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 Cardinal infielder. He was Beaky Durkin, now a Giant scout, with a recent new lease on life because he had dug up Nick Ferrone out in Arkansas.
Chisholm jerked his arms up and pushed palms at Durkin. “Get out! Get the hell out!” He took a threatening step. “Send Doc — hey, Doc! Come in here!”
Durkin, backing out, collided with another in the doorway. The other was Doc Soffer, the Giants’ veteran medico, bald, wearing black-rimmed glasses, with 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 nuts. This is Nero Wolfe. You tell him.”
“Who are you?” Wolfe demanded.
Soffer stood before him. “I’m Doctor Horton Soffer,” he said, clipping it. “Four of my men, possible five, 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 twice, 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 — the same four men, Baker, Prentiss, Neill, and Eston — and I got an idea. I told Kinney, and he sent me here to investigate. You see that cooler?”
He pointed to a big white-enameled electric refrigerator standing against a wall. Mondor, seated near it, was staring at us.
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 big one too. I knew 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 and—”
“What is Beebright?”