Read Murder at Wrigley Field for Free Online

utility player to starting second baseman.
    Weeghman shook his head. “Nah, it was Wrigley. I’d bet money on it.” When an owner’s willing to risk money on something, he must feel it’s a sure thing. He went on, “William Wrigley’s got the biggest goddamn ego I ever seen. Did you know he used to own a semi-pro team that played out in Ogden Grove?”
    “I heard that, yeah.”
    “Know what the name of the team was?”
    “No—”
    “The Wrigleys. How’s that for ego?”
    An owner with an ego. There’s something new.
    “If he takes over the Cubs,” Weeghman said, “you might be wearing the name of a chewing gum on your uniform.”
    I didn’t like that idea at all. It sounded like something slimy and writhing.
    He added, “At the least, he’ll change the name of the field to Wrigley Park or something.”
    I chose not to point out that Weeghman had christened it Weeghman Park when he’d opened it for his Federal League team four years ago.
    And I really didn’t care enough about the name of the park or the team to want to get involved in investigating anything. I’d done it before and had picked up a bunch of scars and broken bones in the process; I had no desire to add to that collection. If my career was going to end with a fatal injury, I wanted it to be from a fastball to the head, not a bullet in the back.
    I finally asked, “But why me? What makes you think I could help you. I’ve never even met William Wrigley.”
    “I don’t want you to check out Wrigley. He didn’t plant them smoke bombs himself. Not the pretzels neither. And he sure didn’t saw them bleacher seats. He’s got somebody working for him. I want to know who it is.”
    “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
    “Start by finding out what your buddy Kaiser is up to.”
    “Willie?”
    The scowl again, more severe, telling me that my questions were getting dumber. Hey, if you think I’m so stupid, I thought, get somebody smarter to help you.
    “No, the other one,” Weeghman said sarcastically. “Yeah, your roomie. Willie Kaiser. He went to some German meeting last night.”
    “He did?” But he’d told Fohl he wouldn’t go. “How do you know that?”
    Weeghman gave me a look that showed he didn’t feel obligated to explain anything to me. But he grudgingly said, “These are unusual times. I need to know what my players are up to. So I keep tabs on—them.” He’d almost said “you.”
    So Weeghman had spies working for him, spying on his own players. Surprisingly, I wasn’t bothered by it—it was just one more bit of craziness that fit in nicely with the way the whole season had been going.
    “By the way,” Weeghman added. “Don’t tell Kaiser I said anything to you about it. This is just between us. As far as anybody’s concerned, we never had this talk.”
    “You really think Willie was involved with those smoke bombs?” I asked.
    Weeghman shrugged. “I don’t know. I want you to find out. And make sure you keep him from going to any more of them meetings. Last thing I need is for somebody to find out I got a traitor on my team.”
    Right. As if Willie’s going to listen to what I tell him to do. Weeghman didn’t know Willie Kaiser. I wasn’t sure I did any more either, but I was sure that he was no traitor. “If you think he’s a traitor,” I said. “Why keep him on the team at all?”
    “What are you, crazy?” Weeghman squawked. “He’s hitting .320. Where am I gonna find another shortstop like him?” No scowl this time. Instead his eyes rolled to show how appalled he was at my lack of business sense. The way Weeghman could express himself with his face, he could become a moving picture actor if Wrigley succeeded in putting him out of the baseball business.
    Well, at least I’d learned something new: as long as you’re hitting .320, you can sabotage your team, even be a traitor to your country, and some baseball owner will still want you playing on his club.
    I suppose if Willie was batting