The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Read online

  As I sat there with these faded remnants of the past laying before me, I could not resist indulging in more speculation. Why hadn’t Stedman turned pro? The third-place prize money from the Metropolitan had to be tempting. If indeed he wrote the note to Jones, Stedman was not educated to the degree one would expect for an amateur golfer of his day. Thus, I concluded (without any real justification) that Jones somehow had become Stedman’s patron.

  If so, the arrangement did not last long.

  Several pages deeper into the file, I came across a chilling news clipping. The headline read: “Manager’s Wife Murdered at Hilton Head Club.” Beneath it in smaller print: “Transient Golf Pro Prime Suspect.” That “prime suspect” was none other than Beauregard Stedman. The article, dated January 27, 1930, described how Harold Gladstone, the manager of Crimson Bank’s Golf Club, had found his wife’s bloodstained body in their residence at the club. The clipping described in graphic detail how she had been stabbed 47 times, although it didn’t say who had the unhappy duty of counting the wounds. The distraught husband accused Stedman, who was said to have worked at the club as an assistant pro, of the murder.

  From what I gathered, the title “assistant pro” in those days was a euphemism that really meant someone who was a combination caddy master, janitor, club repairer, locker room attendant, and golf course superintendent. At least that’s what one of the books I filched from Cheatwood’s portable library indicated.

  The “assistant pro” was just that—an assistant to the pro. He was generally taken from the ranks of the caddies, and no additional training was required for the job. It was a better job than others at the club only because there were more opportunities for tips and some of the work was indoors.

  In the winter months, an assistant pro repaired equipment, cleaned gutters, and did whatever else needed to be done to get the club and course ready for the next season. Stedman apparently had signed on to earn some travel money during the winter break for the following year. Those in charge of administering the rules of amateur status probably would have overlooked Stedman’s title given the nature of his duties, but it was nonetheless ironic that, in addition to being accused of murder, Stedman was coincidentally described as being a professional—less than a year after declining to accept prize money from the Metropolitan Open.

  Aside from confirming that Stedman was not of the privileged class, the report showed that, if Jones had indeed become Stedman’s sponsor, he had made a big mistake. Stedman was apparently a killer.

  4

  I REALLY DIDN’T EXPECT to find anything more about Beau Stedman among Jones’s papers. The sobering headline about Mrs. Gladstone’s murder had put a quick end to my speculation. So much for theories about connections between Jones and Stedman. Jones would never have gotten close to someone capable of murder.

  No, I decided, there was nothing more to this than Jones encouraging a talented young player, who in turn was predictably impressed by the attentions of the world’s greatest player. Stedman’s note with a couple of news clippings was simply an attempt to maintain the connection. Obviously, I reasoned, this casual relationship, which was limited to the golf course, ended when Stedman was exposed as a murderer.

  All of this served to remind me that reconstructing history from limited information was tricky business.

  Cheatwood agreed. “Charley, you’re like those guys who find a few dinosaur bones and try to figure out what the whole animal looked like. You have to be real careful. I guess that’s why they recently killed off the brontosaurus, which was my favorite dinosaur as a kid.”

  He laughed at his own reminiscence. “Everybody else always chose Tyrannosaurus Rex. I suppose I had to be different by choosing a gangly, slow-moving plant-eater.”

  I still didn’t catch on to what he was saying. “What do you mean they killed it off?”

  “Turns out it was just a theory based on insufficient evidence; they had put the skull of one dinosaur on the body of another.”

  “So Stedman was my brontosaurus, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  I comforted myself with the hope that one door closing meant another one would soon open. So I went back to reading Jones’s papers to see what other stories they might disclose. Even without Stedman, any details about Jones’s life made for good reading.

  It wasn’t long before I came across another clipping. This one was apparently a sequel to the original story about Mrs. Gladstone’s murder. According to this article, Stedman had disappeared at the time of the murder. No one knew where he was. The police were quoted as saying that they had no leads concerning his whereabouts.

  Right behind that clipping was another note that had been sent to Jones. It was written in the same hand as the earlier one.

  You know I wooden do nothin so bad, the note read. But what chance have I got? They say I will get the chare. I don’t want to die for sumthin I did not do.

  Then I saw other notes in a more familiar handwriting that matched the writing in other files. In his distinctive hand, Jones had scribbled, GR 653. 9:00.

  What was this, I wondered. The first number could have been anything, from a license plate number to a county road designation. The second number most likely indicated the time of nine o’clock. Was this a note to meet someone at a particular place and time?

  It occurred to me that the note may not have anything to do with the other file contents. It was just a scrap of paper. Perhaps it found its way into the file by accident.

  Then it dawned on me that the most likely meaning of the cryptic abbreviation written in Jones’s hand was a telephone number and, apparently, a time to call it. Back then, numbers reached only five digits, with the first two representing the initial letters of the exchange.

  But that meant that Jones may have been talking with an escaped murderer. What on earth, I wondered, would motivate him to do such a thing?

  I read on. There was another note, again in Jones’s hand, that simply said, Harrisburg. Merkel Farms. Ask for Ben Davis. If this was related to Stedman at all, perhaps it was a witness who could help him. Or a new employer. It could even be an alias. There was no way of knowing.

  I came across still another note. It had the same handwriting and fractured spelling as the previous ones I had attributed to Stedman. It was also just as cryptic:

  Played the Northeast Amateur. Shot 68, 75 (got nervus). Used Ben Davis. After maches started, a man asked questuns. So I left.

  So that was it. Stedman was still trying to play by using an alias. Perhaps it was borrowed from a real person by that name in Harrisburg.

  At lunch that day, I told Cheatwood that I was back to dinosaur hunting and shared my new findings with him.

  “It seems kind of stupid to me,” I told my fellow clerk-cum-golf reference. “How could he expect to get away with that?”

  Cheatwood laughed. “Until a few years ago, you could walk through airport security and board any airplane you wanted without anyone even checking your ticket. You could buy an airline ticket in any name you wanted. No one checked to see if you were the person whose name was on the ticket. You think amateur golf tournaments 50 years ago had better security than airports?”

  “So it really wasn’t a dumb idea,” I conceded.

  “Unless someone knew him, he could pull it off. I don’t know why he stayed in the East, though. I’d have lit out for other parts of the country. Maybe California. Plenty of golf tournaments there.”

  I laughed. “Doesn’t sound like you trust the criminal justice system, either.”

  “You know what kind of lawyer a poor schmuck like Stedman would get? Some public defender. Overworked and underpaid. No thanks. Back then, you didn’t need a witness protection program in order to disappear and start a new life.”

  I had to admit that Cheatwood made sense. This was before Social Security, television, or the Internet. There was no Big Brother. As I returned from lunch to the cell we now called the “Jones Room,” I pondered these questio
ns without finding an answer. I could only hope that the answers were ahead of me in one of the unopened files.

  Then it hit me. Jones was a lawyer. Why couldn’t he represent Stedman? While criminal law wasn’t his specialty, a lawyer of Jones’s caliber with no experience in criminal law was better than some beleaguered and barely competent sap experienced only in failure. Besides, the effect of having one of the most recognizable sports figures in the world walk into a courtroom as your lawyer had to be electrifying.

  Indulging in that fantasy only prompted more questions. Criminal lawyers are inevitably sullied by their clients. Why would Jones want to link himself in such a public way with a murderer? I felt foolish for even thinking that a man of his stature would risk such controversy. It would have been totally contrary to his image.

  Then I saw a file with the label “People v. Stedman.” Inside was a series of letters between Jones and Henry

  Montgomery, the District Attorney for Bankens County, South Carolina.

  So Jones had become involved after all. Reading through the letters, his reasons for doing so became clear.

  The first letter was dated February 3, 1930.

  Dear Mr. Montgomery, Jones wrote. I have learned of an unfortunate event occurring in your jurisdiction in which a young man named Beauregard Stedman is suspected of being involved in foul play leading to the death of a Mrs. Gladstone.

  I have known Mr. Stedman for many years, as he was a caddy at East Lake Country Club here in Atlanta where I played most of my golf. Though I do not have personal knowledge of the facts, I feel reasonably certain that Beau is incapable of murder. I understand that he cannot be located. He is no doubt frightened. If he happens to contact me, I will encourage him to meet with the authorities to clear this up. In the meantime, have you developed any evidence that would reveal the real culprit?

  Montgomery’s reply came a week later. Dear Mr. Jones, it began. Thank you for your inquiry into the Gladstone murder. Mr. Stedman is indeed fortunate to have such a prominent reference as you. Will you be representing him?

  It was Montgomery’s way of saying, okay, I’m impressed. But I’ve got a murder on my hands, and I want to find this guy. By asking Jones if he would be representing Stedman, Montgomery was trying to place him in a box. As an officer of the court, Jones might become obligated to surrender his client to the authorities.

  Jones obviously understood the delicacy of his situation. In a letter dated February 20, 1930, he advised Montgomery that I have not been retained on behalf of Mr. Stedman. I would imagine, however, that his reluctance to surrender to authorities might be overcome if he were persuaded that the investigation into the crime had proceeded beyond the bare accusation of the victim’s husband, who did not witness the crime.

  Has Mr. Gladstone been eliminated as a suspect? If so, on what basis? Did he or the late Mrs. Gladstone have romantic interests outside their marriage? As you are no doubt aware, there are numerous questions that inevitably arise in a case like this, and I have seen nothing in the newspapers to answer these questions after Mr. Gladstone’s well-publicized accusation of Mr. Stedman

  Montgomery saw right through the polite language to the real message. What Jones really wanted to know was whether he was doing his job. A scared teenager with a poor background was a tempting—and easy—target. Instead of a laborious investigation with potentially endless rabbit trails, it would be much easier (as well as politically expedient) to coerce a bogus confession out of someone as hapless as Stedman.

  Montgomery’s next letter was more direct.

  My friends in Atlanta tell me that you are as fine a lawyer as you are a golfer. They are unaware, however, of your ever handling a single criminal case. Perhaps that is the reason you asked questions that someone more experienced in these matters would consider impertinent.

  I am not a champion golfer. I would never presume to give you advice on how to play the game. Kindly extend me the same courtesy.

  That’s where the paper trail ended. It left me rather unsatisfied. I wondered whether Jones knew where Stedman was. What kind of communication had taken place between them? Something had to have transpired. It just didn’t seem likely that Jones would have taken it upon himself to intercede on Stedman’s behalf.

  At least I had learned about the origins of Jones’s relationship with Stedman. East Lake was the place where Jones learned to play golf as a child. The pro there was a Scotsman named Stewart Maiden. He is generally credited with having taught the game to Jones, and he remained Jones’s only real teacher throughout his life.

  Back in the days before golf carts, virtually every golf course had caddies. This was especially true of country clubs. East Lake would have been no different.

  I knew a little about East Lake. For many years it had been one of the finest clubs in Georgia. However, the neighborhood around it began to decline and, with it, so did the club’s fortunes. In recent years, however, East Lake had been rejuvenated by a developer who spent millions on the club as well as the surrounding neighborhood. The clubhouse had been restored to its former grandeur, and its walls were covered with pictures of Jones.

  The course had been magnificently restored as well, and major golfing events, including the PGA Tour’s season-ending Tour Championship, soon returned to its fairways. East Lake became one of Atlanta’s great success stories, one of those rare instances in which an urban renewal project had actually succeeded, no doubt in large part because it had been funded and managed by the private sector.

  So Stedman had been a caddy at East Lake. That made sense. I imagined that Jones must have taken a liking to him and, when he showed a talent for the game, encouraged him along.

  Still, Jones wouldn’t have harbored a fugitive. That would have been unethical. Looking deeper in the file, I found scraps of paper with telephone numbers and names. Was this evidence of communication with Stedman? Were these other aliases? Or were they witnesses that Jones believed might clear Stedman’s name?

  That’s when I found the letter.

  5

  IT WAS A REMARKABLE document, a carbon copy of an undated letter written in Jones’s own hand to his friend Beau Stedman. For reasons that soon became clear, Jones apparently preferred not to dictate the letter to a secretary for typing, and he wanted no address on the letter if it was discovered. However, he obviously did want some record of this communication with his troubled young friend.

  My dear Beauregard, Jones wrote. As a lawyer, I cannot encourage anyone to evade authorities who are investigating a crime. I had hoped, from my contact with the District Attorney in South Carolina, to obtain evidence that would persuade you to return there and help clear this matter up. However, I must admit that I was not pleased by his response. I am not your attorney; if I were, certain obligations might require me to disclose your location. Even now, it would relieve me to know that, upon receiving this letter, you found a new place to stay. It is something of a burden for me to know where you are.

  Jones was clearly wrestling with his professional obligations and felt a need to explain his thinking on paper.

  He continued:

  However, I am your friend as well as a lawyer. I cannot in good conscience tell you to surrender when I see no real interest among the authorities in finding who is really responsible for the terrible thing that was done. I know that you could not have done this, but it appears that it is more convenient to blame you than to discover the truth.

  I know that you love the game as I do. As I told you many times, your talent for it is evident. Until this unfortunate mess, I expected to find your name on many of the same trophies that bear mine. It pains me to think that such a great thing does not appear possible under the present circumstances.

  I cannot pretend to know the despair you must feel. I have never known a golfer who seemed so certain of his destiny. You have talked of nothing but championships since you were quite young. Now you cannot risk the exposure that pursuing championships will bring. I hope and pray t
hat your passion for excellence can be redirected to other pursuits that give you some solace.

  It was signed, As ever, Bob.

  I put Jones’s letter down and sat still for a long time. I tried to imagine how Beau Stedman must have felt when he read it. He was being cheated out of a place in golf history, and Jones was telling him to give it up.

  It was, by any standard, a terrible injustice. I thought about what I would have done if I had been Stedman. My immediate reaction, I knew, would have been to reject Jones’s advice. But then what? No alternatives came readily to mind.

  Pursuing golf was out of the question with a murder charge pending. And the only way for Stedman to be cleared under the circumstances was to do it himself. Given the authorities’ apparent desire for a scapegoat, that meant identifying the real killer with proof that could not be challenged.

  However, it was apparent that someone in Stedman’s circumstances simply wasn’t able to discover and gather that kind of proof. Any effort on his part to investigate the crime would almost certainly attract attention, which would serve only to get him arrested. Once Stedman was behind bars, the focus of the entire system would be to convict him of the crime, and even token efforts to consider other suspects would end.

  After conceding the futility of poor Stedman’s situation, I finally returned to the papers in the file. When I did, I found his reply to Jones’s discouraging letter.

  Dear Mr. Jones,

  Thank you for your letter. I have moved so don’t worry. Your a good frend. I will win my champinships. Yes I will. Wate and see.