"Frankly, the court rules against." Bob Crandall lifted an orator's forefinger. "Just for the hell of it, my wench, I'd almost welcome sinister doings and bodies falling out of walls, like the plays I enjoyed so much as a boy in the nineteen-twenties. But I didn't believe 'em then; I don't believe this now. It's all bunk, Madge! Let's talk about the young lady from Jersey City, shall we?"
"I'm willing," said Madge.
"I'm not," said Camilla, "though at any other time I'd be glad to. Whether you believe it or not, Mr. Crandall, there's a perfectly horrible situation working up. What if something else happens?"
"Forget it, Camilla! And I'm afraid, Madge, you've missed the whole point about Jersey City's pride and joy. I was just going on to explain this point when Hank shut me up.
"In evaluating her case," proclaimed Bob Crandall, as though writing an editorial, "we must remember three facts: that it happened ten years ago, in 1955; that she was only twenty-two when she landed in the sneezer; and that in most states the maximum sentence for bigamy is seven years.
"She probably got time off for good behavior; she'd have had few opportunities for her favorite sport in a women's prison. But even if the judge threw the book at her, even if she didn't get one day off her sentence, she'd have been released no later than 1962—still under thirty, ready for more and raring to go.
"What's happened to her since then, Madge? Where is she now, and how many husbands has she accumulated? That's the whole point, my girl; I could have dwelt on it with wit and eloquence. But Hank's suspicious of every word I utter; and, as you say, the son-of-a-bitch shut me up."
"Who's a son-of-a-bitch, Bob?" demanded a loud voice. They all turned.
Into the library—into it, at least, as far as the little wooden platform with the steps leading down—had marched two young men of about the same age, height, and weight. Both wore slacks and open-neck sports shirts. There all similarity ended.
The first newcomer, though not ill-looking, had a jaw so large that the rest of his features seemed small and squeezed-up. He was not a bad sort, Alan thought, though he might do his best to seem the opposite. His right hand juggled a regulation baseball, throwing it up and catching it. From his left wrist by their straps hung a fielder's glove, a catcher's mitt, and a catcher's mask. The dark-haired young man behind him carried a bat.
With clacking footfalls the first newcomer descended and strode towards them, shoulders at a challenging angle.
"Old Bob Crandall, the People's Oracle!" he said. "Old Bob Crandall, the Watchman of Goliath! Who's a son-of-a-bitch, Bob?"
"You are, Rip; didn't you know it? Rip Hillboro, meet Alan Grantham."
"Grantham? Grantham? Hi, Grantham! You must be the right-wing diehard Camilla's been telling us about, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll get along just dandy with Bob. Youll get along still better with Stonewall Jackson here." Rip jerked a thumb towards his loose-limbed companion, who had followed. "He's been wanting to call me a son-of-abitch for almost two weeks. Come on, Stonewall; let's be natural for once. Why not call me a son-of-a-bitch and get it off your chest?"
"I haven't called you anything yet, son, though I may be workin' around to it."
"And do you take my bet, Stonewall? (Alan Grantham, Yancey Beale.) Five gets you ten I can strike you out with—no, not three pitches, but before the umpire can call a fourth ball. I'm not Sandy Koufax, maybe. But I'm good; I know I'm good, so why deny it?"
"You'll never deny it, son," said Yancey Beale, "as long as there's a horn to be tooted. Forget the five-ten; I'll take it for twenty at even money. Mr. Grantham, I'm at your service. Madge honey, how are you?"
"Look!" exclaimed Rip, working himself up. "Somebody's been acting suspiciously, and somebody's a son-of-a-bitch. That's what Bob said, and I want to know—"
"Oh, Rip!" Madge burst out. "Must you use such language? It's all right for Mr. Crandall; he's a privileged character. But it doesn't come so well from a young lawyer with his whole career ahead of him." She broke off. "And you, Yancey!"
"What's that, honeychile?"
"I'm not made of stained glass, you know! But it seems every man in the South just looks down at me and tells me not to trouble my pretty little haid."
"Have you met every man in the South, honey?"
Again Rip yelled for silence.
"Look!" he repeated. "We've got ourselves a bet here, with Stonewall Jackson taking me on for twenty bucks. The trouble is, there's no catcher. What about it, Bob? You're in pretty fair physical shape, we've got to admit . . ."
"That's been demonstrated, hasn't it?" Mr. Crandall was definite. "On Tuesday afternoon, when you and Beale were both trying to impress your little blonde by arguing which of you could climb the side of the house by holding to projections in the brickwork . . ."
"I know!" snapped Rip. "You showed us; you just walked out and climbed the damn house without saying another word. All right; you can catch for us, can't you? Why not get behind the plate and stop 'em?"
"No, thanks, Bull of Bashan. Having demonstrated my fitness by one fool stunt already, I'll leave baseball to those of fewer years and less dignity. But don't count me out either. If you can find a catcher anywhere, I'll be glad to get behind the plate as umpire."
"And I," said Alan, "will do the catching with pleasure."
"You!" cried Camilla. "I never knew you concerned yourself with baseball, Alan. At Oxford I thought you played cricket."
"It was Cambridge, Camilla, and I did have a try at cricket. But my first and only sports-love has always been baseball. I was no great shakes as a catcher, admittedly. And yet how I enjoyed it!"
"Is that so, now?" Bob Crandall asked with interest. "As one who's tried both, where do you stand in the vexed argument of baseball versus cricket?"
"There's no real argument at all. I maintain, rightly or wrongly, that each side would fail at the other's game because each side would have to unlearn its own basic principles. The first rule in baseball is to let the bad ones go by; in cricket it's to let nothing go by. The baseball player on a cricket-pitch would be bowled in about two minutes. The cricketer who says hitting a baseball's as simple as hitting a full-toss would be fanned by any pitcher with a fast one and a good curve."
"Look!" Rip shouted. "Can't you people stick to one subject, any subject at all, for two consecutive minutes? About this question of somebody acting suspiciously, / was going to say a word. But I won't; it can wait; we've got other business. If you'll do the catching, Grantham, that's swell and thanks a lot. I've got a glove and a mask here, as you see, and there's another mask in the cellar for the umpire. But there's no chest-protector or leg-guards."
"I don't want any of that apparatus, thanks. Just a mask to keep off foul tips. If the umpire wants a mask . . ."
"Not this umpire, old socks," said Mr. Crandall. "Any foul tip will flatten the catcher before it bothers me. All right! If everybody's ready, what are we waiting for?"
With powerful gallantry Yancey addressed Madge and Camilla.
"You ladies like to go along, maybe? Or would you rather—?"
"Sit here and tend to our knitting?" flashed Madge. "There you go again, Yancey, treating us like figures in a stained-glass window! Well go with you, of course. Where do you mean to try all this?"
"The drive in front of the house," Rip answered before Yancey could speak, "will do well enough. I get it, Madge! You want to see me fan Stonewall and win his twenty bucks. I've got a fast one he won't like. But the Oracle of Goliath is absolutely right: what are we waiting for?"
And he strode out, with the other five trooping after him. From a table in the hall Yancey caught up a silver tray to serve as home plate. They emerged under the portico with the four tall pillars, and down the front steps into cool light.
The sanded walk or drive was still soaked from the rain, but it offered firm enough footing. Alan's car stood well to the left where he had parked it, its top now closed. The front garden on the right glowed re
d and purple with azaleas. Bob Crandall took a refreshed survey of their surroundings.
"You're all crazy, and I'm as bad as anybody," he said, "though you might be a good deal crazier still. At least you had sense enough not to try roping Hank into this. He's a fisherman, I know. But asking Hank Maynard to play baseball would be like asking Robert Browning to compose limericks for an Elks social. Just thank your stars he's otherwise occupied!"
"Will he stay occupied, I wonder?" asked Camilla. Her voice rose. "Yancey, where are you putting home plate?"
With the others trailing, Yancey had shambled away almost fifty yards towards the front gates. He stopped at a point just before magnolias rose at either side of the path. He put down the silver tray on the sand and stood to the right of it, slowly swinging his bat.
"There! How's that?" "Facing the house?"
"Sure, facing the house! Who wants to chase a lost ball in those woods the other side of the lane? That's Charleston College's research station, fence and all. Land a ball in there, Camilla, it'd take a police posse to get it back again."
"But—facing the house? What if you break a window?"
Yancey replied by addressing Madge.
"If I bust a window, honey, I'll replace it with stained glass of the kind you were talkin' about. And an image of you in the window, like the angel you never were. How's that?"
Madge said nothing. Rip, putting down catcher's mitt and mask beside Alan, drew the fielder's glove on his left hand and paced off the distance to an imaginary pitcher's box.
"There'll be no windows broken, Madge! He won't get a sniff of the ball, he won't even see it, with Old Smoke Hillboro on the mound for the Yankees. What's the good word, Stonewall? Like to cover a little side-bet?"
"I'll cover any damn bet you want to make! But I'm gettin' God-damn sick and tired of—"
"Easy, you two!" yelled the umpire. "If you've got to fight the Civil War all over again, for Pete's sake do it on your own time!"
Out from the house, opening the white-painted screen door and letting it slam, came Dr. Gideon Fell. Hatless, in his black alpaca suit and leaning on the crutch-headed stick, he lumbered down the steps and blinked his way towards them. It was unnecessary to introduce Dr. Fell; everybody knew who he was, and accepted him from the start. Yet his presence, if anything, added to a tension that already existed.
"Alan," said Camilla, "what are you doing?"
"Only taking off my coat. Forgive the suspenders."
"That's a Savile Row suit, isn't it? Don't they make English suits for belts?"
"Yes, of course, but this particular tailor won't make 'em."
"What are you doing with the coat?" "Putting it down over here, that's all. I can't—" "On that wet grass? Don't be silly! Here, give it to me and I'll hold it for you."
"Thanks."
Leaving the mask where it was, Alan pulled the big glove on his left hand and moved behind the improvised plate.
"I can't give you signals," he called to Rip, "because I don't know what you throw. Like to warm up?"
"Look, Grantham, I'm always warmed up! However! Just to show 'em this damnyankee knows his stuff, I'll give you one strike and warm the plate. Stand back for a second, Stonewall! Ready, Grantham?"
"Fire away."
There was no elaborate wind-up, as Alan had expected. Rip's motions were very easy. Weight on the left foot, ball cradled close, he flung forward and uncorked his fast one.
It was a fast one. The ball blistered across the plate and whacked into the glove six inches above waist height. Alan, who had not touched a baseball in years, almost fumbled it. But you don't forget, he was thinking, any more than you forget how to ride a bicycle. He threw back to the pitcher. Picking up the mask, he adjusted its elastic over his head and crouched behind the plate.
"All right!" proclaimed the umpire. "Now will you guys quit stalling and get with it? Play ball!"
What sun remained was well behind Maynard Hall; they had no trouble with the light. Dr. Fell withdrew to the right of the path, the two girls to the left. Yancey advanced negligently, bat waggling.
"If he does break a window—!" Madge burst out.
"He won't, Madge; didn't I tell you?"
"I hope my father doesn't see it happen! I hope—"
"Play ball!"
Down came the pitch, a whistling duplicate of the first Yancey's bat did not move. The umpire's arm did. "Str-rike one!"
"Like it, Stonewall?" carolled Rip. "Just because you were a hot-shot hitter at some parvenu school like William and Mary . . . !"
"Parvenu school, for God's sake?" echoed a hollow voice. "Parvenu school, burn my britches to a cinder! Son, they were learnin' their letters at William and Mary a hundred years before your damn place was hacked out of the wilderness it ought to have stayed in. I’m tellin' you—"
"I'm not telling you, Stonewall; I'm just showing you. See?"
Down it came: very fast, but high and inside. Alan did fumble this one; the mask seemed to provide a more restricted view than he remembered, and his own throw back was so high Rip had to jump for it. The next pitch, a slow curve with a wide break outwards, was also called a ball.
"What's the matter, Stonewall? Won't try for anything, eh? Bat stuck to your shoulder, or what?"
"Put it here, son! Just put it here!"
This time indulging in an embryonic wind-up, Rip fired with every ounce of weight—a pitch so debatable, a little high and inside but perhaps below the shoulder, that Alan himself would hardly have known what to call it
"Ball—three!"
Rip straightened up on receiving the throw, his face not pleasant.
"How's your eyesight, umpire? Wouldn't it be better to get some pencils and a tin cup?"
"Want me to slap a fine on you?" howled the irate umpire, doing a little dance behind Alan. "Now shut your God-damn mouth and play ball!"
"I'll do that, Bob. We'll get you a seeing-eye dog when this is over. Meanwhile, though . . ."
By the look on the pitcher's face Alan guessed what it would be: Rip's fast one again, dead in the groove. The ball thudded into the glove exactly where he was holding his hands.
"Strike—two!"
Rip's spirits bubbled up.
"See that, Madge? I thought I could get him with my fast one again, and I was right. He won't swing at anything; he's too afraid of missing! Now what shall we feed him for the third strike? Something different, maybe?" Rip settled the weight on his left foot. "Always keep 'em guessing, that's the thing. Always . . ."
"Camilla," Madge burst out, "I don't like this!"
"It's all right, dear. There's nothing wrong."
"There is something wrong! I know! I can—"
Crack!
Yancey had stepped into the fast one and swung.
"Jesus H. Christ!" whispered the umpire.
In actual play it would have been a line drive over second base, too high to be speared or knocked down. The ball, a white streak like unwinding yarn, whistled straight between the two inner columns of the portico just as Henry Maynard, a book in his left hand, pushed open the screen door and emerged in its path.
It could not have hit him—it was far too high—but he would scarcely have known that. He dropped flat on his face, not at all a ludicrous spectacle to those who watched. The ball whacked against brick a foot or two above the front door, and rebounded out into the drive, where Rip Hillboro danced to field it. Henry Maynard picked himself up, briefly brushed at his knees, gave them all one look from a distance, and with much dignity went back into the house.
Rip hastened to join the others, pushing the ball into his hip pocket.
"That's the end of the exercise, I think. If we don't want thunders from Sinai, we'd better knock it off here and now. You know, Stonewall, maybe it's a good thing you and I are both leaving tomorrow."
"Yes, son, I guess it is too."
"Look, Stonewall, here's your dough: a ten and two fives. You made a fool of me, all right; I don't like it one bit. B
ut you smacked that last one fair and square; you made a fool of me with all my talk, and I admit it! Here's the dough."
"Well . . . now!" said Yancey Beale. "I didn't much want your money, son. Up to this minute I meant to tell you just where you could shove it. Still! If you're bein' a good sport, that's different. Reckon I said things I oughtn't to have said, and maybe that clout was mostly fluke. Shake hands?"
"Sure; why not? We can be civilized again, can't we?"
Rip and Yancey, together with Dr. Fell, Bob Crandall, and Madge too, moved towards the house. Alan removed mask and glove and approached Camilla, who stood motionless with his coat over her arm.
"Alan—!"
"Yes?"
Camilla's face had grown rather flushed, and there was an odd look about her eyes. For an instant she seemed quite literally to sway towards him. Then the impression was gone, a burst bubble or an illusion.
"What a lot of children!" she said. "You know, Alan, it's really too bad about the hit that. . . that . . ."
"That almost beaned Madge's old man?"
"Yes. When Yancey hit that ball, I was looking at Dr. Fell's face and at Bob Crandall's too."
"What about it?"
"They were both hoping he would break a window." Camilla made a gesture of despair. "Oh, God save us! Men!"
In silence Camilla and Alan followed the little procession up the steps, across the porch, and into the main hall. Putting down mask and glove on the table, where Rip had put his own glove and Yancey the bat, Alan took his coat from Camilla. There was no sign of Henry Maynard, for which he felt profoundly grateful.
"Honeychile," Yancey exclaimed to Madge, "where's your daddy?"
"If you ask me, he's up in his study doing a little sulking. Yancey, wait! Where are you going?"
"That salver thing we were using for home plate: I left it out in the sand! And he's as mad as a hornet already! I'll just—"
Dark of the moon - Dr. Gideon Fell 22 Page 8
