by Brad Latham
There were more problems. Molly found a second policy in the back of the folder. Beneficiary of this one was Lorenzo Jones’ widow, Cynthia Jones. She was to receive $10,000 upon his demise. Add that to the $25,000 Transatlantic would have to pay Cyrus Wade and you got $35,000. Lockwood whistled to himself. Big bucks. He’d better get on it.
Lockwood didn’t follow the Giants the way he did the Yanks and the Dodgers. What a town! Three top teams. First, he would go out to the Polo Grounds and snoop around. Maybe he could wrangle season tickets out of this deal. Yeah, maybe this case would be a piece of cake.
Still, he didn’t like the taste of this cake. Jones, according to the company reports and news clips, was killed when his biplane crashed in Queens. Not much left of the body or the aircraft. That wouldn’t help.
Also, this Wade fellow was no punk. He was quite a wealthy man, which meant he would be hard to put the screws on.
There was only a brief description of Cynthia Jones in the file. “Apparently a drunk,” nothing more. But Lockwood had his own sources. He wanted to know more about who he was dealing with.
His secretary, pert as a sparrow, nineteen, and five-two, put down the folders. Her freckles stared at him. She smiled her Irish best. Hook saw she packed a dynamite little body in that little green dress. He remembered Lois Archer, and wondered what Molly would look like in Lois’ Artists Ball costume. He wondered what she would think of the idea.
True, she was too young for Lockwood’s taste, which was why Gray had approved her to replace old Prune Face when the old buzzard had retired. But Lockwood had found another use for the cute little redhead.
“How about one of those wonderful back rubs, dear?”
Molly had a crush on Hook in her shy way. She looked at him with admiration and hero worship rather than smoldering sensuality. She even came in to work early most days to lay out his paperwork and dust a bit. Nice girl, but Hook went for women not girls.
Still, she was a hell of a back massager.
When she was done, he got his snap-brim hat, adjusted it in the mirror, pecked Molly on the cheek, and set out for the Polo Grounds.
He took along his .38 Detective Special for company. Its slight bulge at his waist in its spring holster felt reassuring.
Jesus, you never knew.
CHAPTER
3
Lockwood got his prize possession, his ‘37 Cord, equipped with police-band radio as well as a push-button Motorola, out of the Radio City Garage. He tipped Hank after they had chitchatted about the fights, and then he roared down the ramp onto the blustery September streets. The Polo Grounds shouldn’t be the first stop—it could wait. He needed background.
First a stop at the Daily Mirror office of Doug Sheer. Sheer was Lockwood’s ear to the tom-toms of Manhattan. He would know more about this Jones, his widow, and Cyrus Wade than anyone. If not, he would be able to find out quickly what Hook was up against. Sheer had been in the Fighting 69th with Hook during the Great War. “Nosey” Sheer, as he was nicknamed, had a mountain of a nose in a plain of a face otherwise featureless except for a quick smile and gentle blue eyes. Nosey was around forty and wore the same rumpled, old-fashioned, single-breasted brown suit every time the insurance investigator saw him. His hair was going gray and was always tousled. Sheer did quite well at the Mirror, with a byline article in almost every issue. He had a special smell for crime stories.
Lockwood made his way up past the hundred or so slamming typewriters in the newsroom to the city desk, nodded to O’Brady, and opened the door to Sheer’s cubicle. Sheer was typing away on a big battered Royal, but stopped and looked up when he saw his old friend.
He came around the desk, greeted Hook warmly, shook his hand with both of his own, and offered Lockwood a slug of hooch from a Coca-Cola bottle. Lockwood declined. He knew from past experience that Sheer drank something akin to turpentine.
“Got a spud?” Sheer asked. Lockwood took out his Dunhill and lit the Camel he stuck between Nosey’s lips. Good old Nosey, always out of cigarettes and always hot on a scoop.
Nosey got Lockwood all the back clippings on the Giants” season and gave Lockwood the dope on Jones. Jones was the only thing that would have kept the Giants out of the bottom of the standings next year. He had come on late in the season from a bush league team called the “Texarcana Ranglers.” Wade had discovered him.
“He’s—he was—quite a pitcher. I’ll see if I can get more clippings from Sports. If you want.”
“Not necessary,” said Hook. “These are enough.”
Sitting there on a torn-up leather chair he looked at them. One had a picture of Lorenzo Jones warming up. Nice young fellow, tall, slim, twenty-two years old. Another was about his aviation skills. A quote, prophetic: “Pitching is a lot like flying. You either get it in the box, or you don’t.”
While Lockwood read, Nosey raced around, tearing open file cabinets, muttering and cursing, until he said, “Ah, here it is, society page.”
He handed Lockwood a clipping on Wade. “Class A, Number-One Rat. Evicted lots of Chinamen so he could demolish their buildings and erect a factory. This Wade guy is plush with filthy lucre.”
There was a picture of a wrecking ball going against a building downtown and sad-looking Chinese carrying bags of belongings along Mott Street in the snow. So that’s the kind of guy Wade is, Lockwood thought, a heel.
There was a small marriage announcement for Jones and Cynthia Meadows of Boston. The size of these announcements indicated the approximate worth of the families involved. From the size of the clipping in front of him, Lockwood knew this wedding hadn’t been worth much. The bride was given away by her brother. That was interesting. It didn’t say her parents were dead. A broken home? Jones must have spent some time in Boston. That probably didn’t mean much, if anything. In fact, Lockwood didn’t know whether he had learned anything useful at all here.
This was all Nosey had now, but he’d keep checking.
Burning up Harlem River Drive in his Cord, Lockwood headed for the Polo Grounds, home of the Giants and a stone’s throw away from the Yankees across the Harlem River.
His buzzer got him past the guard, and he made his way by the hot-dog stand and through the ramps to the field entrance. Everywhere he saw signs of construction. A week after the season and they were redoing the whole place. They sure keep the grass well, he thought as he caught sight of the field.
He made his way onto it by hopping the railing. Before he could get his bearings, a short, stocky man approached across the sun-splashed grass.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
The man wore the look of someone with authority. He was dressed in the pile-lined blue collarless jacket baseball players wear when they aren’t on the field and white cleats. That would make him a referee or a coach.
Lockwood had been watching a bunch of workmen ripping out old box seats and replacing them. Standing by the first-base line with the wind whipping at his hat, he pushed it down on his head, and said, “My name’s Lockwood, who are you?”
“Hanly Medelsohn, the coach. Who the hell are you?”
Lockwood flashed his buzzer.
“Oh.” That calmed him down.
Hook couldn’t help it, could he, that his badge looked a lot like a detective’s gold octagon? Medelsohn wasn’t the first guy to take him for one of New York’s Finest.
As they walked to the dugout, Medelsohn explained that Jones had been a minor-league pitcher brought in on a contract by Wade. Wade himself was a businessman who had bought a chunk of the Giants this year.
“Wade was upset that we didn’t clinch the pennant and that the Cubs took it instead. In ‘36 and ‘37 we lost the Series to the Yanks. Who can beat them? But at least we got the pennant.”
“How was Jones as a pitcher?” asked Lockwood.
Medelsohn sighed. “We started him on relief. He was good, great as a matter of fact. But we got him too late in the season. What an arm—of course, he hurt it, but not severely, in our
last game. Lucky, it wasn’t a bad injury. We looked forward to him pitching next season.”
“Hurt his arm?” They were approaching the dugout entrance which was darkened by the giant shadows cast by the bleachers.
“Yeah, he threw a fast ball in the ninth and got a bad pain. We thought he was finished. Brought him back with ice compresses. Doc Carruthers took a look. At first, he thought it was real bad, that Lorenzo couldn’t pitch next season, but they X-rayed him and found out he was okay.”
The coach pointed to a few steps to the left and led the way.
“I’ve heard of pitchers throwing out their arms but—”
“You know what it is for a pitcher to tear his cartilage? Can’t be fixed, not perfectly. Usually they’re washed up then.”
The two men went into the office. Lockwood asked to see a copy of the contract Lorenzo had with the Giants.
Medelsohn said, “I’m showing you this only because you’re a cop. It’s confidential. Real confidential.”
“What do you think of Wade?” Hook asked as the coach unlocked a file drawer.
Medelsohn had hardly ever seen him. Mystery man. But he had an odd contract with the Giants for Lorenzo. Hook read it. It was peculiar.
Wade, in essence, was paid by the Giants for Lorenzo’s services. Lorenzo had been paid out of this by Wade, minus a 50 percent fee to Wade. The small print explained that the advantage to Lorenzo was that he was guaranteed payment for five seasons, whether he pitched or not.
The coach, who seemed to like Lockwood, talked on.
“Seems Lorenzo was morbidly afraid of injury after what happened to Dizzy Dean. Dizzy was the greatest pitcher ,St. Louis ever had. Then he hurt himself. Wham, he was through.”
“Listen, Medelsohn, how was Lorenzo’s health in general? Was he depressed? Unhappy about life?”
“No. The happiest-go-lucky fellow you’d ever meet.”
Lockwood frowned. “Now, how did this contract come about?”
“The Giants wouldn’t give Lorenzo a five-year contract, so Wade made the deal with Lorenzo—for a hefty 50 percent.”
“Sounds like if Jones’ arm went bad, Wade was out a bit of change.”
“Well, you’re right there.”
Lockwood began to form a theory. “Where is the doctor who said Jones’ arm was okay?”
Medelsohn gave Hook the address and phone number. Lockwood decided that a meeting in person would be better and left.
On his way out, Hook’s eyes were arrested by a shapely woman in the deserted stands. She was standing in the’ third row, counting the “workmen who milled about and making notes on a pad.
A platinum blond. Curvy under her light blue suit. A face that could knock you over, an upturned nose, and green eyes that flashed.
“Who is that?” Hook asked one of the workmen.
“That woman? She works for Mr. Wade. His snoop.” The swarthy man went back to ripping out a seat.
Lockwood walked over to her and put on his best smile. “What are you writing?”
She watched some workmen farther up the aisle as if she didn’t hear him. She moved a bit and snagged her stocking on the seat’s rough wood. She unconsciously put her right foot up on a seat and pulled her skirt up to her thigh to check for a run. Immediately catching herself, she dropped it again. But Lockwood had gotten a good look, and what he saw he liked.
Lockwood didn’t have the looks that women always went for, not at first. He was lean and hard under his Brooks Brothers gray worsted suit. A handkerchief stood up jauntily from his breast pocket folded just right. He was exceptionally clean-cut in appearance—and at second glance, quite good-looking. He just wasn’t a head-turner. Still, she didn’t look angry that he had been watching her. She seemed pleased, if that was a slight smile working its way across those soft full lips.
“I asked you, what are you doing?” Lockwood repeated.
“Counting. Counting workers. My boss sent me to count them. He’s afraid they take too long for lunch. He’s—efficient.”
“Your boss is Wade?”
“Yes. I’m Robin Mobley. Who are you?”
“Pleased to meet you.” He tipped his hat. “I’m Lockwood. Bill Lockwood. How’s your stocking?”
“You never mind my stocking. You shouldn’t watch a lady, you know, when she’s—” She blushed. The shy type.
“Well, an unavoidable indiscretion because of the direction I was facing at the time.” He removed his hat and swept to the ground with exaggerated gallantry.
She laughed, as much at her own modesty as at his gesture. “I suppose so.”
Her green eyes met his gray ones and sparks flew between them.
After a few minutes of banter Hook had found out that she was Wade’s secretary, sent by the cheapskate to watch over the workmen.
“You could say I’m an efficiency expert,” she said and gave him a sour smile.
Lockwood smiled. “Who watches you?”
“Everybody. You, for instance.”
“True.”
“Like you were watching me when I adjusted my stocking. How much did you see?”
“Not enough, but plenty.”
She laughed again.
In a few more minutes, after briefly explaining that he was an insurance man, he arranged to meet her at the bar of the 21 Club, downstairs.
“Tell them you’re waiting for me, Hook Lockwood. Hook’s my nickname.”
“I hope you’re there first. That would be better. You certainly have a lot of style—the 21 Club. You must do all right. Okay, Hook, I’ll meet you there, in two hours exactly.”
CHAPTER
4
He drove to the doctor’s office down in the decrepit factory district south of Houston Street. There was actually the beginning of a cobweb on the door. Some practice he must have. Hook found the doctor as run-down as his digs.
His rapping got no response, so he let himself in. Dr. Carruthers was lying on his own black leather examination table, snoring away. A half-filled quart of near-whiskey was balanced on the desk’s edge.
Lockwood looked down at the sodden, pale face of a man of sixty-five who hadn’t shaved for days. His straight gray hair fell over his soiled white collar. He continued snoring. His breath made the area around him smell like a bog.
The doctor turned on his side and groaned.
“Have another drink,” Lockwood said.
The doctor sat up. His colorless eyes swirled to a rest in their watery seas.
He burped. “Don’t mind if I do.” Then his eyes focused ever so slowly on Lockwood’s gold badge. That sobered him up.
He put his legs over the edge of the table and stepped off it. “Just testing the thing,” he muttered apologetically. “What can I do for you?”
“First, sit before you fall.”
Lockwood pulled over a walnut chair and sat Doc down. Then he sat in a cushioned one that creaked as if it might give way.
“Say,” Lockwood asked, looking around. “Is this chair okay?”
“Right as rain, young man.” He burped again. “ ‘Scuse me.”
Hook was glad he hadn’t come in with a broken bone. He looked around. The ceiling seemed solid enough, but the walls were all cracking and the wallpaper, little muskets and revolutionary scenes—awful—was peeling. The bare floor was scratched from pulling chairs about carelessly, and the two enamel cabinet doors were open, with gauze, scalpels, and the like haphazardly littering their counters. Two dead potted palms completed the effect. Lockwood never went to doctors or hospitals if he wasn’t unconscious and dragged there against his will.
At first the doctor didn’t respond to his questions and stared off blankly into space.
“Hello, are you there?” Lockwood yelled at him.
The doctor suddenly came to life, “Young man, I’m a lot more here than you are. For instance, that badge notwithstanding, you’re not a cop.”
“Didn’t say that I was.”
“That suit. Too nice for
a cop. And these old eyes can see your shoes aren’t worn at the heels. Your voice is too cultured.” He squinted at Lockwood’s face. “So what’s your game, sonny? You another rich one that’s got a dose? I can give you some tablets, pop you with needles, can’t guarantee anything.”
“No. I’m an insurance investigator for Transatlantic Underwriters. I have some questions.”
“And I don’t have to answer them. Good day, sonny. The door is thataway.”
“Maybe you’d like it if I visited the police and had a friend at Headquarters close you up? You’re violating every health code on the books here.”
“Don’t let the disorder fool you.” The doctor burped. “Everything here is absolutely sterile. But—ask away.”
He picked up his hooch and poured a shot into a dusty glass. Maybe he could drown the thing down there.
“I’m investigating the death of Lorenzo Jones. I want to know a few things. Like about his arm. His pitching arm.”
“Ah yes, the poor young man. Wouldn’t catch me in one of those damned airplanes. No, sir. Like all young men, a fool. They come in with the syph all the time and expect -me to wash it out of their systems. Not Lorenzo, of course. No, he was married and clean. But others.”
“The point is, Doctor,” Lockwood continued, “how was his pitching arm? I heard it was injured.”
“Minor strain. I have the X-ray plates right here. Nothing a few weeks’ rest wouldn’t cure. He worried too much, that kid. He should have worried more about flying around in that plane.”
“What did he worry about, aside from his arm?”
“Didn’t say he worried about anything else. Just a figure of speech. He was a happy young fellow. Do wou want to see the X-rays?”
“They wouldn’t mean anything to me.”
“Well, anything else? I’m a busy man.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Don’t let this office fool you. Too busy to clean up. Patients all the time, just had time for a snooze. Expect that doorbell will be ringing any second now.”
Lockwood asked more questions about Jones’ arm but got no more information.
