The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (7 page)

“Well, he certainly spent enough time and money on his hobby. I admit I wasn’t too happy about it at the time, but thinking back I realize a lot of husbands do a lot worse things to entertain themselves.”

It was a long, awkward moment until I could come up with another question. “What did he do for work?”

“He didn’t.” She smiled sadly. “Oh, he tried his hand at business a few times—a sporting goods store, a couple of hotels in Covington, even a dance studio once—but it never worked out. I finally told him to stop trying.”

I looked around at the expensive furnishings. “Then how—?” I caught myself; it was none of my concern how they could afford to live here.

She answered anyway. “I have enough resources to live quite comfortably, Mr. Rawlings, and I was happy to support my husband as well. You see, my family used to make Catawba wine. Our vineyards were on Mount Adams. By the time the black rot wiped them out, we’d invested in other ventures. So my Ollie didn’t have to work.” She sighed. “The poor man simply had no head for business. It was such a relief to both of us when Mr. Tinsley became his partner in the museum. Ollie needed someone with business sense to take charge of matters.”

I caught the eye of one of the women who’d been with Katie Perriman. With raised eyebrows, I silently pleaded with her to come and relieve me, but she turned away. I was stuck. “There were other people interested in the collection,” I said. “Your husband told me he had offers to buy it.”

“Yes, well, from what I know, those offers were all from the same man.”

“Lloyd Tinsley?”

“Oh no, the calls continued after Mr. Tinsley bought a half interest in Ollie’s exhibit.”

I heard somebody step near us and thought I was about to be relieved. It was Curt Stram, a smirk on his baby face and mischief in his eyes. His suit was too flashy for this occasion and, as usual, his appearance was careless. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be fine, Katie, I’m sure.”

She flinched at his touch and shot him a look of admonishment. His gesture was far too familiar and totally inappropriate. He let his hand linger a few moments before withdrawing it.

I was briefly tempted to use Stram’s arrival as an excuse for me to leave. But Katie Perriman didn’t look like she wanted him there. Her chin began to tremble. Stram then sidled away.

She turned back to me. Now her eyes were wet.

Not knowing what to say, I proceeded as if Stram had never come by. “Will you keep the collection?” I asked.

After dabbing her eyes she quickly composed herself. “I don’t believe I have anything to say in the matter. My understanding of their arrangement is that Ollie’s share in the business goes to his partner—Mr. Tinsley.”

“Oh, I see.”

Another of the women came a little too close to us. Instead of relying on silent gestures, I said “Hello,” forcing her to come over for introductions. She took a seat next to the widow, and I started to make my escape.

Mrs. Perriman thanked me for coming, then added, “I thought the most senseless thing in the world was for Ollie to spend all that time and money on a collection of old baseball mementos. Now I think the only thing more senseless was for someone to kill him over it. Who would do such a thing?” Her eyes pleaded with me for an answer.

I couldn’t think of any. “I don’t know, ma’am. Again, I’m very sorry for what happened.”

Fortified with a fresh glass of wine, I went to join Margie and found her speaking to Dolf Luque in Spanish. Another talent that I wasn’t aware she had.

I then drifted over to where Heinie Groh and Greasy Neale were talking together. They were quite a contrast in physiques. Groh, who was about my height, was sometimes called “tiny Heinie” in the press; his hands were so small that he used a “bottle bat” with a thick barrel and an exceptionally narrow handle. The burly Neale was big enough that he played professional football in the off-season.

“We’re talking about Mac,” Groh said to me. “You played for him, right?”

“Three years,” I said. “Mac” was New York Giants manager John McGraw; I’d been on his roster from 1914 through 1916, my longest tenure with a single club.

“I’d never play for that old cuss,” said Neale.

“Wouldn’t want him for a father-in-law,” I said. “But if you want to learn baseball, you can’t beat having him for a manager.”

Neale snorted and stepped away. “Think I’ll see what they have to eat here.”

“He’s outvoted.” Groh chuckled. “I was telling him I wished to hell I could play for McGraw again.”

Groh had started his career with the Giants a couple of years before I joined the club, and was now in his ninth season with the Reds. He’d held out for two months this spring, hoping to be traded to New York; the trade finally went through, but the new baseball commissioner, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, vetoed the deal and forced Groh to stay with the Reds.

“You’ll get to New York again,” I said. “If McGraw wants you, he’ll get you—never mind what Landis says.”

“Dunno. That Landis seems like a tough cookie.”

“So’s McGraw.” And there was another fellow who appeared to be a tough cookie that I was curious about. “Say, Heinie, was Lloyd Tinsley involved in making the deal with New York?”

He shook his head. “Nah, Bancroft got it started, then Herrmann took over the negotiations.”

“What do you think of Tinsley?”

“He’s no Frank Bancroft. Bancroft was a
baseball
man. Tinsley’s a glorified bookkeeper.”

Frank Bancroft had managed seven major league teams—including the 1884 world champion Providence Grays—before becoming business manager of the Reds. When he died a week before opening day this spring, he was starting his thirtieth year in that role. “Did they get Tinsley after Bancroft died?” I asked.

“No, a few years ago. Tinsley was running a ball club in the Western League—Wichita, I think. Then during the war, the minors shut down. Bancroft was already getting sick, so he hired Tinsley to help him out. But I guess after all them years, you don’t give up your responsibilities easy. Bancroft never let Tinsley be anything more than his assistant.”

I felt a touch in the small of my back and twisted my head to see Margie standing almost on my heels. “Bubbles Hargrave just left,” she said. “So if we go, too, we wouldn’t be the first ones.”

“Good thinking,” said Groh. “You two go ahead. Then I’ll follow.”

After saying good-byes to Katie Perriman, Margie and I left and caught a Warsaw Avenue trolley.

Once we were seated, I asked, “Where’d you learn to speak Spanish?”

“California. I only know a little.”

“I didn’t know you could talk it at all.”

“You don’t know everything about me. If you did, you might get bored.”

There were times when we did seem to run out of things to say at dinner. But I never felt bored with Margie. “Not with you,” I said. “Ever.”

She smiled. “Some men know how to talk to a lady. Not like Curt Stram. You can give your teammate Stram some lessons on what to say. And maybe on what
not
to say.”

“Why? Was he rude to you?”

“Not to me. I overheard him talking to Dave Claxton. He made it clear he’d had an affair with Katie Perriman. He was
gloating
about it—and while she’s mourning her dead husband.”

I agreed with her that Stram had a lot of learning to do in the manners department.

But after we got off the car at Haberstumpf’s for dinner and dancing, I forgot all about Stram and the Perrimans and concentrated on our own affair.

I
should have been sound asleep already, like Margie, who was snoring lightly next to me. She’d given me more exercise on the dance floor this evening than the Reds had given me on the baseball diamond all week, and we didn’t get home until well after midnight.

But I did little better than doze, my thoughts on Ollie Perriman and why he might have been killed. When I’d first met him, I thought he was harmless, obsessed with an innocent hobby that many people might find childish. And since his death, I hadn’t been able to imagine why anyone would want to hurt someone who was so absorbed in preserving the past—it was like killing a librarian.

The more I thought about it now, though, the more I realized I hadn’t given him proper credit. His wasn’t a childish hobby, it was a passion. Ollie Perriman had something in his life that he loved, and he gave himself to it wholeheartedly.

From what I’d heard today, he’d also had an unfaithful wife who didn’t care for his hobby, and a pushy partner who now owned the entire business.

And I started wondering if maybe the reason nothing was stolen from Perriman’s collection was because theft wasn’t the intent of the crime. Maybe the “robbery” was to cover up a murder. But who would gain from such an act?

Lloyd Tinsley? According to Katie Perriman, he stood to inherit the collection. But why would he kill Perriman
before
the opening of the exhibit? Tinsley had been pressing for it to be opened soon, and Perriman’s death was only going to delay that. And why wouldn’t Tinsley wait to find out if people wanted to see the collection first—what if it was a bust? Big risk killing somebody when you don’t know what it gains you.

If it wasn’t to gain something, maybe it was to get rid of something: an unwanted husband. Was Katie Perriman tired of supporting Ollie financially? Or did she want him out of the way so that she would be free to take up with Curt Stram? She could have simply divorced him, though, instead of resorting to something as rash as murder.

Rash. That practically defined Curt Stram. He certainly had no discretion in his personal behavior, but I didn’t think he was stupid or calculating enough to murder a man. Besides, could he really care about Katie Perriman to talk about her the way he did? What
was
going on between the two of them, anyway?

I’d start to nod off, but every time I did, a new scenario would intrude and demand attention. Finally, I decided that putting something in my stomach might help me fall asleep.

Careful not to wake Margie, I slid my shoulder out from under her head, replaced it with a pillow, then gradually eased myself out of bed.

In my bare feet, I padded downstairs, through the dining area, and into the kitchen. I was about to hit the light switch, when I heard a rustle behind me.

Then my skull exploded.

The blast sent fireballs from the back of my head through to the front, where they flashed before my eyes. I felt my knees start to melt and sensed the kitchen floor coming up to meet my chin.

The lights in my head sputtered, replaced by a calm darkness. I was vaguely aware that the pain was fading. So was consciousness.

The pain came back, pounding and intense.

Margie, wearing only a chemise, was bent over me. Her hands gripped my shoulders and she was shaking me as if trying to wake me from a sound sleep. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Think so.” She continued the shaking until I added, “I’m awake. Please stop.”

“Oh, sorry. What happened?”

“Somebody hit me.” I slowly raised myself on my elbows and lifted a hand to feel the back of my head. It was tender to the touch but there wasn’t much of a lump. “Came up from behind me; must have been in the parlor.” I held my fingertips close to my bleary eyes to check for blood; there was none. On the whole, this was no worse than a nasty beanball—except I wasn’t going to be awarded first base. “How long have I been out?”

“Not long. I heard the door slam—that’s what woke me. You weren’t in bed, so I came down to see if you’d gone outside for some reason.”

“No, I wanted cookies.”

She stifled a laugh, and I realized how silly that sounded.

I stood up carefully, my knees feeling like they were going to buckle again. My head didn’t want to stay up either; it felt like the dull pounding in the back of my skull was trying to knock it forward onto my chest.

I struggled to get vertical, then walked to the front door.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Margie suggested.

“Good idea. Go ’head.” I opened the door and peered outside. Of course, the burglar would have been long gone, but I felt compelled to check. Everything was quiet and calm, not even a passing automobile.

While Margie placed the phone call, I looked around the parlor. Everything of obvious value—Victrola, mantel clock, silver candlesticks—were still there and looked untouched. My desk appeared to be the only thing in the room that had been disturbed. The stacks of guides and magazines were in disorder and the desk drawers were open. But from what I could tell, nothing had been taken.

While waiting for the police to arrive, Margie checked the kitchen, and I looked around upstairs. She then put on a pot of coffee.

A disheveled young officer eventually arrived in a patrol car. He looked like he’d been asleep not long before. “You called about a break-in?” he asked.

“Yes,” Margie and I answered in one voice. I then gave him the story in all its brevity.

“Well, let me take a look-see.”

Margie offered him a cup of coffee, which he accepted and sipped as he walked around the house, checking the front and back doors and the windows. “Doesn’t look like a forced entry. You keep your door locked?”

Who locks their doors? “Not when we’re home.”

“Could have walked right in then. What all was taken?”

“Nothing. I don’t think.” I pointed to the messy desk. “He went through that, though. Probably looking for something.”

“Probably,” he repeated. The officer scribbled in a notebook, muttering to himself, “No forced entry. Nothing taken.” He gulped the last of his coffee. “Well, I’ll file a report, and we’ll keep our eyes open.”

“That’s it?” I wasn’t sure what I expected, but I assumed the police could do more than this.

“For now.”

I touched the back of my head, where a lump had started to bloom. “He knocked me out.”

The cop grunted. “But you’re all better now?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good.” He wrote some more in the book, reciting aloud, “Assaulted resident. Minor injury.” He then thanked Margie for the coffee and advised us to lock the door from now on. “Good neighborhood, but you never can tell,” he said.

After he left, we followed his advice, locking the doors and windows. Then we went back upstairs to try and get some rest. I lay on my side to keep my bruised head from touching the pillow, but I never did get to sleep.

By eight-thirty, with Margie still asleep, I’d taken a hot bath and eaten breakfast—the cookies I’d wanted last night. I was on my fourth cup of coffee and holding the second bag of ice to my throbbing head. This was one of the rare times I was hoping not to play; my head and eyes were in no shape to pick up a fastball.

I was thinking about the break-in, and was struck by the similarities with the one at Ollie Perriman’s office. Detective Forsch had never talked to me again after I’d met with him at police headquarters. Maybe I should contact him.

I phoned the Crime Bureau and was put through to Forsch. “Glad you’re there,” I said after identifying myself. “Wasn’t sure if you worked Sundays.”

“They don’t give us weekends off,” he replied. “Fridays and Saturdays are the big crime nights. Matter of fact, I got a stabbing on Front Street I need to look into. So what’s on your mind?” I heard him take a drag on a cigarette.

I told him of our intruder.

“So what do you want from me?” the detective asked. “You reported it, the local cops looked into it, end of story. Who knows—maybe they’ll find him. Did you give a description?”

“Never saw the guy. Just felt whatever he hit me with.”

Forsch’s grunt was as unsympathetic as the patrolman’s.

I went on, “The reason I’m calling you, is because he was interested in the things Ollie Perriman gave me—those are the only things he touched. So I figure it was probably the same guy who broke into Redland Field and killed Perriman.”

“Well, that may be what
you
figure, but
I
don’t see that there’s any connection. You know how many burglaries we have in a week? Dozens. You’re just one of the statistics. As for the Perriman case, we did a thorough search. Whoever killed him must have left town.”

I thought I knew why Forsch was being stubborn: he’d put on enough of a show to satisfy Garry Herrmann, and opening things up again wouldn’t do him any good. “They
have
to be connected,” I said. “Why would—”

“I
have
to be going. If you have any more trouble, contact your local district.” With that, he hung up. I had the feeling that to him my little break-in was in the same category as a couple of roustabouts fighting over a bad batch of liquor.

I sat down at the desk. I was sure nothing had been taken. Same as in Perriman’s office. Was the robber really looking for something, though? Or was it a cover, a way to maintain the pretense that robbery was the motive behind the break-in at Redland Field? But if the police were no longer pushing the Perriman investigation anyway, why take the risk of breaking in here?

Oh, jeez. This wasn’t all that Perriman had given me. There were also the cards that I’d given to Patrick Kelly. Could those little pieces of pasteboard have been what he was looking for? What if the killer goes after them? I thought hard, and when I was sure that I hadn’t told anyone about giving the boy the cards, I felt some sense of relief.

But I felt no more at ease about what had happened here. It was more than a bump on the head. I felt violated. I’d had apartments and houses before, and lived in hotel rooms on the road, but this place was different. Margie was living here with me. This was the first time I’d shared a place with a woman, and that made it a home.

What if Margie had been the one to come downstairs last night? Perriman had been killed; the same could have happened to her.

Then it occurred to me that with nothing missing, either from Perriman’s office or from my desk, the robber—killer—might be coming back for another search. And judging from Detective Forsch’s attitude, I sure wasn’t going to be able to depend on the Cincinnati Police Department for help if he did.