REX STOUT A Nero Wolfe Mystery

The World Series Murder

The gargantuan detective Nero Wolfe—he is described as being just under six foot tall and weighing one seventh of a ton—is a man devoted to the very best food and solving the very hardest cases. A person of fastidious tastes, he lives in some luxury in a house on West 35th Street in New York, where his put-upon assistant, Archie Goodwin—who also chronicles his exploits—does much of the leg work (chasing suspects as well as girls) to bring Wolfe the clues that will enable him to solve his cases. Wolfe is said to hate work and unnecessary exercise, but is passionately dedicated to growing orchids. His mastery of languages, his ability to fathom the most obscure clues and his love-hate relationship with both the police and the criminal fraternity, make him a wholely unique figure who was immediately enjoyed by readers when he made his debut in Fer-de-lance in 1934. Meet Nero Wolfe (1936) was the first movie about the detective featuring a somewhat slimmer Edward Arnold in the title role; while the rather more corpulent Walter Connolly starred in the second, The League of Frightened Men, which was made a year later. Lionel Stander played Archie Goodwin in both pictures. In 1943, American radio embraced the fat man in The Adventures of Nero Wolfe, a weekly, half-hour programme which starred Santos Ortega during its first season and Sydney Greenstreet thereafter. Again there was a single Archie Goodwin, Everett Sloane. ABC TV introduced the detective to the small screen in 1977 in Nero Wolfe, an adaptation of the novel, The Doorbell Rang, with Thayer David and Tom Mason. Three years later, NBC screened a thirteen-episode series of hour-long dramas with William Conrad and Lee Horsley which was faithful to the original stories but did not continue beyond its first season. Rex Stout (1886-1975), despite his surname, was as thin as Nero Wolfe was fat, and unlike his character loved hard work. Both, though, shared a passion for good food and gardening. Stout had a variety of menial jobs until, finding himself almost penniless during the Depression, he started selling articles and stories to magazines, and finally made his name when Fer-de-lance was serialized in the Saturday Evening Post. At the time of his death, his books were said to have sold more than forty-five million copies. The World Series Murder is one of the best of the Nero Wolfe stories and was adapted for both the original radio programme and the William Conrad TV series.

At the end of the sixth innings the score was Boston eleven, New York one. I would not have believed that the day would ever come when, seated in a lower box between home and first, at the seventh and deciding game of a World Series between New York and Boston, I would find myself glomming a girl. I am by no means above glomming a girl if she is worthy, but not at a ball game, where my mind is otherwise occupied. That awful day, though, I did. The situation was complex and will have to be explained. It was a mess even before the game started. Pierre Mondor, owner of a famous restaurant in Paris, was visiting New York and was our house guest at Nero Wolfe’s old brownstone on West 35th Street. He got the notion, somehow, that Wolfe had to take him to a baseball game, and Wolfe as his host couldn’t refuse. Tickets were no problem, since Emil Chisholm, oil millionaire and part owner of the New York team, considered himself deeply in Wolfe’s debt on account of a case we had handled for him a few years back. So that October afternoon, a Wednesday, I got the pair of them—the noted private detective and the noted chef—up to the ball park. It was twenty past one, only ten minutes to game time, and the stands were jammed. I motioned to Mondor, and he slid in and sat. Wolfe stood and glared down at the wooden slats and metal arms. Then he glared at me. “Are you out of your senses?” he demanded. “I warned you,” I said coldly. “It was designed for men, not mammoths.” He tightened his lips, moved his bulk, lowered it, and tried to squeeze between the arms. No. He grasped the rail in front with both hands, wriggled loose, and perched on the edge of the seat. Mondor called to me across the great expanse of Wolfe’s back: “I depend with confidence on you, Arshee! You must make clear as it develops! What are the little white things?” I love baseball, I love the New York team, I had fifty bucks up on that game, but I would have got up and gone but for one thing: It was working hours and Wolfe pays my salary, and there were too many people, some of them alive and loose, who felt strongly that he had already lived too long. He is seldom out in the open, easy to get at, and when he is I like to be nearby. So I gritted my teeth and stuck. The ground crew finished smoothing off and hauled their drags away; the umpires did a huddle, the home team trotted out on the field to their stations; the throng gave with a lusty, excited roar; we all stood up for The Star-Spangled Banner, and then sat down again. After southpaw Ed Romeike, 22-4 for the season, had burned a few over for the range, Lew Baker, the catcher, fired it to Tiny Garth at second. The Boston lead-off man came to the white line, the plate umpire said go, and Romeike looked around at the field, toed the rubber, went into his tricky wind-up, and shot a fast one over the outside corner for strike one. The crowd let out a short, sharp yell. My personal nightmare was bad enough. Mondor was our guest, and trying to tell a foreigner what a base on balls is during a World Series game, with two men on, two down, and Oaky Asmussen at bat, is hard on the nerves. As for Wolfe, it wasn’t so much the sight of him there in his concentrated misery; it was the certainty that by tomorrow he would have figured out a way to blame it on me, and that would start a feud. Bad enough, but more was to come, and not for me alone. One fly had plopped into the soup even before the game started, when the line-up was announced and Tiny Garth was named for second base, with no explanation. A buzz of amazement had filled the stands. Why not Nick Ferrone? Ferrone, a lanky, big-eared kid just up from the bush five months back, had fielded and batted himself so far to the front that it was taken for granted he would be voted rookie of the year. He had been spectacular in the first six games of the Series, batting 427. Where was he today? Why Garth? Then the game. That was no personal nightmare of mine; it was all too public. In the first inning Con Prentiss, New York’s shortstop, bobbled an easy grounder, and two minutes later Lew Baker, the catcher, trying to nab a runner at second, threw the ball six feet over Garth’s head into the outfield. With luck the visitors scored only one run. In the second inning Nat Neill, centre fielder, misjudged a fly he could have walked under, tried to run in three directions at once, and had to chase it to the fence; and soon after that, Prentiss grabbed a hard-hit ball on the hop and hurled it into the dirt three paces to the left of third base. By the time they got three out, Boston had two more runs. As the New York team came in for their turn at bat in the second, bitter sarcasms from the stands greeted them. Then our section was distracted by an incident. A man in a hurry came plunging down the aisle, bumping my elbow as he passed, and pulled up alongside a front box occupied by six men, among them the Mayor of New York and oilman Emil Chisholm, who had provided our tickets. The man spoke into the ear of Chisholm, who looked anything but happy. Chisholm said something to his boxmates, arose, and beat it up the aisle double-quick, followed by cutting remarks from nearby fans who had recognized him. As my eyes went back to the arena, Con Prentiss, New York shortstop, swung at a floater and missed by a mile. There is no point in my retailing the agony. As I said, at the end of the sixth the score was eleven to one. Romeike was hurling all right, but his support would have been pitiful on a sand lot. Joe Eston, the third baseman, and Nat Neill had each made two errors, and Con Prentiss and Lew Baker three apiece. As they came to the dugout in the sixth one wit yelled, “Say it ain’t true, Joe!” at Eston, and the crowd recognizing that classic moan to Shoeless Joe Jackson, let out a howl. They were getting really rough. As for me, I had had plenty of the tragedy out on the diamond and was looking around for something less painful, when I caught sight of the girl, in a box off to my right. I glommed her, not offensively. There were two of them. One was a redhead who would start to get plump in a couple of years; almost worthy, but not quite. The other one, the glommee, had light-brown hair and dark-brown eyes, and was fully qualified. I had the feeling that she was not a complete stranger, that I had seen her somewhere before, but couldn’t place her. The pleasure it gave me to look at her was not pure, because it was adulterated with resentment. She looked happy. Her eyes sparkled. Apparently she liked the way things were going. There is no law barring enemy fans from a ball park, but I resented it. Nevertheless, I continued the glommation. She was the only object I had seen there that day, on or off the field, that didn’t make me want to shut my eyes. Something came between her and me. A man stopped at my elbow, and asked my ear: “Are you Archie Goodwin?” I told him yes. “Is that Nero Wolfe?” I nodded. “Mr Chisholm wants him in the clubhouse, quick.” I reflected for two seconds, decided that this was straight from heaven, and slid forward to tell Wolfe: “Mr Chisholm invites us to the clubhouse. We’ll avoid the crush. There’s a chair there. He wants to see you.” He didn’t growl, “What about?” He didn’t even growl. He muttered something to Mondor, pulled himself erect, and side-stepped past me to the aisle. Mondor came after him. The courier led the way and I brought up the rear. As we went up the concrete steps single file a shout came from somewhere on the left: “Go get ’em, Nero! Sic ’em!” Such is fame . . . “This is urgent!” Emil Chisholm squeaked. “It’s urgent.” There was no chair in the club-room of the size Wolfe likes and needs, but there was a big leather couch, and he was on it, breathing hard and scowling. Mondor was seated over against the wall, out of it. Chisholm, a hefty, broad-shouldered guy, with a wide, thick mouth and a long, straight nose, was too upset to stand or sit, so he was boiling around. I was standing near an open window. Through it came a sudden swelling roar from the crowd out in the stands. “Shut that window!” Chisholm barked. I did so. “I’m going home,” Wolfe stated in his most conclusive tone. “But not until they have left. Perhaps, if you will tell me briefly—” “We’ve lost the Series!” Chisholm shouted. Wolfe closed his eyes, and opened them again. “If you’ll keep your voice down,” he suggested. “I’ve had enough noise today. If losing the Series is your problem, I’m afraid I can’t help.” “No. Nobody can.” Chisholm stood facing him. “I blew up. I’m sorry. I’ve got to get hold of myself. This is what happened: Out there before the game Art got a suspicion—” “Art?” “Art Kinney, our manager. Naturally, he was watching the boys like a hawk, and he got a suspicion something was wrong. That first—” “Why was he watching them like a hawk?” “That’s his job! He’s manager!” Chisholm realized he was shouting again, stopped, clamped his jaw, and clenched his fists. After a second he went on: “Also, Nick Ferrone has disappeared. He was here with them in the clubhouse, he had got into uniform; then, after they went out to the dugout, he just wasn’t there. Art sent Doc Soffer back here to get him, but he couldn’t find him. He was simply gone. Art had to put Garth as second base. Naturally, he was on edge, and he noticed things—the way some of the boys looked and acted—that made him suspicious. Then—” A door opened and a guy came running in, yelling, “Fitch hit one and Neill let it get by, and Asmussen scored! Fitch went on to third!” I recognized him, chiefly by his crooked nose, which had got in the way of a line drive back in the twenties, when he was a star in-fielder. It was Beaky Durkin, now a New York scout with a new lease on life because he had dug up Nick Ferrone out in Arkansas. Chisholm yelled at him, “Get out!” He took a threatening step. “Get out! . . . Hey, Doc! Come in here!” Durkin, backing out, collided with a man in the doorway. This was Doc Soffer, New York’s veteran medico, bald, wearing black-rimmed glasses; he had a long torso and short legs. Entering, he looked as if his ten best-paying patients had just died on him. “I can’t sweat it, Doc,” Chisholm told him. “I’m going nuts! This is Nero Wolfe. You tell him.” “Who are you?” Wolfe demanded. Soffer stopped before him. “I’m Dr Horton Soffer,” he said, clipping it. “Four of my men have been drugged. They’re out there now, trying to play ball, and they can’t.” He stopped, looking as if he were about to break down and cry, gulped, and went on: “They didn’t seem right, there in the dugout. I noticed it and so did Kinney. That first inning there was no doubt about it, something was wrong. The second inning it was even worse—and the same four men, Baker, Prentiss, Neill, and Eston. I got an idea, and came here to investigate. You see that cooler?” He pointed to a big, white-enamelled refrigerator standing against a wall. Wolfe nodded. “Well?” “It contains mostly an assortment of drinks in bottles. I know my men’s habits, every little habit they’ve got and every big one, too. I know that after they get into uniform before a game those four men—the four I named—have the habit of getting a bottle of Beebright out of the cooler.” “What is Beebright?” “It’s a carbonated drink that’s supposed to have honey in it instead of sugar. Each of those four men drinks a bottle of it, or part of one, before he goes out to the field, practically without exception. And it was those four that were off—terrible! I never saw anything like it. That’s how I got my idea. I told Kinney, and he said to come and see. “Usually the clubhouse boy cleans up here after the men leave for the field, but this being the deciding game of the World Series, today he didn’t. Stuff was scattered around—as you see, it still is—and there was a Beebright bottle there on that table with a little left in it. It didn’t smell wrong, and I didn’t want to waste any tasting. I had sent for Mr Chisholm, and when he came we decided what to do. He sent for Beaky Durkin, who had a seat in the grandstand, because he knew Ferrone better than anyone else. We thought he might have some idea that would help explain what had happened to Ferrone and those four other boys. I took the Beebright down the street to a drugstore, and made two tests. The first one, Ranwez’s, didn’t prove anything, but that was probably because it is limited—” “Negatives may be skipped,” Wolfe muttered. “I’m telling you what I did,” Soffer snapped. “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 of it. Certainly that would be no problem for a bigtime gambler who wanted to clean up on a World Series game.” Chisholm swore, audibly. Doc Soffer nodded. “And somebody 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. They must have been placed in the refrigerator not much before noon; otherwise someone else might have drunk them. Besides, if they were fixed very far in advance, the drinks would have gone stale and the men would have noticed it. So it must have been someone—” Chisholm had marched to the window. He whirled and yelled, “Ferrone did it! He did it and lammed!” Doc Soffer said, “I don’t know about that, but I’ve got to tell Art—” He almost ran from the room. Beaky Durkin appeared again. 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!” “Oh, no?” Chisholm was bitter. “Did I ask you? A fine rookie of the year you brought in from Arkansas! Where is he? Bring him here and let me get my hands on him! Go find him!” Beaky looked bewildered. “Go where?” “How do I know? He’s your pet, not mine,” Chisholm said savagely. “Get him and bring him in and I’ll offer him a new contract—that will be a contract. Now beat it!” Durkin lifted helpless hands, but turned and left the room. Wolfe grunted. “Sit down, please,” he told Chisholm. “When I address you I want to 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 Dr Soffer, 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. “Art’s pulling out the drugged men, but 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. “I don’t want to. Baseball is a wonderful 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 the best detective in the business, and you’re right here. With a swarm of cops trooping in, who knows what’ll happen! If we have to have them later, all right, but now you’re here. 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. 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 Soffer had used. “Is that an office?” “It leads to Kinney’s office—the manager’s.” “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. “That’s the locker room. The shower room is beyond.” Wolfe’s eyes came to me: “Archie. You will look around all premises adjoining this room. This room 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,” Chisholm suggested, “until you—” “No,” Wolfe snapped. “In ten minutes you can have every cop in New York looking for Mr Ferrone, and it will cost you ten cents. Spend it. I charge more for less.” Chisholm went out, through the door at the left. I thought I might as well start in that direction, and followed him across a hall and into another room. It was good-sized, furnished with desk, chairs, and accessories. Beaky Durkin sat in a corner with his ear to a radio tuned low, and Doc Soffer was there with him. Chisholm barked, “Shut that 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 New York manager, but I was on a mission and there was too big an audience. I about-faced and backtracked to the clubroom. As I crossed 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 the door 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. I tried three; they were locked. Through a doorway at the left was the shower room. 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 first place that needed attention, so I returned to the clubroom, made a face at Wolfe as I went by, and entered Kinney’s office. Chisholm had finished phoning and was seated at a desk, staring at the floor. Beaky Durkin and Doc Soffer had their ears glued to the radio. I asked Chisholm, “Have you got a key to Ferrone’s locker?” His head jerked up. “No. I think Kinney has a master key. I don’t know where he keeps it.” “Fifteen to two,” Durkin informed us, or maybe he was just talking to himself. “New York 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 went to the filing cabinets and looked them over. I opened a door, saw a hall leading to stairs going down, and shut the door. I crossed to another door in the opposite wall, and opened that. Since I hadn’t the faintest expectation of finding anything pertinent beyond that door, let alone a corpse, I must have made some sign of 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 Soffer: “Take a look here, Doc. I think he’s dead.” He made a noise, stared, and moved. I marched into the clubroom and crossed to the couch where Wolfe was sitting. “Found something,” I told him. “Nick Ferrone, in uniform, on the floor of a closet, with a basball bat alongside him and his head smashed in. He’s dead, according to me, but Doc Soffer is checking, if you want an expert opinion.” Wolfe grunted. “Call the police.” “Yes, sir. A question: Any minute the ballplayers will be coming in here. The cops won’t like it if they mess around. Do we care? It won’t be Cramer. This is the Bronx, not Manhattan. Do we—?” A bellow, Chisholm’s, came through: “Wolfe! Come in here!” Wolfe got up, growling. “We owe the police nothing, 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. Another door opened, the one in the west wall, and Nat Neill, New York’s centre fielder, entered the clubroom, 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. New York had lost . . . 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 an ordinary game, even a lost one, I suppose the team might have been merely irritated if, on getting to the clubhouse, they found a stranger backed up against the door to the locker room telling them they could not pass. But that day they were ready to plug one another, so why not a stranger? The first dozen were ganging me, about to start using hands, when Art Kinney, the manager, appeared. He strode, tight-lipped, through to his office and the gang let up 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 strode up to me, making fists, and announced that his wife was waiting for him, he was going in to change, and either I would move or he would move me. One of his teammates called: “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 or not I can’t say, because, first, I was staying put and it was quite a mix-up, and, second, I was seeing something that wasn’t present. 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. Meanwhile, Moyse was doing me a service by making a diversion. Three or four men 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 heading back for me. It was useless to start slugging that mountain of muscle, and I was set to try blocking him, 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 toward him. “I’m full up,” he said, half hysterical. “This is Nero Wolfe, the detective. He’ll tell you something.” Muttering began as Kinney stepped aside and Wolfe took his place in the doorway. The great man’s eyes swept over them, and then 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—” Heavy feet were clomping in the hall. The door swung open and a uniformed cop stepped in, followed by three others. The one in front, a sergeant, halted and demanded indignantly: “What’s all this? Where is it?” The team looked at the cops, and hadn’t a word to say . . . Inspector Hennessy of Bronx Homicide was tall and straight, silver-haired, with a bony face and quick-moving grey eyes. Two years before he had told Nero Wolfe that if he ever again tried poking into a murder in the Bronx 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 him a glance. He was much too busy. The Police Commissioner was in Manager Kinney’s office with Chisholm and others. The Bronx District Attorney and an assistant were in the locker room, along with an assortment 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 Ferrone’s locker opened and the contents examined, with no startling disclosures. 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 signal statements from a table, and sat down and read them through, without anyone noticing. By that time the commissioner and the district attorney had arrived, and they had eight or nine quiz posts going in the various rooms, and Hennessy was doing his best to keep it organized. I collected all I could for Wolfe. The bat that had been used to crack Ferrone’s skull was no stock item, but a valued trophy. With it, years back, there had been belted a grand slam home run that had won a pennant, and it 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 a container of sodium phenobarbital tablets. There were 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? But it had been Art Kinney himself. Around eight o’clock they turned a big batch loose. Twenty men, 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 one o’clock and had got into uniform; a dozen of the men had been in the locker room with him. He had been present during a pre-game session with Kinney in the clubroom, and no one remembered seeing him leave afterwards. When they trooped out and down the stairs and emerged onto the field, Ferrone’s absence was not noticed until they had been in the dugout for 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. 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. “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 remark 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 approached the couch, followed by Chisholm. Skinner kept it friendly: “I’ve just learned that four men who were told they could go are still here: Baker, Prentiss, Neill, and Eston. When Inspector Hennessy asked them why, they told him that Mr Chisholm had asked them to stay. Mr Chisholm says that he did so at your suggestion. He understood that you wanted to speak with them after our men have all left. Is that correct?” Wolfe nodded. “I made it quite plain, I thought.” “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?” Wolfe shook his head. “No, sir.” Hennessy took a step forward. “Look,” he said; “this is the Bronx. You don’t turn this murder into a parlour 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, but arrived at the dugout three or four minutes later, just before Ferrone’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?” “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 Dr Soffer, I suppose, because when Ferrone was missed in the dugout Soffer 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, 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, about one o’clock, he had the others escorted to the stands, 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, 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 beer bottle to his lips, tilted it, and swallowed. 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. Pfui!” “Very rude, I’m sure,” 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: Dr Soffer, Mr Kinney, Mr Durkin, and of course Mr Chisholm himself. I am not arranging a parlour 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. Well, 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 thousands of men to command—and I but one? One little fact strikes me, as apparently it has not struck you, and in my forlorn desperation I decide to test my interpretation of it. For that test I need help, and I ask Mr Chisholm to provide it.” “We’ll be glad to help,” Skinner offered. “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—” “But 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. 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—how many of them can you say positively 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?” We all turned, as a man came in from the locker room. District Attorney Megalech of the Bronx was as masterful as they come and 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 through the door to Kinney’s office. Chisholm, uninvited, wheeled and followed them. Wolfe reached for a sandwich and I arose 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 get nothing better. Evidently they have nothing at all. You heard them.” “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 still be 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 hall door stood a cop. 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 . . . It was dumb to be so surprised, but I was. I might have known that the news that New York had been doped out of the game and the Series, and that Nick Ferrone, the rookie of the year, had been murdered, would draw a record mob. Downstairs inside 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 that October night. As they wouldn’t shake loose, I dived through the cordon and into the mob. It looked hopeless. The only parked cars in sight on that side of the street were police cars. I pushed through to the fringe of the throng and made my way two blocks south. Having made inquiries of two members of the team hours before, I knew what I was looking for: a light-blue sedan. I crossed the street and headed for the parking plaza. Two cops in 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 was a light-blue sedan. 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 and said hello. “Who are you?” she demanded. “My name’s Archie Goodwin. I’ll show credentials if you are Mrs William 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 licence card. “If you are who I think you are,” I said, “this will identify me.” “Okay, your name’s Goodman.” She ignored the card. “So what?” “Not Goodman.” I pronounced it for her: “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. Her companion, the redhead who had been with her in the box, reached for the knob, and the radio died. “Look, Lila,” she said earnestly; “you’re acting like a sap. Invite him in. He may be human. Maybe Bill sent him.” “What did Walt tell us?” Lila snapped at her. “Nero Wolfe is there working with the cops.” She came back to me: “Did my husband send you? Prove it.” I put a foot on the edge of the frame, not aggressively. “That’s one reason,” I said, “why Mr Wolfe can’t stand women. The way they flop around, intellectually. I didn’t say your husband sent me. He didn’t. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, because for the past hour he has been kept in the locker room conversing with a gathering of homicide hounds, and still is. Mr Wolfe sent me. But in a way it’s a personal problem I’ve got, and no one but you can help me.” “You’ve got a personal problem! You have! Take it away.” “I will if you say so, but wait till I tell you. Up to now they have only one reason for picking on your husband. The players left the clubhouse for the field in a bunch—all but one of them, who left later and got to the dugout a few minutes after the others. It was Bill Moyse. They all agreed on that, and Bill admits it. The cops figure that he had seen or heard something that made him suspect Nick Ferrone of doping the drinks—you know about that? That the Beebright was doped?” “Yes. Walt Goidell told me.” She gestured toward the redhead. “Helen’s husband. He’s on the team.” “And that he stayed behind with Ferrone to put it to him, and Nick got tough, and he got tougher, with a baseball bat. That’s how the cops figure it, and that’s why they’re after Bill. But I have a private reason, confided only to Nero Wolfe, to think that the cops have got it twisted. Mr Wolfe is inclined to agree with me, but he hasn’t told the cops, because he has been hired by Chisholm and wants to earn a fat fee. My private slant is that if Bill did kill Ferrone—please note the ‘if’—it wasn’t because he caught Ferrone doping the drinks, but the other way around. Ferrone caught Bill doping the drinks, and was going to spill it, and Bill killed him.” She was goggling at me. “You have the nerve—!” “Hold it. I’m telling you. This afternoon at the game I was in a box. By the sixth inning I had had plenty of the game and looked around for something to take my mind off it, and I saw an extremely attractive girl. I looked at her some more. I had a feeling that I had seen her before, but couldn’t place her. The score was eleven to one, the home team were flat on their faces, and that lovely specimen was exactly what my eyes needed—except for one flaw. She was having a swell time. Her whole face and manner showed it. She liked what was happening out on the field.” She was trying to say something, but I raised my voice a little: “Wait till I tell you. Later, after the game, in the clubhouse, Bill Moyse said his wife was waiting for him, and someone made a crack about showing me her picture. Then it clicked. I remembered seeing a picture of his bride in the Gazette, and it was the girl I had seen in the stands. Then, later, I had a chance to ask some of the players some questions, and I learned that she usually drove to games in Bill’s light-blue sedan and waited for him after the game. It puzzled me that it made the wife of a New York player happy to see his team getting walloped in the deciding game of a World Series, and Mr Wolfe agreed. Why were you tickled stiff to see them losing?” “I wasn’t.” “It’s perfectly ridiculous,” the redhead snorted. I shook my head. “That won’t do. Mr Wolfe accepts my judgment on girls, and I have told him you were happy. If I go back and report that you flatly deny it, I don’t see how he can do anything but tell the cops, and that will be bad. They’ll figure that you wanted New York to lose because you knew Bill did, and why. Then, of course, they’ll refigure the murder and get a new answer—that Ferrone found out that Bill had doped the drinks, and Bill killed him. They’ll start on Bill all over again and—” “Stop it!” “I was only saying, if they—” The redhead horned in, then. “How dumb can you get?” she demanded. “You say you know girls! Do you know baseball girls? I’m one! I’m Helen Goidell, Walt’s wife. I would have liked to slap Lila this afternoon, sitting there gloating, much as I love her. But I’m not a sap like you! She’s not married to the team, she’s married to Bill! Lew Baker had batted 132 in the first six games of the Series, and he had made four errors and had nine bases stolen on him, and still they wouldn’t give Bill a chance. Lila had sat through those six games praying to see Bill walk out—and not once! What did she care about the Series? She wanted to see Bill in it. And look at Baker this afternoon! If he had been doped, all right, but Lila didn’t know it then. All she knew was that Bill was probably going to get his chance. What you know about girls, you nitwit!” She was blazing. “I’m still willing to learn,” I said agreeably. “Is she right, Mrs Moyse?” “Yes.” “Then I am, too, on the main point? You were pleased to see New York losing?” “I said she was right.” “Yeah. Then I’ve still got a problem. If I accept your version, and report to Wolfe accordingly, he’ll accept it, too. Whether you think I know girls or not, he does. So that’s some responsibility for me. What if you’re a lot smoother and trickier than I think you are? Your husband is suspected of murder, and they’re still working on him. What if he’s guilty and they manage to squeeze out of you what they need to hook him? How will I look if they do? Any suggestions?” Lila had none. She sat with her head lowered, silent. “You sound almost human,” Helen Goidell said. “That’s deceptive,” I told her. “I turn it on and off. If I thought she had something Mr Wolfe could use I’d stop at nothing, even hair-pulling. But at the moment I really don’t think she has. I think she’s pure and innocent and wholesome. Her husband is another matter. For her sake, I hope he wriggles out of it somehow, but I’m not taking any bets. The cops seem to like him, and I know cops as well as I do girls.” I removed my foot from the car frame. “So long and so forth.” I turned to go. “Wait a minute.” It was Lila. I turned back. Her head was up. “Is this straight?” she asked. “Is what straight?” “You’re going to tell Mr Wolfe you’re satisfied about me?” “Well. Satisfied is quite a word. I’m going to tell him I have bought your explanation of your happiness at the game—or, rather, Mrs Goidell’s.” “You could be a liar.” “Not only could be, I often am, but not at the moment.” She regarded me. “Maybe you can tell me about Bill,” she said. “They don’t really think he killed Nick Ferrone, do they?” “They think maybe he did.” “I know he didn’t.” “Good for you. But you weren’t there, so you don’t have a vote.” She nodded. She was being hard and practical. “Are they going to arrest him? Will they really charge him with murder?” “I can’t say. But Bill is the leading candidate.” “Then I’ve got to do something. I wish I knew what he’s telling them. Do you know?” “Only that he’s denying he knows anything about it. He says he left the clubhouse after the others had gone, because he went back to the locker room to change to other shoes.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean that. I mean, whether he told them—” She stopped. “No. I know he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He knows something and I know it, too, about a man trying to fix that game. Only, he wouldn’t tell, on account of me. I have to go and see someone downtown. Will you come along?” “To see who?” “I’ll tell you on the way.” Helen Goidell blurted, “For heaven’s sake, Lila, do you know what you’re saying?” If Lila replied I missed it, for I was on my way around the car. It was a little headstrong to dash off with a damsel, leaving Wolfe up there with mass-production sandwiches, warm beer, and his one measly little fact he was saving up, but this might be really hot. By the time I got around to the other door Helen had it open and was getting out. Her feet on the ground, she turned to speak: “I don’t want any part of this, Lila. I do not! I wish I’d gone with Walt instead of staying with you!” She turned and trotted off, towards the street. I climbed in and pulled the door shut. “She’ll tell Walt,” Lila said. I nodded. “Yeah. But does she know where we’re going?” “No.” “Then let’s go.” She started the engine, levered to reverse, and backed the car. Under ordinary circumstances she was probably a pretty good driver, but that night wasn’t ordinary for her. Swinging right, there was a little click on my side as we grazed the fender of a stopped car. Rolling up the grade, we slipped between two taxis, clearing by an inch, and both hackmen yelled at her. Stopping for a light at the crest, she turned her head and spoke: “It’s my Uncle Dan. His name is Gale. He came last night and asked me—” She fed gas and we shot forward, but a car heading uptown and squeezing the light was suddenly there smack in our path. With a lightning reflex her foot hit the brake, the other car zipped by with at least a foot to spare, she fed gas again, and the sedan jerked forward. I asked her, “Taking the Highway?” “Yes, it’s quicker.” “It will be if you make it. Just concentrate on that and let the details wait.” She got to the downtown side of the highway without any actual contact with other vehicles, turned into the left lane and stepped on it. The speedometer said fifty-five when she spoke again. “If I go ahead and tell you, I can’t change my mind. He wanted me to persuade Bill to fix the game. He said he’d give us ten thousand dollars. I didn’t even want to tell Bill, but he insisted, so I did. I knew what Bill would say—” She broke off to do some expert weaving, swerving to the middle lane, then a sprint, then swinging back to the left again in front of a couple of cars that had slowed her down to under fifty. “Look,” I told her; “you could gain up to two minutes this way with luck, but getting stopped and getting a ticket would take at least ten. You’re driving, okay, but don’t try to talk, too.” She didn’t argue, but she held the pace. I twisted around to keep an eye on the rear through the window, and stayed that way clear to 57th Street. We rolled down the ramp and a block south, turned left on 56th Street, had a green light at Eleventh Avenue, and went through. A little short of Tenth Avenue we turned into the kerb and stopped. Lila reached for the hand brake and gave it a yank. “Let’s hear it,” I said. “Enough to go on. Is Uncle Dan a gambler?” “No.” Her face turned to me. “I’m afraid of him.” “Then what is he?” “He runs a drugstore. He owns it. That’s where we’re going to see him. My father and mother died when I was just a kid, and Uncle Dan has been good to me—as good as he could. If it hadn’t been for him I’d have been brought up in an orphans’ home. Of course, Bill wanted to tell Art Kinney last night, but he didn’t on account of me, and that’s why he’s not telling the cops.” “Maybe he is telling them, or soon will.” She shook her head. “I know Bill. We decided we wouldn’t tell, and that settled it. Uncle Dan made me promise we wouldn’t tell before he said what he wanted.” I grunted. “Even so, he was crowding his luck, telling you two about the programme before signing you up. If he explained the idea of doping the Beebright—” “But he didn’t! He didn’t say how it was to be done. He didn’t get that far, because Bill said nothing doing, as I knew he would.” I eyed her. “This was last night?” “Yes.” “What time?” “Around eight o’clock. We had dinner early with Helen and Walt Goidell, and when we got home Uncle Dan was there waiting for us.” “Where’s home?” “Our apartment on Seventy-ninth Street. He spoke to me alone first, and then insisted I had to ask Bill.” “And Bill turned him down flat?” “Of course he did!” “Bill didn’t see him alone later?” “Of course not!” “All right, don’t bite. I need to know. Now what?” “We’re going to see him. We’re going to tell him that we have to tell the cops, and we’re going to try to get him to come along. That’s why I wanted you with me, because I’m afraid of him—I mean, I’m afraid he’ll talk me out of it. But they’ve got to know that Bill was asked to fix the game and he wouldn’t. If it’s hard on Uncle Dan that’s too bad, but I can’t help it. I’m for Bill, all the way.” I was making myself look at her, for discipline. I was having the normal male impulses at the sight and sound of a good-looking girl in trouble, and they were worse than normal because I was partly responsible. I had given her the impression that the cops were about set to take her Bill on the big one, which was an exaggeration. I hadn’t mentioned that one reason they were keeping him was his reaction to the interest Nick Ferrone had shown in her, which of course had no bearing on anyone’s attempt to fix a ball game. True, she had been in a mess before I had got to her, but I had shoved her in deeper. What she needed now was understanding and sympathy, and I was all she had. Which was I, a man or a detective? “Okay,” I said, “let’s go see Uncle Dan.” The engine was running. She released the hand brake, fed gas, and we rolled. Three minutes got us to Eighth Avenue, where we turned downtown. The car slowed and she pulled in at the kerb. “There it is.” She pointed. “Gale’s Pharmacy.” It was ten paces down. There were lights in the window, but otherwise it looked drab. I got out and held the door, and she joined me on the sidewalk. She put a hand on my arm. “You’re staying right with me,” she stated. “Absolutely,” I assured her. “I’m good with uncles.” As we crossed to the entrance and went inside I was feeling not fully dressed. I have a routine habit of wearing a gun when I’m on a case involving people who may go to extremes, but, as I said, I do not go armed to ball games. However, at first sight of Daniel Gale I did not put him in that category. His drugstore was so narrow that a fat man would have had to squeeze between the soda-fountain stools and the central showcase, and that made it look long, but it wasn’t. Five or six customers were on the stools, and the soda jerk was busy. At the cosmetics counter on the left, a woman was being waited on by a little guy with a pale, tight-skinned face, wearing glasses. “That’s him,” Lila whispered to me. We waited near the door. Uncle Dan, concentrating on the customer, hadn’t seen us. Finally the customer made her choice and, as he tore off paper to wrap the purchase, his eyes lifted and he saw Lila. Also, he saw me, beside her. He froze. He held it, rigid, for seconds, then came to, went on with the wrapping job, and was handed a bill by the customer. While he was at the cash register Lila and I crossed to the counter. As he handed the woman her change, Lila spoke: “Uncle Dan, I’ve got to tell you—” She stopped because he was gone. Without speaking, he turned and made for the rear, disappeared behind a partition, and a door closed. I didn’t like it, but didn’t want to start a commotion by hurdling the counter, so I stepped to the end and circled, went to the door that had closed, and turned the knob. It was locked. There I was, out at first, unless I was prepared to smash the door in. The soda jerk called, “Hey, Mac, come out of that!” “It’s all right,” Lila told him. “I’m his niece— Mr Gale is my Uncle Dan.” “I never saw you before, lady . . . You, Mac, come out here where you belong! Whose uncle are you?” A couple of the fountain customers gave him his laugh. Then the door I was standing by popped open and Uncle Dan was there, beside me. “Henry!” he called. “Right here!” the soda jerk called back. “Take over for a while— I’ll be busy. Come here, Lila, will you?” Lila circled the end of the counter and approached us. There wasn’t room enough to be gallant and let her pass, so I followed Gale through the door into the back room ahead of her. It was small, and the stacks of shipping cartons and other objects took most of what space there was. The rows of shelves were crammed with packaged merchandise, except those along the right wall, which held labelled bottles. Gale stopped near the door, and Lila and I went on by. “We don’t want to be disturbed,” Gale said, and bolted the door. “Why not?” I inquired. He faced me, and from a distance of five arms’ lengths, with Lila between us, I had my first good view of the eyes behind the specs. They were cold and deadly. “Because,” he was telling me, “this is a private matter. You see, I recognized you, Mr Goodwin. Your face is not as well known as your employer’s, but it has been in the papers on several occasions, and you were in my mind on account of the news. The radio bulletins have included the detail that Nero Wolfe and his assistant were present and engaged by Mr Chisholm. So when I saw you with my niece I realized we should talk privately. But you’re an impulsive young man, and for fear you may not like what I say, I make conditions. I shall stay here near the door. You will move to that packing case back of you and sit on it, with your hands in sight and making no unnecessary movements. My niece will put the chair here in front of me and sit on it, facing you, between you and me. That way I will feel free to talk.” I thought he was batty. As a setup against one of my impulses, including a gun if I had had one, it made no sense at all. I backed up to the packing case and lowered myself, resting my hands on my knees to humour him. When Lila saw me complying she moved the chair, the only one there, as directed, and sat with her back to her uncle. He, himself, went to a narrow counter, picked up a bottle of colourless liquid, removed the glass stopper, held it to his nose, and sniffed. “I do not have fainting spells,” he said apologetically, “but at the moment I am a little unstrung. Seeing my niece here with you was a real shock for me. I came back here to consider what it might mean, but reached no conclusion. Perhaps you’ll explain?” “Your niece will. Tell him, Lila.” She started to twist around in the chair, but he commanded her: “No, my dear, stay as you were. Face Mr Goodwin.” He took another sniff at the bottle. She obeyed. “It’s Bill,” she said. “They’re going to arrest him for murder, and they mustn’t. They won’t, if we tell them how you offered to pay him for fixing the game and he wouldn’t do it. He won’t tell them, on account of me, so we have to. I know I promised you I wouldn’t, but now I’ve got to. You see how it is, Uncle Dan; I’ve got to.” “You haven’t told the police?” “No. I thought the best way was to come and get you to go with me. I was afraid to come alone, because I know how bad it will be for you, but it will be worse for Bill if we don’t. Don’t you see, Uncle—?” “Keep your back turned, Lila. I insist on it. That’s right; stay that way.” He had been talking in an even low tone, but now his voice became thin and strained: “I’ll tell you why I want your back to me—so I can’t see your face . . . Remember, Goodwin, don’t move! . . . This is a bottle of pure sulphuric acid. I was smelling it just to explain why I had it; of course, it has no smell. I suppose you know what it will do. This bottle is nearly full, and I’m holding it carefully, because one drop on your skin will scar you for life. That’s why I want your back to me. Lila. I’m very fond of you, and I don’t want to see your face if I have to use this acid. If you move, Lila dear, I’ll use it. Or you, Goodwin; especially you. I hope you both understand?” His hand holding the bottle hovered inches above her head. She looked as if she might keel over, and I urged her, “Sit tight, Lila, and don’t scream.” “Yes,” Uncle Dan said approvingly. “I should have mentioned that. Screaming would be as bad as moving. I had to tell you about the acid before I discussed matters. I’m not surprised at your fantastic suggestion, Lila, because I know how foolish you can be, but I’m surprised at you, Goodwin. How could you expect me to consent to my complete ruin? Did Lila persuade you that I am an utter fool?” “I guess she must have,” I admitted. “What kind of man are you?” He proceeded to tell me, and I pretended to listen. I also tried to keep my eyes on his pale, tight-skinned face, but that wasn’t easy, because they were fascinated by the bottle he was holding. Meanwhile, my brain was buzzing. Unless he was plain loony the only practical purpose of the bottle must be to gain time—and for what? “. . . and I will,” he was saying. “This won’t kill you, Lila dear, but it will be horrible, and I don’t want to do it unless I have to. Only, you mustn’t think I won’t. You don’t really know me very well, because to you I’m just Uncle Dan. You didn’t know that I once had a million dollars and I was an important and dangerous man. There were people who knew me and feared me, but I was unlucky. I have gambled and made fortunes, and lost them. That affects a man’s nerves. It changes a man’s outlook on life. I borrowed enough money to buy this place, and for years I worked hard and did well—well enough to pay it all back. But that was my ruin. I owed nothing and had a little cash and decided to celebrate by losing one hundred dollars to some old friends—just one hundred dollars, but I didn’t lose. I won several thousand. After that I went on, and lost what I had won, and I lost this place. “So I don’t own this place; my friends do. They are very old friends, and they gave me a chance to get this place back. I’m telling you about this, Lila dear, because I want you to understand. I came to you and Bill with that offer because I had to, and you promised me, you swore you would tell no one. I have been an unlucky man, and sometimes a weak one, but I am never going to be weak again— Don’t move!” Lila, who had lifted her head a little, stiffened. I sat gazing at Gale. Obviously, he was stalling for time, but what could he expect to happen? It could be only one thing: he expected somebody to come. He expected help. As soon as he had seen us he had scooted back here to phone somebody. Help was on the way, the kind of help that would deal with Lila and me efficiently and finally; and big-time gamblers who could provide ten grand to fix a game are just the babies to be ready with that kind of help. Either he was loony or that was it. But then what? They might come any second; they might be entering the drugstore right now. Any second a knock on the door might come . . . Gale was talking: “I didn’t think you’d tell, Lila, after all I’ve done for you. You promised me you wouldn’t. Now, of course, you’ve told Goodwin and it can’t be helped. If I just tip this bottle—” “Nuts,” I said emphatically, but not raising my voice. “You haven’t got it staged right.” I had my eyes straight on his specs. “Maybe you don’t want to see her face, but the way you’ve got her, with her back to you, it’s no good. What if she suddenly ducked, and dived forward? You might get some on her clothes or her feet, but the chair would be in your way. Have you considered that? . . . Better still, what if she suddenly darted sideways in between those cartons? The instant she moved I’d be moving, too, and that would take her out of my path. She’d be taking a chance, but that would be better than sitting there waiting for the next act. Unquestionably, it would be better for her to go sideways—with her head down and her arms out. You see how bum your arrangement is? But if you make her turn and face you—” She moved. She went sideways, to her left, her head down and her arms out, diving for the cartons. I lost a tenth of a second because I hadn’t dared to pull my feet back ready for the spring, but that was all I lost. I didn’t leap, I just went, with all the force my leg muscles could give it. My target was the bottom of the left front leg of the chair, and I went in flat, face down, and had the leg before he could get under way. The impact of the chair knocked him back against the door, and I kept going and grabbed his ankle and jerked. Of course, the bottle could have landed right on me, but I had to get him off his feet. As I yanked his ankle I kept my face down, and he tumbled. The next thing I knew I was on top of him, pinning him, with a grip on his throat, looking around for the bottle. It had never reached the floor. It had landed on a carton six feet to my right and lay there on its side, the stuff gurgling out. The floor slanted toward the wall, so no flood threatened me. “Okay, Lila,” I said. “I need help.” She was scrambling to her feet. “Did he—did it—” She giggled. “No. If you have hysterics I’ll tell Bill. Slap yourself; I can’t.” “But he—” “Shut up. Company’s coming and we’ve got to get out of here. I want some adhesive tape quick.” She started looking on shelves and in drawers. “Watch your step,” I told her. “That stuff’s spreading to the floor . . . When I said I was good with uncles I didn’t mean uncles like him. He’s a lulu. He—” “Here it is.” “Good girl. Tear off a piece six inches long . . . that’s it. Now across his mouth good and tight, diagonally. Now one the other way . . . That ought to do it, thank you, nurse. Now find some nice sterile bandage.” She found that, too, and held his arms while I sat on his knees and tied his ankles. Then I fastened his wrists behind him and anchored the strip of bandage to the handle of a locked drawer. I squatted for a look at the tape on his mouth, gave it a rub, stood up, went to the door, and pushed the bolt. “Come on,” I told her. I opened the door and she passed through. I followed and pulled the door to. There were customers on the fountain stools, and Henry was selling a man a pack of cigarettes. I paused on my way to the street door to tell him that Mr Gale would be out soon, then opened the door to Lila. On the sidewalk I told her to wait in the car while I made a phone call. Up twenty paces was a bar and grill. I went in, found a phone booth, dialled Manhattan Homicide, asked for Sergeant Purley Stebbins, and got him. He wanted to know if I was still up at the ball park. I told him no. “Where I am,” I said, “is top secret. I’m giving you a hot one.” I gave him the address of Gale’s Pharmacy. “Get a prowl car there fast, and plenty of reinforcements. Gale, the owner, on information received, was the go-between for the gamblers who fixed the ball game. He’s in the back room of his store, gagged and tied.” “Is this a gag?” “No. The reason for the hurry is that I think Gale sent for a rescue squad to deal with certain parties who are no longer there, and it would be nice to get there in time to welcome them. So PD cars should not park in front. Be sure to tell them not to step in the stuff on the floor that looks like water, because it’s sulphuric acid. That’s all. Got the address?” “Yes. Where are you? And—” “Sorry, I’ve got a date. This could make you a lieutenant. Step on it.” I went out and back to the car. Lila was on the driver’s side, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “Move over,” I said. “I’ll do the driving this time.” She slid across, and I got in and pulled the door to. I sat. Half a minute went by. “Where are we going?” she asked. Her voice was so weak I barely got it. “Uptown. Where Bill is.” Maybe he was. “Why don’t we start?” “I phoned for cops. If others come before the cops do I want to get a look at them. In case I forget it later, I want to mention that that was a beautiful dive you made, and the timing couldn’t have been better. I’m for you, only spiritually of course, since you’re happily married.” “I want to get away from here. I want to see Bill.” “You will. Relax.” We sat, but not for long. It couldn’t have been more than four minutes before a pair of cops swung around the corner, headed for the entrance to Gale’s Pharmacy, and then entered. I pushed the starter button . . . It was only half an hour short of midnight when I stopped the car at the kerb across the street from the main entrance to the ball park. The mob had dwindled to a few small knots, and of the long line of police cars only three were left. Two cops were having a tete-a-tete in front of the entrance. Lila was a quick mover. She had got out and circled the car to my side by the time I hit the pavement. I gave her the ignition key and we were crossing the street when suddenly she let out a squawk and started to run. I took another step, and stopped. Bill Moyse was there, emerging from the entrance, with a dick on either side of him and one behind. Lila ended her run in a flying leap and was on him. The startled dicks grabbed for her, and the two uniformed cops started toward them. I would have liked to deliver Lila to Wolfe, or at least to Hennessy, but there was a fat chance of tearing her loose from her second-string catcher. Also, I did not care to get hung up explaining to a bunch of underlings how I happened to be chauffeuring for Mrs Moyse, so I detoured around the cluster, made it inside the entrance, and headed for the clubhouse stairs. Hearing heavy footsteps above, starting down, and voices, one of them Hennessy’s, I slipped quietly behind a pillar. Surely Stebbins had informed the Bronx of my phone call about the situation at Gale’s Pharmacy, and so surely Hennessy would be inquisitive enough to want to take me along wherever he was going. I didn’t risk peeking around the pillar, but, judging from the footsteps, there were four or five men. As soon as they had faded out I went on up the stairs. I was not chipper. I did not have Lila. I had been gone more than two hours. Wolfe might have gone home. They might all be gone. But they weren’t. Wolfe was in the clubroom, on the leather couch, and Chisholm was standing. As I entered, their heads turned to me. ”The police are looking for you,” Wolfe said coldly. “Uh-huh.” I played it indifferent. “I just dodged a squad.” “Why did you go to that drugstore?” I raised the brows. “Oh, you’ve heard about it?” “Yes. Mr Hennessy did, and he was kind enough to tell me.” He was dripping sarcasm. “It is a novel experience, learning of your movements through the courtesy of a policeman.” “I was too busy to phone.” I glanced at Chisholm. “Maybe I should report privately.” “This is getting to be a farce,” Chisholm growled. His tie was crooked, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had a smear of mustard at the side of his mouth. “No,” Wolfe said, to me, not to Chisholm. “Go ahead. But be brief.” I obeyed. With the training and experience I have had I can report a day of dialogue practically verbatim, but he had said to be brief, so I condensed it, including all essentials. “Then you don’t know whether Gale was actually involved or not. When he failed with Mr and Mrs Moyse he may have quit trying.” “I doubt it.” “You could have resolved the doubt. You were sitting on him. Or you could have brought him here.” I might have made three or four cutting remarks if an outsider hadn’t been present. I stayed calm. “Maybe I didn’t make it clear,” I conceded generously. “It was ten to one he had phoned for help, the kind of help that would leave no doubts to resolve, and it might have come any second. Not that I was scared—I was too busy—but I wanted to see you once more so I could resign. I resign.” “Bosh.” Wolfe put his hands on the leather seat for leverage and raised himself to his feet. “Very well. I’ll have to try it.” Chisholm put in, “Inspector Hennessy said to notify him immediately if Goodwin showed up.” Wolfe wheeled on him, snarling. “Am I working for you? Yes! Notify Mr Hennessy? Bah!” He turned and strode through the door that led to Art Kinney’s office. Chisholm and I fell in behind. They were all in there. The four who were famous athletes didn’t look very athletic just at present. Their sap had started draining with the first inning of that awful ball game, and it hadn’t stopped for more than ten hours. Lew Baker, catcher, and Con Prentiss, short-stop, were perched on a desk. Joe Eston, third baseman, and Nat Neill, centre-fielder, were on chairs. Art Kinney, the manager, was standing over by a window. Doc Soffer was seated at Kinney’s desk, bent over, with his elbows on his knees and his face covered by his hands. Beaky Durkin was propped against a table, saggy and bleary-eyed. “It had better be good,” someone said. I didn’t know who, because I was placing a chair for Wolfe where he could see them all without straining his neck. When he was in it, with nothing to spare between the arms, I crossed to a vacant seat over by the radio. Chisholm was there, at my right. Wolfe’s head moved from side to side and back again. “I hope,” he said grumpily, “you’re not expecting too much.” “I’m through expecting,” Kinney muttered. Wolfe nodded. “I know how you feel, Mr Kinney. All of you. You are weary and low in spirit. You have been personally and professionally humiliated. You have all been talked at too much. I’m sorry I have to prolong it, but I had to wait until the police were gone. Also, since I have no evidence, I had to let them complete their elaborate and skilled routine in search of some. They got none. Actually, they have nothing but a druggist that Mr Goodwin got for them.” “They’ve got Bill Moyse,” Con Prentiss rumbled. “Yes, but on suspicion, not on evidence. Of course I admit, because I must, that I am in the same fix. I, too, have a suspicion but no evidence, only mine is better-grounded. I suspect one of you eight men of drugging the drinks and killing Ferrone. What I—” They made enough noise to stop him. He held up a palm. “If you please, gentlemen. I have a question to put. I suspect one of you, but I have no evidence and no way of getting any speedily. That is why I asked Mr Chisholm to keep you here for consultation with me after the departure of the police. I wanted to ask you: Do you want to help? I would like to tell you the reason for my suspicion and ask you to help me get evidence to support it. I think you can if you will. Well?” “One of us?” Joe Eston demanded. It was interesting to see them. Naturally, they all had an impulse, all but one, anyway, to look around at faces, but no two of them handled it exactly alike. Chisholm looked straight and full at each in turn. Beaky Durkin sent quick little glances here and there. Doc Soffer, frowning and pursing his lips, turned his head slowly left to right. “Go ahead!” Kinney blurted. “Have you got something or not?” “Yes, I have something,” Wolfe assured him, “But I don’t know how good it is. Without your help it is no good at all.” “We’ll help if we can. Let’s hear it.” “Well. First the background. Were the two events—the drugging of the drinks and the murder—connected? The reasonable supposition is yes, until and unless it is contradicted. If they were connected, how? Did Ferrone drug the drinks, and did one of his team-mates discover it and, enraged, go for him with the bat? It seems unlikely.” Wolfe focused on Beaky Durkin: “Mr Durkin, you knew Ferrone better than anyone else. You discovered him and got him here. You were his roommate and counsellor. You told me that because of his brilliant performance this season his salary for next year would be doubled; that his heart was set on winning today’s game and the Series; that winning or losing meant a difference of some two thousand dollars to him personally; that his Series money would pay his debts, with some to spare; and that, knowing him intimately, you are positive that he could not have been bribed to drug the drinks. Is that correct?” “It sure is.” Durkin was hoarse and cleared his throat. “Nick was a swell kid.” He looked around as if ready for an argument, but nobody started one. “Do any of you dispute it?” Wolfe asked. They didn’t. “Then without evidence it is idiotic to assume that he drugged the drinks. The alternative, suppose that the two events were connected, is the reverse: that someone drugged the drinks and Ferrone knew or suspected it and was going to expose him, and was killed. That is how I see it. Call him X. X could have—” “Don’t beat around the bush,” Kinney blurted. “Name him!” “Presently. X could have put the drugged drinks in the cooler any time during the late morning, as opportunity offered. What led Ferrone to suspect him of skulduggery may not be known, but conjecture offers a wide choice. Ferrone’s suspicion may have been only superficial, but to X any suspicion whatever was a mortal menace, knowing, as he did, what was going to happen on the ball field. When Ferrone questioned him he had to act. The two were, of course, in this room together, at the time the rest of you were leaving the clubroom for the field or shortly after. X was, as so many have been, the victim of progressive emergency. At first he needed only money, and to get it he stooped to scoundrelism; but it betrayed him into needing the life of a fellow man.” “Cut the rhetoric,” Chisholm snapped. “Name him.” Wolfe nodded. “Naming him is easy. But it is pointless to name him, and expose myself to an action for slander, unless I can enlist your help. As I said, I have no evidence. All I have is a fact about one of you, a fact known to all of you and to the police, which seems to me to point to guilt. But I admit that other interpretations are conceivable. You are better judges of that than I am, and I’m going to present it for your consideration.” He aimed his gaze at Baker and Prentiss, perched on a desk, raised a hand, slowly, and scratched the tip of his nose. His eyes moved to pin Doc Soffer. His head jerked to the left, to focus on Chisholm, and the right, to Beaky Durkin. He spoke: “I’ll illustrate my meaning. Take you, Mr Durkin. You have accounted for yourself, but you have been neither contradicted nor corroborated. You say you left the clubhouse shortly before the team did and went to your seat in the grandstand.” “That’s right.” Durkin was still hoarse. “And I didn’t kill Nick.” “I didn’t say you did. I am merely expounding. You say you remained in your seat, watching the game, until the third inning, when you went sent for by Mr Chisholm to come to the clubhouse. That, too, is neither contradicted nor corroborated. Certainly you were there when you were sent for, but there is no proof that you had been there continuously since the game started and even before.” “I don’t know about proof, but I was. I can probably find the guy that was sitting next to me.” “You didn’t leave your seat once during that time?” “I did not.” Wolfe looked around. “Well, gentlemen. That’s the fact I can’t explain. Can you?” They were gawking at him. “Do we have to?” Baker demanded. “Someone does.” Wolfe’s voice sharpened: “Consider the situation. Consider the relationship of those two men. The discovery of Ferrone is Durkin’s proudest achievement as a baseball scout. He fosters him and treasures him. Today, now yesterday, at the game that was to be the climax of Ferrone’s triumphant season, Durkin is in the clubroom and sees Ferrone there in uniform, with the others, young, sound, mighty, valiant. He leaves the clubhouse and goes to a seat in the grandstand. Before long the loudspeaker announces that Garth, not Ferrone, will play second base. Durkin keeps his seat. The players take the field, and the game starts, with no Ferrone. Durkin keeps his seat. They play the first inning badly. Durkin keeps his seat. They play the second inning badly. Durkin keeps—” “Good lord!” Art Kinney yelled. “Exactly.” Wolfe lifted a hand. “Please, gentlemen, keep your seats. It is clearly fantastic. The announcement that Garth would play second base could have been taken by Durkin merely as a blunder, but when they took the field without Ferrone his consternation would have been insupportable. The one thing he couldn’t possibly have done was to stay in his seat. Why did you, Mr Durkin?” “I couldn’t think—” He tried to clear his throat and almost choked. “What could I do?” “I don’t know. I said I can’t explain what you did do, but I can try. Suppose the nonappearance of Ferrone was no surprise to you, because you knew where he was and what had happened to him. Suppose, further, you were in a state of severe systemic shock because you had murdered him. I submit that explanation of your keeping your seat is plausible. Can you offer any other?” Durkin took two steps. “Look here,” he said, “you can’t sit there and accuse me of a thing like that. I don’t have to stay and take it, and I’m not going to.” He started for the door, but Lew Baker was suddenly there in his path. “Back up, Beaky. I said back up!” Beaky did so, literally. He backed until his rump hit the edge of the table. He groped for support and braced himself. Wolfe was grim. “I was supposing, Mr Durkin, not accusing. But I am now ready to accuse, and I do. I explained, when I was calling you X, how and why you acted.” His eyes moved. “Gentlemen, I ask you to look at him. Look at his face, his eyes. Look at his hands, clutching the table in dismay and despair. Yes, I accuse him. I say that that man drugged your drinks, caused you to lose your game, and, threatened with exposure, murdered your teammate.” They were all on their feet, including Art Kinney. They were making threatening sounds. “Wait!” Wolfe said sharply, and they turned to him. “I must warn you, you approach him at your peril, for I have no proof. It will be gratifying to press a confession out of him, but a confession is not evidence, and we need some. I suggest that you try for it. He did it for money, and surely he was paid something in advance, unless he is a fool. Where is it? Certainly not on his person, since you have all been searched, but it is somewhere, and it would do admirably. Where is it?” Lew Baker got to Durkin ahead of the others. He told him in a thin, tight voice, so tight it twanged, “I wouldn’t want to touch you, Beaky, you dirty rat. Where is it? Where’s the jack?” “Lew, I swear to—” “Skip it! You fixed us, did you? And Nick—you fixed him. I’d hate to touch you, but if I do—” The others were there, Kinney and Doc Soffer with them, crowding in on Durkin, who had pulled back onto the table, still gripping the edge. I went to the end of the table and stood. They were all strong and hard, and their nervous systems had had a tough day. Aside from the killing of Nick Ferrone, this was the bird who had made them play ball like half-witted apes in the most important game of their lives, to an audience of fifty million. “Give me room, fellows,” Nat Neill said. “I’m going to plug him.” Durkin didn’t flinch. His jaw was quivering and his eyes looked sick, but he didn’t flinch. “This is wrong,” Con Prentiss said. “He wants us to hurt him. He’d like to be knocked cold. He’s not a coward; he’s just a snake.” “It’s a moral question,” Joe Eston said. “That’s the way to handle it.” Art Kinney shouldered between two of them to get his face within ten inches of Durkin’s. “Look, Beaky. You’ve been in baseball thirty years. You know everybody in the majors and we know you. What do you think’s going to happen? Where could you light? We’ve got you here now and we’re going to keep you. I’ll send for the whole team. How will you like that?” “I want a lawyer,” Durkin said. Neill roared. “He wants a lawyer! I’m going to clip him!” “No, Beaky, no lawyers,” Kinney said. “I’ll send for the boys and we’ll lock the doors. Where’s the money? Where is it?” Durkin’s head went forward, down. Kinney put a fist under his chin and yanked it up and held it. “No, you don’t. Look at me. We’ve got you, but even if we didn’t where could you go ? Where are you going to sleep and eat?” “Let me hold his chin,” Neill requested. “I’ll fix it for him.” “Shut up,” Eston told him. “It’s a moral question.” Kinney’s fist was still propping Durkin’s chin. “I think,” he said, “the boys ought to have a look at you. They won’t be sleeping anyhow, not tonight. Con, get on the phone and find them. You, too, Lew, the one in the clubroom. Get ’em here—get all of ’em you can. And tell them not to spill it. We don’t want any cops yet.” “No!” Durkin squawked. “No what, Beaky?” Kinney removed his fist. “I didn’t mean to kill Nick.” He was slobbering. “I swear I didn’t, Art. He suspected. He found out I bet a grand against us and he threw it at me. I brought him here to explain. But he wouldn’t believe me and was going to tell you, and he got sore and came at me, and I grabbed the bat just to stop him, and when I saw he was dead— You’ve got to believe me, Art. I didn’t want to kill Nick!” “You got more than a grand for doping the drinks.” “I’m coming clean, Art. You can check me and I’m coming clean. I got five grand and I’ve got five more coming. I had to have it, Art, because the bookies had me down and I was sunk. I was listed good if I didn’t come through. I had it on me, but with the cops coming I knew we’d be frisked, so I ditched it. You see I’m coming clean, Art. I ditched it there in the radio. I stuffed it in through a slot.” There was a scramble and a race. Prentiss tangled with a chair and went down with it, sprawling. Nat Neill won. He jerked the radio around and started clawing at the back, but the panel was screwed on. “Here,” I said, “I’ve got a—” He hauled off and swung with his bare fists; he yanked, and half the panel came off. He looked inside and started to stick his hand in, but I shouldered him, good and hard, and sent him sideways. The others were there, three of them, surrounding me. “Well?” Wolfe called. “A good, fat roll,” I told him and the world. “The one on the outside is a C.” Beaky Durkin, left to himself on the table, suddenly moved fast. He was on his feet and streaking for the door. Joe Eston, who had claimed it was a moral issue, leaped for him as if he had been a blazing line drive trying to get by, got to him, and landed with his right. “That will do,” Wolfe said, as one who had earned the right to command. “Thank you gentlemen. Archie, get Mr Hennessy.” I went to Kinney’s desk and reached for the phone. At the instant my fingers touched it, it rang. So instead of dialling I lifted it and feeling cocky, told it, “Nero Wolfe’s Bronx office, Goodwin speaking.” “This is Inspector Hennessy. Is Durkin there?” I said yes. “Fine. Hold him, and hold him good. We cracked Gale and he spilled everything. Durkin is it. Gale got to him and bought him. You’ll get credit for getting Gale—that’ll be all right—but I’ll appreciate it if you’ll hold off and let it be announced officially. We’ll be there for Durkin in five minutes.” “He’s stretched out here on the floor. Mr Wolfe hung it on him. Also, we have found a roll of lettuce he cached in the radio.” I hung up and turned to Wolfe: “That was Hennessy. They broke Gale and he unloaded. He gave them Durkin and they’re coming for him. “The trouble is this: Which of us crossed the plate first, you with your one little fact, or me with my druggist? You can’t deny that Hennessy’s call came before I started to dial him. How can we settle it?” We can’t. That was months ago, and it’s not settled yet. ------------------------------------