Safe On Third
By D. F. Zorensky
*****
Smashwords Edition
©2008 & 2012 D.F. Zorensky
All Rights Reserved
******
License Notes
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Author’s Note
Safe On Third is a work of historical fiction. While a number of historical figures and events are presented in this novel, all the fictional characters, places, and incidents in the narrative are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance these fictional characters have to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Cover photograph
Rogers Photo Archive/Getty Images Sport
Dedication
To Helen, who makes everything possible.
CHAPTER ONE
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” The young man carrying the suitcase began to laugh. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” he repeated in a loud voice and scurried ahead of his companion, a tall, middle-aged man, who was walking at a deliberate, unhurried pace toward Grand Central Station.
“Shut up and slow down!” the older man snarled as he stepped from the curb. “How often must I tell you, Dieter?” he added under his breath. “You are only drawing attention to yourself with this foolishness, and there is no need to hurry. We have no train to catch and nothing will happen until one o’clock.”
It was late Saturday morning, March 16, 1940, and snow had been falling in the city for almost an hour when the two men started across Vanderbilt Avenue to enter the terminal. They were both wearing heavy topcoats with pale green carnations in their lapels, and the man addressed as “Dieter,” the smaller of the two, was carrying a cumbersome piece of luggage, a large, tan suitcase, with a leather strap around it. Grumbling to himself in German, he had waited reluctantly for his slow-moving partner to pass in front of him before he followed him across the street.
Once inside, the two men stopped at the top of the stairs overlooking the station’s cavernous main concourse. The taller man, a big, heavyset fellow with a ruddy complexion, wavy reddish-gray hair, and watery eyes, paused to catch his breath. Then he brushed the snow from his shoulders and hat before delicately pulling back the glove on his left hand to glance at his wristwatch. “Yes, Dieter,” he said, ”We have plenty of time.”
At these words, Dieter put down the suitcase with great care. Short and muscular, with fair, close-cropped hair, and a raw, red gash in his right earlobe that split it in half, he said nothing in response but began to methodically unwrap a stick of chewing gum that he had taken from his pocket.
The taller, heavyset man glanced over at Dieter for a moment before he turned to study the people milling about below. There was little activity except for a few individuals at the information desk in the center of the concourse. After a long pause he nodded. Without a word, he started down the stairs, and Dieter quickly descended a few steps behind him with the heavy bag. At the bottom of the stairs, they stopped again. Dieter did not release his grip on the suitcase, but stood waiting to one side, while his companion purchased a newspaper and checked his watch once more.
"Dieter, come," the tall man said finally, after carefully pulling his glove down over his watch. With his newspaper tucked under his arm, he led Dieter across the terminal concourse toward the entrance to Track 32. There, opposite the main level check room, they came to a halt, and from behind his newspaper the tall man stood furtively watching the activity at the check room with great interest. There were several pieces of luggage resting on one end of the counter, but there was no one in sight except for a young, uniformed attendant, who sat reading a comic book.
Dieter stood waiting just behind the tall man and after a few minutes he put down the suitcase once more. Then, when his companion lit a cigarette and began puffing away, Dieter pulled out a folded handkerchief, which he held to his face, coughing into it several times. Waving away the cigarette smoke, he took several steps back from the tall man.
“Tobacco smoke is no good for one’s health,” he said angrily. “I have told you before. You are short of breath because you smoke too much. You are putting poison into your body and mine as well.”
The tall man laughed. “That suitcase is bad for one’s health, too,” he said, quite amused with his own joke, and turned again to watch the check room from behind his newspaper.
With the announced arrival of several trains, there was a sudden flurry of activity on the terminal concourse, and the tall man looked up from his paper at the people hurrying through the station. His ruddy face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl as he stared at the passing stream of travelers and shoppers. Finally, after a few more minutes of cautious observation, he spotted a porter approaching the checkroom counter with a large load of luggage on a rolling cart. When the porter began to place the bags on the counter, the tall man quickly folded his paper and tucked it under his arm.
“Dieter, now,” he said under his breath as the porter began to place the bags on the counter. “Put the bag up there with the others.”
Placing it on the counter with the other luggage, Dieter responded with a grunt and lunged forward with the heavy suitcase. Then he slipped away and headed for the nearest exit. At the same time, the checkroom attendant finally put down his comic book and slowly rose to his feet. With a sullen look on his face, he reached for a handful of duplicate baggage tags.
‘’These all yours?” he asked the porter, methodically tying a tag on each bag’s handle and spreading out the numbered duplicates on the counter in front of him.
“Not that one,” the porter said, pointing to the tan bag. “Man left it and disappeared.”
The attendant shrugged. “Well, it will be here when the dumb bastard comes back,” he said, and without another word he began dragging the bags from the counter one at a time. He dropped each of them on a low shelf in the room behind him and then returned to his comic book.
A few feet away, across from the checkroom, the tall man was still standing, watching all this attentively. When the tan bag was removed from the counter and placed on the shelf, he smiled. Then he turned away and began to march calmly across the concourse.
Outside the terminal, Dieter was walking at a slow, deliberate pace, just as he had been instructed. After pausing to stuff another piece of chewing gum in his mouth, he headed toward the Lexington Avenue Subway. He was making his way eastward now in the wet, slushy snow, angrily pushing his way through the large throngs of holiday revelers moving in the opposite direction toward Fifth Avenue for the St. Patrick's Day parade. When he noticed the green carnations many of them were wearing, he plucked the identical green flower from his own lapel and threw it down on the sidewalk. Then he disappeared from view as he descended the stairs to the subway.
Over on Fifth Avenue, the parade route was lined with spectators. The tall man marched uptown through the large crowd, past vendors hawking clay pipes and bits of shamrock, and people huddled in store entrances, out of the snow. He worked his way up the avenue and crossed the street, striding at a leisurely pace toward a bookshop opposite Rockefeller Center. Above the door was a sign that read, “B. Westermann.” Several hand-colored Currier and Ives lithographs of farmyard scenes were displayed in the shop's front window, along with an array of current best sellers. Discreetly displayed to one side were several copies of a book entitled The Truth About England.
The tall man brushed the snow from his coat and entered. As the door closed behind him, a bell rattled, announcing his presence in the empty shop. He walked past neatly ordered shelves to the rear, where a glass partition enclosed a small office. Inside, a woman sat behind a desk, talking on the telephone. The tall man nodded to her, removed his topcoat and hung it on a coat hook. He then adjusted his vest, smoothed back his hair, and went out into the shop to greet a customer.
Outside, a light dusting of snow continued and the line of parade spectators on Fifth Avenue still was growing. Full of holiday gaiety and good cheer, they stood waiting patiently until almost one o'clock when the slow-moving holiday procession finally reached St. Patrick's Cathedral. Then, they began to cheer loudly when the Army’s Sixty-Ninth Infantry, the “Fighting Irish,” marched past at the head of the parade, led by a police escort and accompanied by a military band playing the familiar strains of “The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls.”
At the same time, back in the main level checkroom at Grand Central Station, there was a loud, fizzing sound and a flash of light that caused the attendant on duty to drop his comic book and jump up with a start. He looked behind him and saw bright jets of flame shooting up from the tan suitcase with the leather strap and several other bags next to it on the same shelf. He rushed to pull a fire extinguisher off the wall and then he began to hose down the burning luggage, but the flames continued to leap up, out of control, and soon voluminous black smoke was filling the air, flowing out of the check room into the terminal’s main concourse.
“Fire!” the attendant shouted in a shrill voice. “Fire!” he cried out again and again as he emptied his fire canister and was forced back by a wave of dark gray smoke and the heat of the flames.
A passing redcap blew a silver whistle that hung on a cord around his neck, and two other redcaps came running over with fire extinguishers, which they also turned on the blaze. Still the fire kept growing, and while a few people near the checkroom rushed over to see what was happening, others in the station began to scurry for the exits as alarms sounded, sirens could be heard in the distance, and dark smoke continued to billow up, spreading throughout the building.
Already, police and firemen were rushing to the scene, and within minutes the city’s firefighters begun dragging long hoses across the main floor of the terminal to pump water on the blaze. More firemen raced into Grand Central from all sides, while police roped off the area, and soon the fire had been extinguished.
“More smoke than fire,” a weary but relieved fire captain said to the stationmaster who stood inside the cordoned off area conferring with several other officials while police and firemen began to poke at the charred debris of the fire.
Nearby, the redcaps who had attempted to put out the blaze watched with interest. They stood behind the police line in the midst of a growing throng of curious onlookers and suddenly, as several more officers and firemen were called over to examine the remains from the blaze, they found themselves being pushed back by the police much further from the scene.
Now, with the fire out, uniformed police were swarming through the terminal, and solemn, plain clothed detectives from the Bomb and Forgery Squad at the East 51st Street Police Station arrived to take charge of the investigation. Stomping through pools of water, they began a more thorough inspection of the burnt-out checkroom and carefully removed ten soggy sticks of dynamite, two watches, four dry-cell batteries, and some wire from the smoldering remnants of the luggage.
When they had finished, one of them shook his head. “Look at all that dynamite,” he said. “We were sure lucky that the wiring was bad, really lucky.”
This information was not shared with the young check room attendant, who was questioned first by the police, then by two serious young men in dark suits from the FBI, and finally by several reporters. He told all of them that he could not describe the man who left the tan suitcase, but that he thought he had seen some strange wires and a battery when the firemen had first poked at the remains of the fire. He was pleased to see his name spelled correctly in the Sunday papers the next day, but he was disappointed that the only photographs printed were those of the bomb squad detectives and the station master.
In Washington, D.C., the press accounts of the previous day's events at Grand Central Station were noted with more than passing interest by a cranky, gray-haired man propped up in bed with a thermometer stuck in his mouth. While a physician in a blue naval officer’s uniform stood by his bedside, he quickly scanned the front page story in the Sunday New York Times and continued through the paper. The man in bed was wearing an old blue sweater over his pajama top. His bedroom was sparsely furnished, like sleeping quarters in a school dormitory, but the room's southern exposure gave him a grand, panoramic view across the Potomac River toward Virginia. Beside him on the bed sat the remains of his breakfast on a tray. Newspapers from New York City, Washington, Chicago, and Baltimore were scattered all around him. Next to the bed sat a small, black wheelchair with no armrests.
The naval officer attending the man in bed glanced at his wristwatch, took the thermometer from his patient's mouth, and studied it. At the same time, a black-coated usher entered the room with a wire basket containing a stack of dispatches and an FBI report on the incident at Grand Central Station.
“Good morning, Mr. President. Good morning,” said the messenger, as he deposited the basket on the bed. “Miss LeHand says there is a call coming in from Ambassador Bullit.”
“Good morning,” Franklin Delano Roosevelt responded from the bed in a tired voice. “Please tell Missy that I will take that call right here. And ask General Watson and Mr. Early to get up here, too.” The President’s gray complexion seemed to color as he turned to the naval officer and smiled. “Well, Ross,” he said with more cheer, “how are we doing? This damn grippy cold of mine seems to be lingering on, and I keep thinking that, if I leave Washington and start writing for a magazine like Collier's, I could afford some decent medical care for a change. I could get my sinuses fixed, too, maybe even actually breathe again.”
Roosevelt’s uniformed companion laughed and then turned to reach into his open medical bag. “Mr. President,” he said, “your temperature is down and you're doing much better. I don’t think the dinner last night at the Willard was too much for you, after all.”
“Of course not,” Roosevelt declared.
“Still, with that cold of yours, you should continue to take it easy,” the physician went on, reaching for his stethoscope as he spoke. “I hope you have nothing scheduled today besides your anniversary celebration with Mrs. Roosevelt. Now please pull up your bedclothes, sir, and breathe deeply for me.”
Neither man spoke while the doctor listened to the President’s deep breathing. “Your lungs sound better,” the naval physician finally announced as he folded up his stethoscope.
“I must be better,” the President exclaimed, “because I can already smell Pa's aftershave.” Raising his voice, he turned to greet the two men who had just entered the room. “I've never known an army officer to smell so pretty in the morning,” he said, and then he paused. “Steve, Pa, join the party. Ross here thinks I'm going to live, but he tells me that I still have to take it easy if I am going to shake this heavy cold.”
“Pa” Watson, a florid, jovial man, who was the White House appointments secretary, laughed and pointed to the remains of some smoked salmon on the President’s tray. “What's for breakfast, Boss?” he asked.
“Oh, Rosenman brought me more fish from that cheese store on 42nd Street,” Roosevelt answered. “What's up?”
“Hull wants to see you this morning,” Watson responded, “and Mrs. Roosevelt will be back before noon from her Midwest tour.”
“And the boys downstairs want a statement about your 35th wedding anniversary,” interjected Steve Early, the President's press secretary.
The President nodded as he reached for a newspaper on the bed in front of him. “Look at this,” he said, shaking his head and pointing with amusement to the Washington Post. “Farley spoke to the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick yesterday at the Mayflower about the need for tolerance in the selection of a president. Tolerance. He still thinks he's a statesman, but he wants to run this country like a ward politician.”
The telephone next to the President's bed began to ring. “Pa,” he said, “tell Hull that I can see him in one hour up here in my study after I take this call from Bullitt.”
With that, everyone left, and Roosevelt turned to pick up the telephone. As he held the receiver to his ear, he quickly flipped through a stack of documents beside him on the bed, stopping to scan the first page of the FBI report on the Grand Central Station fire.
That same Sunday morning, the sun was shining brightly in Tampa, Florida, and the warm sunlight seeped through the drawn, wooden venetian blinds into a dark room at the Floridan Hotel, where five men sat with sleeves rolled up and ties undone, at a table cluttered with playing cards, beer bottles, glasses, and overfilled ashtrays.
“All right, dear friends,” said a solidly-built and distinguished looking man in his early fifties, “since Dame Fortune has blessed me once again with so much of your hard-earned income, the least I can do is offer you one last hand to redeem yourselves. Yes, we certainly have time for one last hand. We are only a few blocks from Plant Field and we have plenty of time to revitalize ourselves before play begins this afternoon in Hoover’s grand, all-star benefit game.”
The speaker’s voice had a deep resonance and faint traces of an English accent, what he, himself, liked to call “the received pronunciation of the English public school, worn down by years of abuse in the wilds of America.” His dark eyes flashed with amusement as he looked around the table. Then he coughed, ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, fringed with gray, and shuffled the deck in preparation for dealing the next hand. In front of him were several large piles of chips. An electric fan hummed faintly in the background, and for a moment no one responded.
They were all journalists, seasoned sportswriters from the wire services as well as several newspapers and periodicals, assembled in Tampa for the pre-season all-star baseball game that would begin later that day. Relaxed and comfortable with each other, they were old friends, too, men who had known each other for years, who had traveled together, and who enjoyed each other’s company both in the press box and at the poker table. But now, they were weary after playing all night, and when the dealer’s offer was declined, he did not appear surprised.
“Had enough, eh, gentlemen,” he said with a nod. Then, as the others began to count their chips and push back their chairs from the table, he stroked his neatly trimmed moustache and searched his pockets for a box of matches. When he found them, he lit a cigar and, after a few puffs, he poured himself a large glass of whiskey from a dark brown bottle labeled, “Old Overholt,” that sat on the table next to him. “At least join me for a shot of courage,” he urged his colleagues, ”before we go off to aid the hapless Finns.”
“Why not?” said the heavyset man to his left, yawning as he spoke. “If we can’t take your money, at least we can take some more of that damn rye whiskey you love so much.”
“Sure, I’ll take a shot,” said another.
“Me, too, Percy,” yelled a third man from across the room.
“Percy” was what everyone called the dealer, and he smiled now as he slid the whiskey bottle across the table.
“Not for me, Percy,” another of his colleagues said, scratching his beard as he stood up. “Hell, I’ve still got a side bar to write before the game. And let me tell ya, I’ve had enough of that whiskey for one night. I know there are people who say that it was Old Overholt that finally persuaded you to stay over here on this side of the Atlantic, but one taste of that stuff was enough to convince me that couldn’t be true.”
“Suit yourself,” Percy replied with a friendly grin. “But the restorative powers of this soothing elixir cannot be denied. It may not have led me from my native land but it has sustained me in my many years of exile.”
“And it sustains that flowery English tongue of yours, too,” the man sitting to Percy’s left added, and they all began to laugh. “Yeah,” he went on, as he reached for the whiskey bottle. “It sustains that flowery English tongue and ornate prose that makes Alfred Charles Percival Brown the lovable but long-winded pain in the ass we all know.”
“Alas, this blessed English tongue of mine is as much a burden as a gift,” Percy responded, shaking his head with mock solemnity, and there was more laughter before the room became quiet again. When the others had poured their drinks, Percy raised his glass. “My dear friends,” he began, “it is Palm Sunday and St. Patrick's Day. Permit me to wax sentimental, as I drink to you all and to Seabiscuit that grand horse who has sustained me in my early dotage. You have all been as good to me as the beloved Biscuit. I thank you for your moral and financial support, today and over the past few years, as well.”
With that declaration, Percy downed his drink in a single gulp before slamming his glass down on the table. Whistling a cheerful tune, he began stacking his chips in front of him. “Any wagers on today's game, gentlemen?” he asked. “As the friend of the underdog, I gladly will take the senior circuit against Joe McCarthy's American League all-stars.”
There was no response to this offer. After finishing their drinks, the other players finished counting their chips and settled up before slowly making their way to the door. Then Percy yawned and rose from the table. All alone now, he walked to the window, where he poked his finger through the blinds and squinted into the bright sunlight. It was a beautiful day for a baseball game, but he wanted a bath first and some sleep.
Suddenly he was very tired. Shuffling back to the table, he slumped down in his chair. Slowly raising his arms behind his head and arching his back, he turned and smiled wistfully. Then he pulled a gold pocket watch on a long chain out of his pocket. He held it at arm's length and studied its face with his head tilted back. It was already eight o’clock in the morning.
“Percy, you look beat.”
Lost in thought, Percy did not respond at first, and then turned slowly toward a woman who stood in the open doorway leading out to the hotel corridor.
”Percy....“
“My dear!” he exclaimed at last. It was as if he had seen a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
Percy was speaking to a tall, statuesque blonde, with fine, pale skin and bright blue eyes. She was wearing a simple sundress, white gloves and a straw hat. But while the gloves and hat almost gave her a demure air, her tight-fitting dress was anything but modest. It revealed a great deal of her ample form that Percy could not help but admire, and as she began to walk toward him the stale air in the room suddenly was replaced with the fresh, sweet scent of gardenias.
“Hey, handsome! Aren’t you glad to see me?” Her husky voice was hesitant but friendly. She was smiling at him now, beaming broadly.
“Elsa!” he said rising to his feet. “My goodness! Yes! Please come in, my dear. Please come in.” There had been worried frown on Percy’s face before he stood up but he could not resist her smile even when he thought of the risk she was taking.
“Sorry to barge in like this,” she added. “But I had a, ah, free moment. I hope it's not a bad time.”
“No, my dear,” he insisted, as he quickly crossed the room and closed the door behind her. “Not at all. It’s just that you know we shouldn’t be seen together and....”
“Don’t worry. Lover Boy is downstairs having a breakfast meeting with some of his cronies. I skipped out after I told him that I had to powder my nose.” Elsa laughed. “And the thing is, I persuaded him to accept tickets to today’s ball game. Yeah, don’t you love it! Karl and I are goin’ to the all-star game as the guests of some big-spending southern oilman with a refinery in Hamburg. Davis is his name, I think, and thanks to this fine friend of the Reich, we’ve got box seats behind home plate.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Come on, Joe. Put your arms around ’em.”
As the crowd at Tampa’s Plant Field began to grow, the three DiMaggio brothers, Joe, Vince, and Dominic, were posing for a group shot behind home plate, and the photographers huddled around them were insistent. Only Joe, however, was in uniform. His two brothers were wearing stylish, tan suits, with belts in the back. They laughed and joked with each other, while their brother in Yankee pinstripes patiently stood between them, with a somber, dignified look on his face, and an occasional, self-conscious smile.
Just behind the DiMaggio brothers, in the front row of the grandstand, an excited group of small boys begged for autographs as they sat, gawking and fidgeting under the watchful eyes of a rotund man from a local orphanage. A placard placed behind their seats read, “Guests of James A. Farley,” and although the game would not begin for over an hour, the seats around them were filling up quickly.
From his vantage point in the press box, high up in the grandstand, Percy also was watching the DiMaggio brothers and the seats behind them, as well. But Elsa had yet to appear, and he soon found himself looking out toward the center field backstop where the Stars and Stripes flew above the blue and white flag of Finland, against a clear, azure sky. It was a glorious day for a ball game, he told himself, particularly a spectacle like today’s contest involving the best players from both major leagues. Well rested now after his all-night poker game, he was full of anticipation, eager for the game to begin, and gazing down at the crowd filling the additional seats that had been constructed along the foul lines, he was reminded that more than thirteen thousand people were expected, the largest crowd ever to see a baseball game in Florida.
But pleased as he was to be at the ballpark, Percy’s excitement was tempered by his concern about Elsa. Returning his attention to the area behind home plate, he noted that there was still no sign of her. Was it possible that his meeting with Elsa that morning had been discovered? He knew that the man she was staying with was said to be violent and hot-tempered. Elsa always scoffed when he mentioned this, but it made Percy even more anxious about her failure to appear until he reminded himself that batting practice had not yet ended and the game would not begin for some time.
Of course, there really was no cause for alarm. Elsa had plenty of time to show up, Percy reassured himself, looking down on the swarm of reporters surrounding the ball players at the batting cage, and he decided to go down and join them. Moving quickly, he made his way down from the press box and as he crossed the field, he stood out from many of his fellow journalists, for he was wearing a well-tailored and freshly pressed white linen suit with a vest. Always well attired and at ease, Percy maintained an air of refined assurance and self-confidence wherever he went, and as usual, he appeared to be dressed more for the race track than the ball park. An antiquated pair of binoculars hung from his neck, and he was gripping the silver handle of a fine walking stick, a polished piece of what he called “English hazel wood.”
“Hey, Percy!” a few reporters shouted at him, as he passed, greeting him like an old friend, for he was a familiar sight at major sporting events like this, and he responded cordially with a quick wave of his cane.
“Great to see you here, Percy,” another reporter said, running over to shake his hand. “Thanks for the tip last week about the Yankees and Joe Kennedy. ‘A pernicious rumor,’ you called it, and you were right. Kennedy never made an offer for the team. Now if you could just pick a derby winner for me, I could retire down here instead of hauling my ass back to Cincinnati.” They both laughed, and Percy continued making his way across the diamond.
Nodding now to several more of his colleagues, he approached the batting cage, where he saw a large group of Yankees -- Keller, Dickey, Crosetti, Gordon, Rolfe, and DiMaggio, all standing together, relaxed and easy, as they waited to take their turn at bat. Gehrig was gone this year, but the 1940 Yankees still looked intimidating; that was certain, Percy reluctantly admitted to himself. Glancing occasionally at the seats near the boys from the orphanage, he drew closer and spotted Ted Williams, the lanky, young Red Sox outfielder, leaning against the cage in the company of several reporters. With his muscular teammate, Jimmy Foxx, at his side, Williams was intently studying DiMaggio’s swing as the Yankee outfielder took his turn at bat. Percy stopped to watch DiMaggio, too, but then he turned to join a large group of journalists nearby, clustered around the National League All-Stars’ manager, “Deacon” Bill McKechnie.
“The Cardinals can have it in March,” McKechnie was saying, perched on a railing in front of the National League dugout. “They’ve got some great players. But the Reds can take it again in September.” The soft-spoken leader of the Cincinnati team paused. He was cleaning his steel-rimmed glasses as he spoke. “Of course, we've got Walters and Derringer, who won fifty-two games for us last year, and we’ve still got a fine catcher in Ernie Lombardi. Like I say, the team is in good shape, real good shape.”
Percy was amused, thinking that he never had heard his old friend, McKechnie, talk so much. But he was paying more attention to the crowd in the stands than he was the activity on the field and when he finally spotted Elsa taking her seat behind home plate, he decided it was time to return to the press box.
Soon batting practice ended, and a short, wiry man, wearing a battered top hat and baggy baseball flannels, appeared at home plate. He was introduced as “Al Schacht, the Clown Prince of Baseball,” and he was greeted with loud applause that turned to laughter when he began a comic barroom pantomime. Many in the stands roared at the comedian's broad gestures, but this pre-game entertainment was studied in bemused silence by a pale, brown-haired man wearing dark glasses, who sat up erectly in a field box with Elsa, the beautiful woman who had visited Percy’s hotel room, at his side.
His name was Karl Friedrich Mueller, and he was a tall, well-groomed man in his late-thirties, whose distinguished good looks were marred only by the fleshiness of his lips and a small scar above his right eye. Although he was wearing a double-breasted tan suit and a Panama hat, he had the self-confident bearing of a military man. Without turning his head, he spoke occasionally in a low tone to Elsa, who touched his shoulder repeatedly as she tried to explain the scene on the field.
When the comedian ended his act, Mueller nodded to his female companion and joined the spectators around him in vigorous applause. He laughed and politely applauded again as the University of Tampa marching band appeared on the field in bright scarlet uniforms. Removing his hat, he sat back to smoke a cigarette and enjoy the warm sun on his face as the band began to play. But suddenly he sat up again and grimaced with annoyance at the harsh blare of the music.
“Karl, what is it?” Elsa asked with great concern.
“This loud, silly music is most irritating,” he said. “It reminds me of some kind of horrible Bavarian traveling circus. Make it stop.”
Elsa smiled. “Well, it isn’t Wagner,” she replied, leaning against him to speak in his ear. “That’s for sure. But it will be over soon, I promise you, and you must try to relax, Karl. Remember how cold and damp it was in New York? And what about all those burst pipes that you told me about back in Berlin, the rivers and canals frozen solid, the coal barges stuck in the thick ice? Look where we are now. Sit back and relax in the warm sun.”
Mueller nodded. “Yes,” he said. “The sun does feel good, too good for me to be upset by this ridiculous noise, particularly when I reminded of the coldest, most miserable winter the Fatherland has seen in many years.” He laughed. “I am reminded, too, that when I left Berlin for New York four weeks ago, I never imagined I would be coming down to someplace like this with someone like you.”
“You mean to Florida or to a baseball game?” Elsa asked.
“Yes, to a baseball game, too,” Mueller answered with a smile, “and what you call a benefit game for Finnish relief, no less.” Turning toward Elsa, he lowered his voice before he went on. “Our presence here is quite amusing, is it not? In Berlin the war has been almost forgotten except for the Russo-Finnish front, and now you and I celebrate the fact that our Soviet allies finally have managed to accomplish their goals. Yes, let these people around us pity the poor Finns while we celebrate their defeat and look forward to the day, sometime soon, you can be sure, when the Reich will move again to fulfill its own destiny in Scandinavia.”
Mueller sighed contentedly and started to sit back again but stopped suddenly when he realized that someone was standing next to him in the aisle, blocking the sun.
“Herr Mueller, good day.” The speaker, a slim, well-dressed young man, bent awkwardly from the waist to shake his hand. “Sir, my name is Wilfred Oaks,” he said with a slow, deliberate southern drawl. “I'm from the office of Mr. Davis, sir, and I am sorry that I could not be here sooner.” He waited for a response but when Mueller said nothing he continued. “As you know, sir, Mr. Davis could not be here today, himself, but he is very pleased that you have accepted his invitation.”
“An opportunity to observe your national pastime, yes?” Mueller's teeth glistened as he smiled. “Herr Oaks, I thank your Mr. Davis for his hospitality, and I look forward to meeting him. But if you would be so kind, I am curious about Doktor Hertslet. Is there any word yet as to when he will arrive in Tampa?” As he spoke, Mueller noted with amusement that the young man was staring at Elsa. “Ah, Herr Oaks,” the German added, “you must forgive me. This is Fraulein Hofmann. As you can see, she is a woman of many charms. She has a remarkable enthusiasm for baseball, as well.”
“Hi there, Wilfred Oaks,” Elsa said with a friendly smile. “You can call me, ‘Elsa.’”
“But now that we have all been acquainted, you can answer my question, yes?” Mueller continued. “Dr. Hertslet, have you heard when will he arrive in Tampa?”
“Dr. Hertslet? Oh, yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” Oaks stammered. “That’s the other reason I needed to talk to you. You see, we have just learned that he is scheduled to arrive in an hour or so and that he wants to see you right away to discuss important matters. I am on my way to the harbor to pick him up now. Do you want me to bring him back here?”
“Here? Why, yes, of course,” Mueller answered with a bitter laugh. “Dr. Hertslet is a great fan of baseball.”
Oaks nodded, uncertain what to make of this remark. “O.K., sir,” he said. “If you will excuse me, then, I’ll be going.” With renewed urgency, he tipped his hat, turned, and rushed up the stairs of the grandstand.
Once the earnest young man was out of sight, Elsa turned toward Mueller.
“Important matters,” she said in muted German. “Karl, forgive my curiosity, but who is this Doktor Hertslet you are meeting here, at the ballpark?”
“Hertslet?” Mueller replied with disdain. “Oh, it doesn’t concern you. He is merely an economic advisor for Reichsmarshall Goering, another ambitious and annoying young man in a hurry. He was scheduled to arrive here a few days ago, but luckily for us, his departure from Mexico City was delayed.”
Sensing how agitated he had become, Elsa immediately changed the subject. She noted that the band had departed and tried to explain the ceremony in front of them at home plate, where the managers of the two all-star teams were being introduced and presented with bouquets of carnations. Then the players were introduced, and Elsa pointed out several of her favorites, including Joe DiMaggio. As she spoke, Mueller studied the playing field in silence and shook his head.
“You know,” he said finally, after he had calmed down, “this is not the first American baseball game that I have attended.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, Elsa. It is true. It was many years ago, when I was sent to this country to attend a Jesuit school in Detroit. I lived there with my American uncle and I was forced to share a room with my fat, little cousin, Rudy, who talked constantly of his favorite team. ‘The Detroit Tigers,’ they were called. Yes, ‘the Tigers.’ Rudy talked of them all the time when he was not stuffing food in his mouth, and once my uncle took us both to watch one of their games.”
“What team did they play?” Elsa was interested now.
“This I remember. They played the Yankees. Yes, the Yankees of New York. ”
“And who won the game? Do you remember that?”
“Elsa, this was back in 1922. All I recall is that it was very dull, that my cousin ate many sausages, and that he was very excited by the presence of the famous Babe Ruth, who hit what you call a ‘home run.’”
Elsa laughed as Mueller settled back again in his seat and reached for another cigarette. Annoyed as he was by Hertslet’s impending arrival, he wanted to relax for at least a little while longer, and as the pre-game ceremonies continued he soon began to feel quite drowsy in the warm sunlight. He even closed his eyes for a few moments but sat up again and tried to listen attentively when the former American president, Herbert Hoover, was introduced as the chairman of the Finnish Relief Fund. Somber and serious, Hoover started speaking in a grave voice about the end of hostilities in Finland earlier in the week and the continued need of aid for the homeless. As he droned on, the German’s mind began to wander.
“Babe Ruth,” Mueller muttered to himself under his breath and he closed his eyes once more.
Up in the press box, Percy was struggling to follow Hoover's words, too. It was such a long way, he thought, from sunny Florida to Finland, a cold and snowy land that was like another world, a distant planet. He recalled all those photographs in Life magazine of Finnish ski troops dressed in white, valiantly threading their way behind the Soviet lines, and he wondered what had happened. Suddenly, however, he was distracted by the familiar figure of Judge Landis, lean and gaunt, standing for the photographers with a baseball in his hand. Percy was amused by the sight of the elderly baseball commissioner wearing a topcoat with the collar pulled up to his ears on such a warm day in Florida. He watched as Landis stiffly tossed out the ball and then the National League All-Stars took the field.
A loud partisan cheer went up from the stands, for Plant Field was the spring training home of the Cincinnati Reds, and one of the aces of their pitching staff, Paul Derringer, was striding out to the mound to pitch for the National League. As the noise subsided, Derringer stared in at the first batter, Joe Gordon of the Yankees, and Percy looked on from the back of the press box. He was ready for the action to begin, but he was still concerned about Elsa. Turning to gaze down at her, he was troubled as ever by the risks she was taking and particularly by her impulsive decision to visit his hotel room that morning, a decision that violated every rule that had been drummed into him by British Intelligence.
How much simpler his life had been before he had begun working with this beautiful but willful woman, Percy reflected as he sat watching Elsa. Everything had been so straightforward at the beginning of the year when he first had begun working as an undercover agent of the British Secret Intelligence Service, the SIS. Monitoring the activity of German visitors on the East Coast, his job had been relatively uncomplicated. But that was before he had been assigned five weeks ago to work with Elsa, a German-American double agent who had established a liaison with a Nazi spy in the German Trade Delegation, a former Luftwaffe test pilot named Karl Mueller. Percy had become her regular contact and intermediary with SIS headquarters, and a few days ago, after Mueller had invited her to Tampa with him, Percy had been given orders to follow them down from New York City, to stay out of sight, and to report any information Elsa could provide him about her companion’s activities.
And, of course, if he knew of their meeting this morning in his hotel room, Nigel would be furious, Percy thought, reminded of Nigel Dunderdale, the SIS operative who had recruited him in early January and who had made him Elsa’s contact. Percy reported regularly to Nigel, who regarded Elsa as one of the most important SIS operatives in the United States, an agent whose ties to British Intelligence were to be protected at all costs. Nigel had made this clear at the start with a long-winded lecture and a stern warning that came to mind again now for Percy, as he reflected on Elsa’s conduct.
“I don’t want any foul-ups here,” Nigel had told him.” You must be very careful to avoid any risk of exposing Elsa, because this fellow she’s sleeping with is our primary connection to one of the largest Nazi spy rings in this country. His name is Karl Mueller, and he’s a prize catch for us, a former test pilot, injured in a crash and afterwards transferred to the research department of the Reich Air Ministry, which is in actuality Reichsmarshall Goering's own personal intelligence service. Yes, and he’s quite a piece of work, our Karl is. You see, he has a reputation as an undisciplined and arrogant pilot, something of a ladies man, too, who has had a number of scrapes with the German authorities, both civil and military. But apparently he is a favorite of Goering, himself, and his English is quite good. In fact, he was Charles Lindbergh’s personal guide and interpreter when the bloody American hero toured a number of German air bases not too long ago, and now, thanks to Goering, he has been sent over here as a technical adviser to the German trade delegation in New York City.”
Puffing away on his ever-present pipe, Nigel had paused to relight it before continuing. “Technical adviser, I am sure you can grasp what that really means, Percy. Our boy makes a pretense of promoting trade with Nazi Germany after the war, all the while working to obtain for Goering and the Luftwaffe, by open and clandestine means, as much information as he can from American manufacturers of aircraft equipment. To accomplish his ends, Mueller works with a well-established network of Nazi spies in this country. He has used Elsa as a courier for this network, and from what she tells us, her lover is up to other mischief as well. And not just in bed, you can be sure of that.”
Then Nigel had ended with a description of Elsa and a warning that still stuck in Percy’s mind, a warning that had rankled him ever since.
“But thank goodness, we have our Elsa,” Nigel had declared, “our own splendid Delilah, on top of all this, or perhaps underneath it all, eh, Percy. You see, like so many women before her, Elsa Hofmann combines the world’s first and second oldest professions in one beautifully endowed package. Yes, her gifts are many and, thank god, she despises the Nazis. But you must exercise great care, for she is a cunning female, a stubborn creature, with little regard for our procedures and safeguards. She had the first man we gave her as a contact wrapped around her finger, and she refuses to work with a woman. So, don’t let her entice you, old boy. Just keep your distance, avoid direct contact, and you’ll do fine.”
“Fine, indeed,” Percy said to himself, still troubled by his most recent meeting with Elsa. But now he tried to return his attention to the game, for the first half inning had ended with no score and the National League All-Stars were coming up to bat. Outside the crowd was applauding as “Snooker” Arnovich of the Phillies, the National League's stocky leadoff hitter, stepped up to the plate, and a reporter seated in front of Percy commented that with Red Ruffing starting on the mound there were seven Yankees on the field for the American League; the only players from other teams were Williams in right field and Foxx at first base.
“Yes, lad,” Percy was quick to respond. “Seven Yankees, indeed. But, if your story is to be complete, you must not forget the Yankee batboy.”
The reporter smiled and started typing, while Percy began pacing back and forth behind him. Still trying to concentrate on the game, he pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket and began puffing away as Arnovich reached first base on a line-drive single.
While there was little noise in the press box, except for the clatter of typewriters and the wire ticker, outside there were loud cheers for Arnovich. However, the excitement in the grandstands did not last long, for the National League failed to score, and it was only in the second inning when Joe DiMaggio came up to bat for the American League that the crowd came back to life. Like many others around them, the boys from the orphanage sat up in the stands behind home plate and began yelling encouragement to the Yankee outfielder. Not far away, to their right, Karl Mueller’s female companion also was urging him on.
“Come on, Joe!” Elsa shouted, loudly clapping her hands, while DiMaggio took a few quick practice swings.
Seated next to her, Mueller sat in stony silence. Although he said nothing, he was irritated by her outburst and her continued shouts of encouragement when DiMaggio walked and then scored a run for the American league after successive hits by two of his teammates.
“Attaboy, Joe! Yankees one, National League nothin’,” she said with a laugh when DiMaggio reached home. But still Mueller did not respond, and it was not until the next inning when the Yankee star came up to bat once again that the German finally could control himself no longer. The score had not changed, but like many others in the stands, his companion was on the edge of her seat, for DiMaggio was gracefully striding toward the plate with two men on base and only one out.
“Come on, you can do it, Joe! You can do it!” Elsa was shouting but she stopped suddenly when Mueller reached for her forearm.
“Elsa,” he began, still looking out on the field as he spoke in a low voice, “must you make a spectacle of yourself over this DiMaggio?”
The woman looked down at the hand clutching her arm before she answered.” Forgive me, Karl,” she said, forcing a smile. “I guess I just get carried away sometimes, don’t I?”
“I did not know this oily Italian in the baggy uniform was your type, Elsa.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Karl,” she replied, still smiling. “It’s just that DiMaggio’s a great ballplayer, last year’s league batting champion.”
Mueller studied her for a moment. “A great ballplayer,” he repeated finally. “You know, I have read that this DiMaggio does not use olive oil in his hair like so many of his brothers, but that he is shiftless and lazy, like Joe Louis, the Negro boxer.”
The German began to chuckle at his own remark, but Elsa said nothing. No longer smiling, she was watching intently as the Yankee centerfielder quickly grounded into a doubleplay that ended the inning.
Now groans could be heard in the stands. Disappointed by their hero's performance, the boys from the orphanage slid down in their seats. Nearby, Mueller snickered and then noted with annoyance that, while Elsa had become more subdued, her eyes still lingered on DiMaggio as he slowly trotted back to the dugout.
Up in the press box, Percy was ecstatic. “I say, well done!” he exclaimed, making no secret of his allegiance to the National League, and he watched with distaste as Bobo Newsom of the Detroit Tigers came in to pitch for the American League in the bottom of the third inning. As usual, Bobo was waving to his admirers, strutting across the field like a matador about to enter the bullring, and a reporter standing next to Percy explained that the Tiger pitcher was struggling still to lose weight.
“Lose weight?” Percy responded with a hearty laugh, always delighted to have an audience. “The blubbery and boastful Newsom is but a mere pygmy compared to some of the fellows I’ve seen swaddled in major league flannels. Why, there was the Giants’ Shanty Hogan, who brought his mother to cook for him in spring training. Ah, yes, and even now there is another Giant, Jumbo Brown, a gargantuan right hander, who tips the scales at close to 300 pounds....”
But soon he stopped his rambling monologue, for as always he was watching Elsa. She had removed the straw sun bonnet she had been wearing, and he lapsed into silence, struck once again by her beauty, and wondering how he had gotten into this strange, complicated situation, so different from the days when he had roamed the press box with nothing more important to consider than his next deadline.
What a surprising turn his life had taken, Percy noted to himself, thinking back now to how it all had begun on an evening just before Christmas, at Bleeck's, a favorite bar and hangout for him since the days he had worked next door at the New York Herald Tribune. There, seated at the long bar in the front room, he had been introduced to Nigel Dunderdale by a mutual friend from the Tribune, an assistant editor, who had, in fact, arranged this meeting at the SIS agent's request, presenting Nigel as merely “a melancholy Englishman from the British Passport Control Office, far from home during the holiday season.”
The Tribune editor quickly had excused himself, leaving Percy with his despondent fellow countryman. Undaunted, he had immediately taken pity on this short, trim, middle-aged man, who spoke with a polished Public School accent and seemed to him to be little more than a lonely but genial minor official, mild-mannered and slightly myopic, with an unusual interest in American sports and a commendable appreciation of rye whiskey. In an atmosphere of holiday cheer, they had spent an hour drinking at the bar before moving to a paneled booth in the back room. And when they finally stumbled out at closing, Nigel had insisted on setting a date after the holidays for Percy to come down to his office for lunch and “a more serious chat.”
And what a performance that first encounter had been, Percy thought now, recalling the change in Nigel's character when they met again in early January at the British Passport Control Office. Nigel had greeted him warmly, and his polished veneer of bonhomie and clubby pomposity remained, but his interest in sports was forgotten, and as soon as he sat down in front of Nigel’s desk, the SIS operative had begun a precise account of Percy's life before and after his arrival in the United States, revealing himself not to be the bumbling bureaucrat Percy had imagined.
“Percy, we’ve had our little social chit-chat, ” Nigel said at the start. “It’s time now to get down to business because I have a very important job to offer you, a job for which you seem to be eminently qualified.”
“A job?” Percy responded. “Qualified? What do you mean?”
“It’s quite simple, really,” Nigel began. “You see, we know all about you and your many years here, in the United States, as a resident alien. Yes, we have studied your personal life and career, going back as far as your Hertford College days at Oxford and the start of your work over here as a fledgling foreign correspondent for the London Daily Mail. We know about your jump to a New York City paper, as well, and your work as a reporter ‘chasing cops and robbers,’ as they say over here, before you went back to England to serve as an officer in the world war. Of course, we also know about your decoration for valor. An M.C., no less. Imagine that. Quite modest you’ve been about it all, I must say, old chap. Yes, indeed, and it makes me wonder why you ever came back here to become a turf reporter, of all things, before moving on to the New York Herald Tribune where you managed to win a series of journalistic honors for your efforts reporting on various aspects of American sporting life -- racing, boxing, and, of course, baseball, what they insist on calling their ‘national pastime.’”
“I won a Pulitzer.” Percy could not help but offer, although he was not sure where this was leading.
“Quite,” Nigel replied. “But there’s no denying that your career has been a bit on the decline for the last five years since you were asked to leave the Tribune.”
Already troubled by Nigel’s tone, Percy was stung by this.
“Oh, yes” Nigel went on. “We understand your personal loss, old boy, and how something like that can throw a man. We know about your occasional liaisons since then, too. Yes, women. We can’t live with them. We can’t live without them.”
Now Percy was angry, but he remained silent while Nigel chuckled to himself and then continued. “Of course, we know of your more recent journalistic efforts, too, infrequent as they have been.”
Percy had heard enough. “Dammit! This is all uncalled for,” he said, rising to his feet. “I don’t know what you want, or why you insist on probing into my work and my private life. I will not deign to respond to your comments about my personal relationships. But before I go, let me set the record straight for you as to my career and clarify that I am now honorably engaged in what is called ‘free-lance journalism.’ I am writing a book about the sporting scene, a memoir of my many years as a sports reporter, and I continue to sell feature stories to such national publications as Collier's and The Saturday Evening Post. In addition, I still carry press credentials from a magazine here in New York, The American Sportsman, for which I write a regular monthly column.”
“Yes, yes, old boy, ” Nigel responded, as Percy headed for the door. “Sorry to touch on such a sensitive point. We understand, and the point is that while you’ve had your ups and downs in your career, you’re still a common sight at most major sporting events in this country, like the American flag. Yes, you show up and no one questions your presence. And you do a fair amount of traveling, too, which makes you perfectly suited to serve as an agent for British Intelligence.”