A Handy Death

“I mean, slow is relative. Ryan’s got a .270 average. If he’s so slow, how does he rate that average? Especially when he has to practically walk down to first base he’s so fat? Remember Ernie Lombardy? He was before I was born, but he was slow. He had to hit a home run to get to first. But did anybody throw them right down the alley to him?” He shook his head. “Nobody with brains. Remember Herb Score? He threw one right down the alley to a slow hitter one day... What are you smiling at?”

“Not at what happened to Herb Score,” Ross assured him instantly. “It’s just that I think you’ve given me the answer to a certain wise-guy newspaperman.” He straightened his face. “All right. Then what caused the riot? Nobody is going to believe it was just a coincidence that the men rioted over a bad call just at the moment an escape attempt was being made.”

Billy Dupaul considered the other a moment before answering.

“Look, Mr. Ross. I may not be the brightest guy in the world, but I’m not the biggest dummy, either. I know the riot looks fixed and that I had to be in on it. But I wasn’t, and that’s all I can tell you.” He shook his head in disgust. “Hell, you don’t need four balls to start a riot during a ball game. A guy slides into base and whether he gets called safe or out, there’s enough for anybody to start a rumble!”

“Except for the timing,” Ross pointed out. “In this case, that was very important. They couldn’t wait for a man to reach base. The riot started just a few minutes after the game started.”

“If the game had started on time,” Dupaul said disgustedly, “there’d have been all the time in the world to rumble about anything.”

Ross became alert. “The game didn’t start on time?”

“Hell, no. We were set to begin at one o’clock, right after noon chow. We actually didn’t get started until damn near one-thirty. The key to the equipment room was missing.”

Ross leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest.

“Whose responsibility is the equipment room?”

“Father Swiaki,” Dupaul said. “But you can’t think he was in on any deal like that? That’s crazy!”

“I told you before, I’m just getting facts,” Ross said. He moved on. “Let’s drop the riot for the time being. I think I’ve got enough to work on there so we shouldn’t have too much to worry about. Let’s go back eight years to the Neeley case. All set?”

“All set.”

“All right. I’d like to talk about that twenty-two-caliber pistol that was used in shooting Neeley. I know what the transcript says; what I want is your opinion. How do you think this woman, Grace, got hold of it to give to you?”

There were several moments of silence. When Dupaul answered at last he sounded more curious than anything else; even more curious than relieved.

“You sound like you believe my testimony at the trial.”

“I have to believe it,” Ross said. “If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here, because there wouldn’t be a chance in a million of getting you off. Now, how do you think she got hold of the gun?”

Dupaul shook his head slowly, staring down at his hands.

“Mr. Ross,” he said at last, looking up, “I spent the first two years at Attica trying to figure that one out.”

“Only the first two years?”

“That’s all,” Dupaul said quietly, “because after that a guy can go crazy. I almost did, anyway. There just wasn’t any way at all she could have gotten hold of the gun. Or rather, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that there were about a million ways.”

“How’s that?”

“Well,” Dupaul said, “I guess at one time or another most of the team were in my room. And the mob up there at the time of the signing...”

Ross frowned. “The contract signing was in your hotel room?”

“Yes, sir. It was supposed to be out at the stadium, but the afternoon papers wanted to make the late edition, and my hotel room was in town, and so—” He shrugged. “That’s where it was.”

A sudden thought came to Ross, unrelated to anything.

“Was the Daily Mirror represented?”

“The Daily Mirror?” Dupaul looked at him. “What’s that?”

Ross smiled at his own ignorance.

“Nothing. That’s a paper that didn’t even exist then. I’m sorry. Who else could have had access to the gun while it was in your room?”

“Just about anyone who worked at the hotel, I guess,” Dupaul said. “The maids, the bellhops — hell, most of the staff either have master keys or can get hold of them easy enough. After the signing party, for example, there must have been half a dozen partially empty bottles of booze on a shelf in the closet. Until that night—” His voice trailed off, then returned, strong again. “Until that night I got so pie-eyed, we never touched a drop, but those bottles went down just the same.” He smiled his brief, unhumorous smile. “I doubt the mice were heavy drinkers.”

“We?”

“Me and Jim Marshall. He was my roommate. Then.”

There was something in Dupaul’s tone of voice that brought Ross’s attention to a head. He leaned forward, keeping his voice conversational.

“Marshall left a bit before you went out on your drunk, didn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“Why did he leave?”