Murder at Wrigley Field Read Online Free PDF

snot-nosed little...” As he yelled, he flourished his billy club like Tom Mix twirling a six-shooter. I knew the kids were in no real danger from the stick. Mike was actually pretty harmless for a cop.
    The kids finally ran away laughing, and I approached him. “Hey, Mike. I’ve been robbed.”
    He ignored me, his eyes remaining fixed on the kids as they scampered toward Southport Avenue. Mike had his priorities. “And don’t come back neither!”
    Mike was red-faced and breathless, either from the exertion of yelling or from the tight fit of his uniform. After he was satisfied that they were far enough away, he took a few puffs of air and turned his attention to me. “Robbed, you say?”
    Good thing I wasn’t reporting a shooting, I thought. “Yeah. Somebody stole my hot water tank.”
    His face fell. “Stole your what?”
    “My water tank. You know, for hot water. It was in my cellar and now it’s gone. Somebody took it.”
    Mike pushed up the visor of his cap with the end of his stick. “Uh-huh,” he said flatly.
    “Cut it right off the pipes and—”
    Mike’s attention had turned back to the street. “Well, would ya look at that,” he said, pointing the stick at a passing Model T. A creative motorist had hitched a team of horses to the front of the car so his family could enjoy a Sunday drive without using gasoline.
    I didn’t appreciate Mike being so easily distracted. “About my water tank,” I reminded him. “What are you going to do?”
    “Me?” He was clearly astonished that I expected him to do anything.
    “Yeah.”
    “Well.... I’m not gonna do nothing,” he decided after a moment’s thought. “I think that’s crazy is what I think.” He then nodded amiably and walked off, twirling his nightstick and trying to whistle.
    After a couple of minutes, I went back into my house, slamming the screen door behind me. He’s right, I thought, it’s crazy.

    I struck a match and put its flame to a piece of kindling in my kitchen stove. As the fire spread to the rest of the wood, I filled all the pots I had—three, including a coffee pot—with cold water and put them on top of the stove. One way or another I was going to have a hot bath, dammit.
    “Hello! Rawlings, you in there?”
    Mike the Cop must have decided to investigate after all. Leaving the water to boil, I went to the front door. The man who took form through the wire screen wasn’t a cop. It was my boss. The boss: Charles A. Weeghman, President, Chicago Cubs.
    “Mr. Weeghman,” I said with surprise, pulling open the door. I’d never had a manager in my home before, never mind a team owner. “Uh, would you like to come in?”
    He said nothing, but his scowl answered, “Obviously. What a stupid question.” Weeghman, an ungainly fellow of about forty, had sunken eyes with dark bags under them and could produce a spectacularly frightening scowl.
    He stepped in without removing his derby. Over his shoulder I saw a glossy black Packard at the curb, with a driver behind the wheel and the engine running. Gasless Sunday didn’t apply to people who could afford Packards.
    Weeghman’s clothes were at the same end of the price scale as his car. The tailored dark suit couldn’t disguise his awkward build though. And the droopy green bow tie wasn’t exactly flattering.
    Once inside, Weeghman gave the room a cursory glance and said, “Nice little place.” He stressed the “little.”
    “Can I take your hat?”
    “No,” he grunted.
    Despite his lousy manners, I was determined to be a good host and offered him my chair. He shook his head no and proceeded to half-sit on a sideboard that I didn’t think could hold him.
    I settled into the chair he’d declined and waited for him to tell me what he was doing in my nice little place.
    I didn’t have to wait long. “I want to know who’s trying to put me out of business,” Weeghman demanded.
    I was tempted to suggest that he’d come to the wrong place, for I had no idea what he