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, damn it, and 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, and after a second went on. “Also Nick Ferrone had disappeared. He was here with them in the clubhouse, he had got into uniform, and after they went out and were in 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 at 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!”