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. 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.
“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—”
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?”