,” said Landfors. “I think she lives in Hamtramck.”

  “You think? You said you were going to pay a call on her. Haven’t you seen her yet?” It had been ten days since Siever’s death and Landfors had been in Detroit for five.

  Landfors pushed up his eyeglasses and looked sheepish. “Actually, I’m not very good at that sort of thing.” That was true, I expected; Landfors generally exhibited the social graces of a cigar-store Indian. Laying down the book, he stood and rubbed his hands together. “Let me phone her and find out if she’ll see us.”

  At Landfors’s insistence, we stopped for a light dinner at Kelsey’s Cafe next to the hat shop downstairs. Since I didn’t cook, I’d already come to think of the little restaurant as my dining room.

  This evening, struggling to think of a way to convince Constance Siever that I hadn’t murdered her father, I had little stomach for the pea soup and ham sandwiches the waiter served us. Landfors managed to eat twice as much as me while doing three times the talking.

  He drew up short when I told him what I’d learned from Hughie Jennings about Siever’s past. Chewing thoughtfully, he said, “Perhaps some men make better martyrs than they do human beings.”

  “How long did you know him?”

  “Actually, I really only knew of him. I’d only met him once or twice”

  “You told me you and him were friends.”

  “I suppose I did exaggerate our relationship a bit.” Landfors dabbed a napkin at the corners of his mouth. “I’d heard good things about Siever, that he was a clever strategist, an articulate speaker, and was completely dedicated to the cause.”

  “The ‘cause’ being the ballplayers union of the IWW?”

  “That’s the point,” Landfors said, crumbs falling from his lips. “There is no difference! Working people are working people, no matter what their trade. That’s what I admired about Emmett Siever: he was willing to use whatever prestige he had as a baseball player to help not only ballplayers, but anyone else who labors for his bread. One big union. That’s the only way for any worker to protect his rights.” Pointing to my sandwich, he asked, “Going to eat that?”

  I told him to finish it and resumed my efforts to compose what I would say to Siever’s daughter. I wondered if I should bring her flowers, and if so what kind. What blossom do you bring to a woman who thinks you killed her father?

  Unable to resolve the flower question by the time we caught a streetcar for Hamtramck, I gave up on the idea. All I would give her would be my sincere condolences on her loss and an emphatic denial that I’d had anything to do with creating that loss.

  As the swaying trolley rolled north, Landfors explained to me that Hamtramck was an independent village embedded within the city of Detroit. Traveling up Joseph Campau Avenue, Hamtramck’s main business thoroughfare, Landfors pointed out the massive Dodge Brothers automobile plant to our right; the sound of its machinery was audible over the clatter of the trolley and brackish fumes billowed from its forest of smokestacks.

  We hopped off about ten blocks past the plant and walked west into a residential neighborhood of small, single-family dwellings. According to Landfors, they were occupied primarily by Polish immigrants who worked on the Dodge assembly lines.

  Near the Lumpkin end of Wyandotte Street, we found the Siever home, a well-kept clapboard bungalow painted a pinkish beige with white trim and red awnings.

  Landfors paused at the door to check his watch. “Five to eight.” He continued to stare at the watch face. When I realized that he intended to wait the five minutes, I rang the bell myself. Somewhat startled at the departure from the schedule, he snapped the watch shut and tuc
ked it in his vest pocket.

  The door was opened by a tall, lean woman wearing an ankle-length green plaid skirt with a white shirtwaist buttoned up to her long narrow throat. The woman’s fair face, though not unattractive, was sharp and angular. The short style of her ash-blond hair made her appear even taller than the five-nine or five-ten I estimated her height to be. “You’re early,” she said.

  Landfors shot me a look of reprimand.

  “Well, no harm. We were just about to break, so come in.” Her manner was brusque and businesslike.

  We followed her into a small foyer. I noticed a small black emblem pinned above her left breast; to determine what it depicted would have required a closer inspection than politeness permitted. Landfors and I removed our hats, and I waited for him to make the introductions. He seemed stalled, so I nudged his ribs to get him started. “I’m Karl Landfors,” he said. “Are you . . . ?”

  “Constance Siever. Call me Connie.” She shook his hand firmly, then turned to me. “And you must be Rawlings.”

  “Mickey,” I said, offering my own hand. She ignored it.

  “As I said on the telephone,” Landfors began, “Mickey would like to talk to you. About your father.”

  “Very well.” She poked her head into the parlor, where about a dozen ladies were seated around a long dining table. “Let’s break now,” she said to them. “We’ll resume in ten minutes.” To Landfors and me she said, “We’ll talk in the kitchen.”

  The Siever kitchen had all the hominess of a Woolworth’s luncheonette: utilitarian furniture, institutional stove and icebox, plain white crockery. We sat at a small table next to a window overlooking a barren backyard.

  Connie Siever didn’t offer any refreshments. She said to Landfors, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve always wanted to meet the man who wrote Savagery in the Sweatshop. A truly great book—right up there with The Jungle, in my opinion.”

  Landfors flushed.

  Somewhat incredulous, I said, “You read it?”

  “Several times.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from blurting, “All the way through?”

  She laughed and nodded.

  I was impressed; I’d tried many times to work my way through the ponderous, muckraking tome and never got beyond the second chapter.

  Landfors didn’t appear to notice my reaction to her literary achievement. His eyes were riveted on Emmett Siever’s daughter. I nudged him again. He coughed and finally spoke up, “Mickey has something to tell you, Miss—uh, Connie.”

  She turned to look straight at me. “Then why doesn’t he do it?” Her eyes were a vivid green and fairly glowed with the light of intelligence.

  I began hesitantly, “I know the newspapers say I’m the one who shot your father, uh, Miss Siever.” It seemed too familiar to call her “Connie.” “But I want you to know it’s not true. I never even got to talk with him. I did hear him give a speech, but that was it. He sounded like a smart and decent man. And I’m very sorry that he’s dead.”

  “Do you feel better now?”

  “Well, I just . . . All I wanted to do was tell you . . . Uh, no, actually I still feel lousy. But I give you my word I didn’t kill him. ”

  She stiffened slightly, her posture and demeanor starting to resemble that of an ice sculpture. “I don’t know you. Why should I take your word for anything?”

  Landfors piped up, “I’ve known Mickey for years. If he says he didn’t do it, that’s enough for me. In fact, I’m the one who asked him to go to the hall to meet your father. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t trust him.”

  “If he didn’t kill my father, then who did?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Landfors.

  I shook my head, silently echoing him, before venturing a question. “The reports said he was shot in self-defense. Supposedly your father had a gun. Do you know if he carried one?”

  “Yes, I do know. No, he never carried one.”

  “Own one?”

  “He didn’t. I do. Two of them: shotgun and a hunting rifle. Care to see them, Sherlock?”

  “Uh, no, that’s okay, thanks.” A series of questions ran through my mind. How well did Connie really know her father? When had he reentered her life? Had they lived together in this house? And: Who had raised her after her mother died? Instead of giving her the opportunity to point out that those matters were none of my business, I said, “No more questions. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” From outward indications, I was sorrier than she was about it.

  Connie Siever hesitated, then changed the subject. “Have you seen Leo Hyman yet?” she asked Landfors.

  His lips tightened. “Briefly. At the hall.”

  “You two should make up,” she said. “Leo’s one of our best. I’ve known him since the Lawrence strike back in 1912.” I knew from playing in Boston that year that the successful strike of textile workers in Lawrence, Massachusetts, was the IWW’s biggest victory.

  “Your work with the mill hands has been an inspiration,” said Landfors.

  It was Connie Siever’s turn to blush. She and Landfors were clearly turning into a mutual admiration society, and I felt I was becoming witness to the mating ritual of radicals.

  Okay, one more question. “Did your father live here with you?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She gave me a cold glare that discouraged any further questions. I returned a polite smile of surrender, and she shifted her attention back to Karl Landfors.

  “What are you working on now, Connie?” he asked. Her name came off Landfors’s lips easily now.

  “The Suffrage Amendment.” She darkened somewhat. “The loss in Delaware was a terrible disappointment. Only a few states left, almost all of them in the South. I’m setting my sights on Tennessee—their legislature votes on ratification in August.” She nodded toward the front of the house. “That’s what this meeting is about. We’re planning a trip to Memphis to organize the women there.”

  Left out of the conversation, I occupied myself with trying to identify the black ornament pinned to her shirtwaist.

  “Only need one more state,” Landfors said. “I’m sure it will pass.”

  “You know there’s no such thing as a sure thing going up against the established order.”

  “Yes, that’s certainly true.”

  She checked the kitchen clock—more than the allotted ten minutes had passed—then leaned toward Landfors. That movement enabled me to see that the pin she was wearing was the figure of a black cat. “Would you mind giving us a little talk?” she asked him. “Some of the women are new to this, and a little timid. I’m sure a few words from you would be very rousing for them.”

  “Well,” Landfors demurred, blushing a deeper red. I was tempted to throw cold water on his face before he set the house on fire. “It would be an honor . . . if you think they’d really be interested in hearing me.”

  “Of course they would!” She stood and led us into the parlor, where the women were reseating themselves around the table.

  “Ladies, may I have your attention?” They quieted, and she went on, “We’re very fortunate to have with us tonight Karl Landfors, a longtime activist and author of one of the classics of modern literature: Savagery in the Sweatshop. ”

  The ladies oohed and ahhed as if Landfors was a baseball star. Connie Siever then waved her hand at me. “And this is his friend Michael.” I garnered barely a murmur.

  I was as out of place here as Karl Landfors would be on the pitching mound of Navin Field. Using the excuse of a headache, I begged off staying for the talk. There were no objections from any of the women—nor from Landfors—and I left to catch a streetcar for home.

  On the ride back to Detroit, I summed up what I had learned. One thing was that Emmett Siever hadn’t owned a revolver—according to his daughter. The other thing I’d learned was that his daughter didn’t seem to care very much that he was dead.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday was an off day in the schedule, an opportunity to sl
eep late and linger in dreamland. Unfortunately, the dreams I’d been having lately were ones that I preferred to avoid. After a fitful night with little rest, I was up for good an hour before dawn. I envied Karl Landfors sleeping soundly on the sofa.

  After a cursory run through my morning bathroom routine, made simpler by seeing that my every-other-day shave could easily wait another twenty-four hours, I pulled on some heavy winter clothes, including corduroy trousers that I rarely wore in public because of the noise they made. I buttoned a maroon sweater-coat over a long-sleeved wool undershirt and turned up its shawl collar against the morning chill. My landlady wasn’t spending much of the rent money on heat; the radiators were cold and dormant. At one point, I thought they were kicking in, but the sound was only Landfors’s breath whistling through his nose.

  I brewed a pot of coffee to help generate some internal warmth. Carrying a full mug of it, I felt my way through the dark parlor and sat down in the rocker, taking care to keep the creaky chair still. I held the mug up, warming my face in the steam, and returned to the same thoughts that had kept me awake during the night.

  Why had Detective McGuire shown me the photo of Emmett Siever gripping a revolver? Was he a careless cop, letting me see something I shouldn’t have? I didn’t think so; McGuire had struck me as calculating, not careless. Perhaps it was a warning, as if to say, “We can do whatever we want, and you can’t do anything about it.” But that didn’t jibe with the impression I had at the end of the visit, when he seemed to encourage me to investigate on my own.

  My sense was that McGuire had shown it to me so that I’d see for certain that something was wrong. Which raised another question: if the police planted evidence—the gun—why would one of them betray what his own department had done? Why would he disobey orders?

  Finding no satisfactory answer to that question, I considered waking Landfors to get his opinion. Seeing him curled up in peaceful slumber, with his glasses off and his balding head bare, he reminded me of an infant—an infant gnome—and I couldn’t bring myself to do it.