by Rex Stout
"I'm telling you what I did," Softer snapped. He was trying to keep calm. "Ranwez's test took over half an hour. The second, Ekkert's, took less. I did it twice, to check. It was conclusive. The Beebright contained sodium phenobarbital. I couldn't get the quantity, in a hurry like that, but on a guess it was two grains, possibly a little more, in the full bottle. Anyone can get hold if it. Certainly that would be no problem for a bigtime gambler who wanted to clean up on a World Series game. And--" "The sonofabitch," Chisholm said. Doc Softer nodded. "And another sonofabitch put it in the bottles, knowing those four men would drink it just before the game. All he had to do was remove the caps, drop the tablets in, replace the caps, and shake the bottles a little--not much, because it's very soluble. It must have been done today after twelve o'clock, because otherwise someone else might have drunk it, 213 and anyway, if it were done much in advance the drinks would have gone stale, and those men would have noticed it. So it must have been someone-^" Chisholm had marched to the window. He whirled and yelled, "Ferrone did it, damn him! He did it and lammed!" Beaky Durkin appeared. He came through the door and halted, facing Chisholm. He was trembling, and his face was white, all but the crooked nose. "Not Nick," he said hoarsely. "Not that boy. Nick didn't do it, Mr. Chisholm!" "Oh, no?" Chisholm was bitter. "Did I ask you? A fine rookie of the year you brought in from Arkansas! Where is he? Get him and bring him in again and let me get my hands on him! Go find him! Will you go find him?" "Go where?" "How the hell do I know? Have you any idea where he is?" "No." "Will you go find him?" Durkin lifted helpless hands and dropped them. "He's your pet, not mine," Chisholm said savagely. "Get him and bring him in, and 214 I'll offer him a new contract. That will be a contract. Beat it!" Durkin left through the door he had entered by. Wolfe grunted. "Sit down, please," he told Chisholm. "When I address you I look at you, and my neck is not elastic. Thank you, sir. You want to hire me for a job?" "Yes. I want--" "Please. Is this correct? Four of your best players, drugged as described by Doctor Softer, could not perform properly, and as a result a game is lost, and a World Series?" "We're losing it." Chisholm's head swung toward the window and back again. "Of course it's lost." "And you assume a gambler or a group of gamblers is responsible. How much could he or they win on a game?" "On today's game, any amount. Fifty thousand or double that, easy." "I see. Then you need the police. At once." Chisholm shook his head. "Damn it, I don't want to. Baseball is a wonderful game, a clean game, the best and cleanest game on earth. This is the dirtiest thing that's happened in baseball in thirty years, and it's got to be handled right and handled fast. You're 215 the best detective in the business, and you're right here. With a swarm of cops trooping in. God knows what will happen. If we have to have them later, all right, but now here you are. Go to it!" Wolfe was frowning. "You think this Nick Ferrone did it." "I don't know!" Chisholm was yelling again. "How do I know what I think? He's a harebrained kid just out of the sticks, and he's disappeared. Where'd he go and why? What does that look like?" Wolfe nodded. "Very well." He drew a deep sigh. "I can at least make some gestures and see." He aimed a finger at the door Beaky Durkin and Doc Softer had used. "Is that an office?" "It leads to Kinney's office--the manager."
"Then it has a phone. You will call police headquarters and report the disappearance of Nick Ferrone, and ask them to find him. Such a job, when urgent, is beyond my resources. Tell them nothing more for the present if you want it that way. Where do the players change clothing?" "Through there." Chisholm indicated another door. "The locker room. The shower room is beyond." 216 Wolfe's eyes came to me. "Archie. You will look around. All contiguous premises except this room, which you can leave to me." "Anything in particular?" I asked. "No. You have good eyes and a head of sorts. Use them." "I could wait to phone the police," 1 Chisholm suggested, "until you--" "No," Wolfe snapped. "In ten minutes you can have ten thousand men looking for Mr. Ferrone, and it will cost you ten cents. Spend it. I charge more for less." I Chisholm went, through the door at the left, with Doc Soffer at his heels. Since ' Wolfe had said "all contiguous premises," I thought I might as well start in that direction, and followed them across a hall and into another room. It was good-sized, furnished with desks, chairs, and accessories. Beaky Durkin was on a chair in a corner with his ear to a radio turned low, and Doc Softer was beading for him. Chisholm [ barked, "Shut that damn thing off!" and crossed to a desk with a phone. Under other circumstances I would have enjoyed having a look at the office of Art Kinney, the Giants' manager, but I was on a mission and there was too big an audience. I about-faced 217 and back-tracked. As I crossed the clubroom to the door in the far wall, Wolfe was standing by the open door of the refrigerator with a bottle of Beebright in his hand, holding it at arm's length, sneering at it, and Mondor was beside him. I passed through, and was in a room both long and wide, with two rows of lockers, benches and stools, and a couple of chairs. The locker doors were marked with numbers and names too. I tried three, they were locked. After going through a doorway to the left, I was in the shower room. The air in there was a little damp, but not warm. I went to the far end, glancing in at each of the shower stalls, was disappointed to see no pillbox that might have contained sodium phenobarbital, and returned to the locker room. In the middle of the row on the right was the locker marked "Ferrone." Its door was locked. With my portable key collection I could have operated, but I don't take it along to ball games, and nothing on my personal ring was usable. It seemed to me that the inside of that locker was the one place that needed attention, certainly the first on the list, so I returned to the clubroom, made a face at Wolfe as I went by, and entered Kinney's office. Chisholm had finished 218 phoning and was seated at a desk, staring at the floor. Beaky Durkin and Doc Softer had their ears glued to the radio, which was barely audible. I asked Chisholm, "Have you got a key to Ferrone's locker?" His head jerked up, and he said aggressively, "What?" "I want a key to Ferrone's locker." "I haven't got one. I think Kinney has a master key. I don't know where he keeps it." "Fifteen to two," Durkin informed us, or maybe just talking to himself. "Giants batting in the ninth, two down. Garth got a home run, bases empty. It's all--" "Shut up!" Chisholm yelled at him. Since Kinney would soon be with us, and since Ferrone's locker had first call, I thought I might as well wait there for him. However, with our client sitting there glaring at me, it would be well to display some interest and energy, so I moved. I took in the room. I went to filing cabinets and looked them over. I opened a door, saw a hall leading to stairs down, backed up, and shut the door. I took in the room again, crossed to another door in the opposite wall, and opened that. 219 Since I hadn't the faintest expectation of finding anything pertinent beyond that door, let alone a corpse, I must have made some sound or movement in my surprise, but if so it wasn't noticed. I stood for three seconds, then slipped inside and squatted long enough to get an answer to the main question.
I arose, backed out, and addressed Softer. "Take a look here. Doc. I think he's dead. If so, watch it." He made a noise, stared, and moved. I marched out, into the clubroom, crossed to Wolfe, and spoke. "Found something. I opened a door to a closet and found Nick Ferrone, in uniform, on the floor, with a baseball bat alongside him and his head smashed in. He's dead, according to me, but Doc Softer is checking, if you want an expert opinion. Found on contiguous premises." Wolfe grunted. He was seated on the leather couch. "Mr. Ferrone?" he asked peevishly. "Yes sir." "You5 found him?" "Yes, sir." His shoulders went up a quarter of an inch and down again. "Call the police." 220 "Yes, sir. A question. Any minute the ballplayers will be coming in here. The cops won't like it if they mess around. The cops will think we should have prevented it. Do we care? It probably won't be Cramer. Do we�" A bellow? Chisholm's, came through. "Wolfe! Come in here! Come here!" He got up, growling. "We owe the police nothing, certainly not deference. But we have a client�I think we have. I'll see. Meanwhile you stay here. Everyone entering this room remains, under surveillance." He headed for Kinney's office, whence more bellows were coming. Another door opened, the
one in the west wall, and Nat Neill, the Giants' center fielder, entered, his jaw set and his eyes blazing. Following him came Lew Baker, the catcher. Behind them, on the stairs, was a clatter of footsteps. The game was over. The Giants had lost. 5 Another thing I don't take along to ball games is a gun, but that day there was a moment when I wished I had. After any 221 ordinary game, even a lost one, I suppose the Giants might have been merely irritated if, on getting to the clubhouse, they found a stranger there, backed up against the door to the locker room, who told them firmly that on account of a state of emergency they could not pass. But that day they were ready to plug one another, so why not a stranger? The first do^en were ganging me, about to start using hands, when Art Kinney, the manager, appeared, strode across, and wanted to know what. I told him to go to his office and ask Chishohn. The gang let up then, to consider�all but Bill Moyse, the second-string catcher, six feet two, and over two hundred pounds. He had come late, after Kinney. He breasted up to me, making fists, and announced that his wife was waiting for him and he was going in to change, and either I would move or he would move me. One of his teammates called from the rear, "Show him her picture. Bill! That'll move him!" Moyse whirled and leaped. Hands grabbed for him, but he kept going. Whether he reached his target and actually landed or not I can't say, because, first, I was staying put and it was quite a mixup, and second, I was seeing something that wasn't present. 222 The mention of Moyse's wife and her picture had done it. What I was seeing was a picture of a girl that had appeared in the Gazette a couple of months back, with a caption tagging her as the showgirl bride of William Moyse, the ballplayer; and it was the girl I had been glomming in a nearby box when the summons had come from Chisholm. No question about it. That was interesting, and possibly even relevant. Meanwhile Moyse was doing me a service by making a diversion. Three or four had hold of him, and others were gathered around his target. Con Prentiss, the shortstop. They were all jabbering. Prentiss, who was wiry and tough, was showing his teeth in a grin--not an attractive one. Moyse suddenly whirled again and was back at me, and this time, obviously, he was coming through. It was useless to start slugging that mountain of muscle, and I was set to try locking him, hoping the others would admire the performance, when a loud voice came from the doorway to the manager's office. "Here! Attention, all of you!" It was Art Kinney. His face was absolutely white, and his neck cords were twitching, as they all turned and were silent. 223 "I'm full up," he said, half hysterical. 'This is Nero Wolfe, the detective. He'll tell you something." Muttering went around as Kinney stepped aside and Wolfe took his place in the doorway. Wolfe's eyes darted from left to right, and he spoke. "You deserve an explanation, gentlemen, but the police are coming and there's not much time. You have just lost a ball game by knavery. Four of you were drugged, in a drink called Beebright, and could not perform properly. You will learn--" They drowned him out. It was an explosion of astonished rage. "Gentlemen!" Wolfe thundered. "Will you listen?" He glowered. "You will learn more of that later, but there is something more urgent. The dead body of one of your colleagues, Mr. Nick Ferrone, has been discovered on these premises. He was murdered. It is supposed, naturally, that the two events, the drugging and the murder, are connected. In any case, if you do not know what a murder investigation means to everyone within reach, innocent or not, you are about to learn. For the moment you will not leave this room. When the police arrive they will tell you--" 224 Heavy feet were clomping in the hall. A door swung open, and a uniformed cop stepped in, followed by three others. The one in front, a sergeant, halted and demanded indignantly, "What is all this? Where is it?" The Giants looked at the cops and hadn't a word to say. 4 Inspector Hennessy of uptown Homicide was tall and straight, silver-haired, with a bony face and quick-moving gray eyes. Some two years ago he had told Nero Wolfe that if he ever again tried poking into a murder in his territory he would be escorted to the Harlem River and dunked. But when, at nine o'clock that evening, Hennessy breezed through the clubroom, passing in front of the leather couch where Wolfe was seated with a ham sandwich in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, he didn't even toss a glance. He was much too busy. The police commissioner was in Manager Kinney's office with Chisholm and others. The district attorney and an assistant were in the locker room, along with an assort225 ment of Homicide men, giving various athletes their third or fourth quiz. There were still a couple of dozen city employees in the clubhouse, though the scientists--the photographers and fingerprint hounds--had all finished and gone. I had standing as the finder of the corpse, but also I was a part of Wolfe. Technically Wolfe was not poking into a murder; he had been hired by Chisholm, before the corpse had been found, to find out who had doped the ballplayers. However, in gathering facts for relay to Wolfe, I had not discriminated. I saw Nick Fen-one's locker opened and the contents examined, with nothing startling disclosed. While I was in Kinney's office watching a basket squad load the corpse and carry it out, I heard a lieutenant on the phone giving instructions for a roundup of gamblers throughout the metropolitan area. A little later I picked up a bunch of signed statements from a table and sat down and read them through, without anyone's noticing. By that time the commissioner and the DA had arrived, and they had eight or nine quiz posts going in the various rooms, and Hennessy was doing his damnedest to keep it organized. I collected all I could for Wolfe. The bat 226 that had been used to crack Ferrone's skull was no stock item, but a valued trophy. With it, years back, a famous Giant had belted a grand slam home run that had won a pennant, and the bat had been displayed on a wall rack in the manager's office. The murderer could have simply grabbed it from the rack. It had no usable fingerprints. Of eight bottles of Beebright left in the cooler, the two in front had been doped, and the other six had not. No other drinks had been tampered with. Everyone had known of the liking of those four--Baker, Prentiss, Neill, and Eston--for Beebright, and their habit of drinking a bottle of it before a game. No good prints. No sign anywhere of any container of tablets of sodium phenobarbital. And a thousand other negatives--for instance, the clubhouse boy, Jimmie Burr. The custom was that, when he wasn't around, the players would put chits in a little box for what they took, and he hadn't been around. For that game someone had got him a box seat, and he had beat it to the grandstand while most of the players were in the locker room changing. A sergeant jumped on it: who had got him out of the way by providing a ticket for a box seat? 227 But it had been Art Kinney himself, the manager. Around eight o'clock they turned a big batch loose. Twenty Giants, including coaches and the bat boy, were allowed to go to the locker room to change, under surveillance, and then let out, with instructions to keep available. They were not in the picture as it then looked. It was established that Ferrone had arrived at the clubhouse shortly after twelve o'clock and had got into uniform; a dozen of them had been in the locker room when he had. He had been present during a pre-game session with Kinney in the clubroom, and no one remembered seeing him leave afterward. After they had trooped out and down the stairs, emerged onto the field, and crossed it, Ferrone's absence was not noticed until they had been in the dugout some minutes. As the cops figured it, he couldn't have been slammed with a baseball bat in Kinney's office, only a few yards away, while the team was in the clubroom, and therefore all who had unquestionably left for the field with the gang, and had stayed there, were in the clear until further notice. With them went Pierre Mondor, who had wanted to- see a ball game and had picked a beaut. 228 As I said, when Inspector Hennessy breezed through the clubroom at nine o'clock, coming from the locker room and headed for Kinney's office, he didn't even toss a glance at the leather couch where Wolfe and I were seated. He disappeared. But soon he was back again, speaking from the doorway. "Come in here, will you, Wolfe?" "No," Wolfe said flatly. "I'm eating." "The commissioner wants you." "Is he eating?" Waiting for no reply, Wolfe turned his head and bellowed, "Mr. Skinner! I'm dining!" It wasn't very polite, I thought, to be sarcastic about the sandwiches and beer Chisholm had provided. Hennessy started a remar
k which indicated that he agreed with me, but it was interrupted by the appearance of Commissioner Skinner at his elbow. Hennessy stepped in and aside, and Skinner entered, followed by Chisholm, and approached the couch. He spoke. "Dining?" "Yes, sir." Wolfe reached for another sandwich. "As you see." "Not your accustomed style." Wolfe grunted and bit into the sandwich. Skinner kept it friendly. "I've just learned that four men who were told they could go 229 are still here--Baker, Prentiss, Neill, and Eston. When Inspector Hennessy asked them why, they told him that Mr. Chisholm asked them to stay. Mr. Chisholm says that he did so at your suggestion. He understood that you want to speak with them after our men have all left. Is that correct?" Wolfe nodded. "I made it quite plain, I thought." "M-m-m-m." The commissioner regarded him. "You see, I know you fairly well. You wouldn't dream of hanging on here half the night to speak with those men merely as a routine step in an investigation. And besides, at Mr. Chisholm's request you have already been permitted to speak with them, and with several others. You're cooking something. Those are the four men who were drugged, but they left the clubhouse for the field with the rest of the team, so, the way we figure it, none of them killed Ferrone. How do you figure it?" Wolfe swallowed the last of a well-chewed bite. "I don't." Hennessy growled and set his jaw. Skinner said, "I don't believe it," with his tone friendlier than his words. "You're cooking something," he insisted. "What's the play with those four men?" 230 Wolfe shook his head. "No, sir." Hennessy took a step forward. "Look," he said, "this is my territory. My name's Hennessy. You don't turn this murder into a parlor game." Wolfe raised brows at him. "Murder? I am not concerned with murder. Mr. Chisholm hired me to investigate the drugging of his employees. The two events may of course be connected, but the murder is your job. And they were not necessarily connected. I understand that a man named Moyse is in there now with the district attorney"--Wolfe aimed a thumb at the door to the locker room--"because it has been learned that he has twice within a month assaulted Mr. Ferrone physically, through resentment at Ferrone's interest in his wife, injudiciously displayed. And that Moyse did not leave the clubhouse with the others, and arrived at the dugout three or four minutes later, just before Fen-one's absence was noticed. For your murder, Mr. Hennessy, that should be a help; but it doesn't get me on with my job, disclosure of the culprit who drugged the drinks. Have you charged Mr. Moyse?" "No." Hennessy was curt. "So you're not interested in the murder?" 231 "Not as a job, since it's not mine. But if you want a comment from a specialist, you're closing your lines too soon." "We haven't closed any lines." "You let twenty men walk out of here. You are keeping Moyse for the reasons given. You are keeping Doctor Softer, I suppose, because when Ferrone was missed in the dugout Softer came here to look for him, and he could have found him here alive and killed him. You are keeping Mr. Durkin, I suppose again, because he too could have been here alone with Ferrone. He says he left the clubhouse shortly before the team did and went to his seat in the grandstand, and stayed there. Has he been either contradicted or corroborated?" "No." "Then you regard him as vulnerable on opportunity?" "Yes." "Are you holding Mr. Chisholm for the same reason?" Chisholm made a noise. Skinner and Hennessy stared. Skinner said, "We're not holding Mr. Chisholm." "You should be, for consistency," Wolfe declared. "This afternoon, when I reached my seat in the stands�of which only the 232 front edge was accessible to me--at twenty minutes past one, the Mayor and others were there in a nearby box, but Mr. Chisholm was not. He arrived a few minutes later. He has told me that when he arrived with his party, including the Mayor, about one o'clock, he had the others escorted to the stands and the box, that he started for the clubhouse for a word with his employees, that he was delayed by the crowd and decided it was too late, that he went on a private errand to a men's room and then proceeded to the box. If the others are vulnerable on opportunity, so is he." They made remarks, all three of them, not appreciative. Wolfe put the bottle to his lips, tilted it and his head, and swallowed beer. Paper cups had been supplied, but he hates them. He put the bottle down empty. "I was merely," he said mildly, "commenting on the murder as a specialist. As for my job, learning who drugged the drinks, I haven't even made a start. How could I in this confounded hubbub? Trampled by an army. I have been permitted to sit here and talk to people, yes, with a succession of your subordinates standing behind me, breathing down my neck. One of them was chewing 233 gum! Pfui. Working on a murder and chewing gum!" "We'll bounce him," Hennessy said dryly. "The commissioner has asked you, what's the play with those four men?" Wolfe shook his head. "Not only those four. I included others in my request to Mr. Chisholm--Doctor Softer, Mr. Kinney, Mr. Durkin, and of course Mr. Chisholm himself. I am not arranging a parlor game. I make a living as a professional detective, and I need their help on this job I've undertaken. I think I know why, engrossed as you are with the most sensational case you've had in years, you're spending all this time chatting with me; you suspect I'm contriving a finesse. Don't you?" "You're damn right we do." Wolfe nodded. "So I am." "You are?" "Yes." Wolfe suddenly was peevish. "Haven't I sat here for five hours, submerged in your pandemonium? Haven't you all the facts that I have, and many more besides? Haven't you a thousand men to command--indeed, twenty thousand--and I one? One little fact strikes me as apparently it has not struck you, and in my forlorn desperation I decided to test my 234 interpretation of it. For that test I need help, and I ask Mr. Chisholm to provide it, and--" "We'll be glad to help," Skinner cut in. "Which fact, and how do you interpret it?" "No, sir." Wolfe was positive. "It is my one slender chance to earn a fee. I intend--" "We may not know this fact." "Certainly you do. I have stated it explicitly during this conversation, but I won't point at it for you. If I did you'd spoil it for me, and, slender as it is, I intend to test it. I am not beset with the urgency of murder, as you are, but I'm in a fix. I don't need a motive strong enough to incite a man to murder, merely one to persuade him to drug some bottled drinks--mildly, far from lethally. A thousand dollars? Twenty thousand? That would be only a fraction of the possible winnings on a World Series game-- and no tax to pay. The requisitions of the income tax have added greatly to the attractions of mercenary crime. As for opportunity, anyone at all could have slipped in here late this morning, before others had arrived, with drugged bottles of that drink and put them in the cooler--and earned a fortune. Those twenty men you let go, Mr. Hennessy--of how many of them can you 235 say positively that they did not drug the drinks?" The inspector was scowling at him. "I can say that I don't think any of them killed Ferrone." "Ah, but I'm not after the murderer; that's your job," Wolfe upturned a palm. "You see why I am driven to a forlorn finesse. It is my only hope of avoiding a laborious and possibly fruitless--" What interrupted him was the entry of a man through the door to the locker room. District Attorney Megalech was as masterful as they come, although bald as a doorknob. He strode across and told Skinner and Hennessy he wanted to speak with them, took an elbow of each, and steered them to and through the door to Kinney's office. Chisholm, uninvited, wheeled and followed them. Wolfe reached for a sandwich and took a healthy bite. I arose, brushed off crumbs, shook my pants legs down, and stood looking down at him. I asked, "How good is this fact you're saving up?" "Not very." He chewed and swallowed. "Good enough to try if we got nothing better. Evidently they have nothing at all. If they had--but you heard them." 236 "Yeah. You told them they have all the facts you have, but they haven't. The one I gave you about Mrs. Moyse? That's not the one you're interpreting privately?" "No." "She might be still around, waiting. I might possibly get something better than the one you're saving. Shall I go try?" He grunted. I took it for a yes, and moved. Outside the door to the hall and stairs stood one in uniform with whom I had already had a few little words. I addressed him. "I'm going down to buy Mr. Wolfe a pickle. Do I need to be passed out or in?" "You?" He used only the right half of his mouth for talking. "Shoot your way through. Huh?" "Right. Many thanks." I went. 5 It was dumb to be so surprised, but I was. I might have known that the news that the Giants had been doped o
ut of the game and the series, and that Nick Ferrone, the probable rookie of the year, had been murdered, would draw a record mob. Downstairs in237 side the entrance there were sentries, and outside a regiment was stretched into a cordon. I was explaining to a sergeant who I was and telling him I would be returning, when three desperate men, one of whom I recognized, came springing at me. All they wanted was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I had to get really rude. I have been clawed at by newspapermen more than once, but I had never seen them quite as hungry as they were outside the Polo Grounds that October night. Finding they wouldn't shake loose, I dived through the cordon and into the mob. It looked hopeless. The only parked cars in sight on the west side of Eighth Avenue were police cars. I pushed through to the fringe of the throng and made my way two blocks south. Having made inquiries of two Giants hours previously, I knew what I was looking for, a light blue Curtis sedan. Of course there was a thin chance that it was still around, but if it was I wanted it. I crossed the avenue and headed for the parking plaza. Two cops at the end of the cordon gave me a look, but it wasn't the plaza they were guarding, and I marched on through. In the dim light I could see three cars over at the north end. Closer up, one 238 was a Curtis sedan. Still closer, it was light blue. I went up to it. Two females on the front seat were gazing at me through the window, and one of them was my glommee. The radio was on. I opened the door, swung it wide, and said hello. "Who are you?" she demanded. "My name's Archie Goodwin. I'll show credentials if you are Mrs. William Moyse." "What do you want?" "Nothing if you're not Mrs. Moyse." "What if I am?" She was rapidly erasing the pleasant memory I had of her. Not that she had turned homely in a few hours, but her expression was not only unfriendly but sour, and her voice was not agreeable. I got out my wallet and extracted my license card. "If you are," I said, "this will identify me," and proffered it. "Okay, your name's Goodman." She ignored the card. "So what?" "Not Goodman." I pronounced it again. "Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe, who is up in the clubhouse. I just came from there. Why not turn off the radio?" "I'd rather turn you off," she said bitterly.
