“Yes, sir.”
His shoulders went up a quarter of an inch and down again. “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. 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.
3
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 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 dozen 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 Chisholm. 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!”