“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. “Damn it, I don’t want to. Baseball is a wonderful game, a clean 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, God knows what will happen. If we have to have them later, all right, but now here you are. 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. Where’d he go and why? 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.”
“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. “The locker room. The shower room is beyond.”