Murder at Wrigley Field Read Online Free PDF Page B

was talking about. “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “Just what I said. Those smoke bombs yesterday. And the bleachers that collapsed.” Last month, several of the right field bleacher seats had broken through, upending some fans.
    “They just broke, didn’t they?”
    “They were sawed.”
    Like the pipes to my water tank.
    He leaned forward. “And the pretzels a couple weeks ago.”
    Somebody had put pretzels in all the concession stands at Cubs Park, and Weeghman was pilloried in the papers for serving German food.
    Did he think I was involved in any of this? “I don’t know anything about it,” I said.
    “Don’t expect you to ... yet. But I expect you to find out. I want you to do some digging around for me.”
    “Oh.” This sounded like an opportunity I’d rather pass up.
    Weeghman noticed my lack of enthusiasm and his lips pursed. He looked down and began tugging at his shirt cuffs, carefully adjusting and readjusting them until they both stuck out exactly the same length from his jacket sleeve. As he fiddled, he softly said, “You know, the Work or Fight order takes effect tomorrow.”
    Know? It was almost all I’d thought of since the government had issued it in May. According to the order, every man of draft age had until July first to find essential war work or be drafted. Tomorrow was July first.
    “Yeah, but if the Secretary of War decides baseball’s essential, it doesn’t matter,” I said, with more hope than conviction. It sounded ridiculous to say those words. The Secretary of War ruling that baseball was essential. Not likely.
    “True ...” Weeghman nodded solemnly. Then, with a hint of a smile, he added, “Of course, if you’re not playing baseball, it doesn’t matter what Baker decides. You’ll be off to the trenches.”
    Weeghman had all the subtlety of a bean ball. So that was it: do what he wanted or I was off the team. He could have asked nicely, explained why he needed my help. Instead, he starts off with a threat. A damned effective threat.
    “You really think somebody’s trying to put you out of business?”
    “I know it,” Weeghman snapped. “And I got an idea who, but I want to know for sure.”
    “Who do you think it is?” I half expected him to answer “Germans.”
    Weeghman hesitated. “Rather not say.”
    “How can I help if you don’t tell me?” Not that I was going to anyway, if I could avoid it, but I was getting curious.
    Weeghman removed his derby and spun it idly in his hand for a minute. “It’s Wrigley,” he said abruptly.
    “William Wrigley?”
    His scowl told me it was another stupid question.
    A splash and a sizzle came from the kitchen. The water! I bolted from my chair and ran to the stove. Removing the pots from the stove top, I wondered what Wrigley could have against Weeghman.
    I knew Charles Weeghman wasn’t the sole owner of the Cubs. He’d put together a syndicate of Chicago businessmen to buy the team two years ago. William Wrigley was one of a number of partners.
    Back in the parlor, I pressed Weeghman. “Why would Mr. Wrigley want to put you out of business?”
    “Bastard wants to take over my team.”
    That cheered me somewhat. I generally like it when owners fight among themselves—it’s the only time they leave the players alone.
    “When did Mr. Wrigley start this?” I asked, playing along.
    “Right from the start of the season.” Weeghman leaned forward and said confidentially, “I don’t have proof of this, but I would bet you it was Wrigley who talked Alexander into enlisting.” Weeghman had bought Grover Cleveland Alexander, the National League’s premier pitcher, from the Phillies last winter. After three games with the Cubs in April, Alexander had enlisted and gone to France with General Pershing and the American Expeditionary Force.
    “Maybe he enlisted out of patriotism,” I suggested in Alexander’s defense. I owed a lot to the players who had given up baseball to go to war, such as my promotion from