Murder in the Ball Park

by Robert Goldsborough

  Wolfe nodded. “Just so. It has been some time since Mr. Cohen joined us for dinner. See if he is available tonight. Tell him we are having Cape Cod clam cakes, beef braised in red wine, squash with sour cream and dill, and avocado with watercress and black walnut kernels, followed by cherry tarts and, of course, that brandy he has often spoken of so highly.”

  This was a good sign. Lon Cohen is that “highly placed friend at the Gazette” I had mentioned to Elise DuVal. Wolfe and I had made use of Lon’s encyclopedic knowledge of the city and its cast of characters countless times over the years, and he had been rewarded with equally countless scoops when Wolfe cracked a case. Lon does not have a title I’m aware of at the nation’s fifth-largest newspaper, but he does have an office on the twentieth floor of the Gazette tower just two doors from the publisher’s lavish suite.

  “Good afternoon, oh noblest of ink-stained wretches,” I said when he picked up his phone on the second ring. “I trust you are busy directing a vast army of reporters who are uncovering crime, corruption, and conspiracies both at home and abroad.”

  “And you, I presume, are, as usual, trying to find ways of justifying that princely salary Nero Wolfe pays you,” Lon parried. “To what do I owe this interruption in my hectic schedule?”

  “Mr. Wolfe has humbly requested your presence at dinner this evening on West Thirty-Fifth Street. The menu consists of Cape Cod clam cakes, beef braised in red wine, squash with sour cream and dill, avocado with watercress and black walnut kernels, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I don’t believe Nero Wolfe ever acts or speaks humbly. But I like all that I’ve heard about dinner, including those et ceteras. Anything special I need to do to prepare myself?”

  “Just bring your brain. And, oh yes, I believe the word brandy may also have been mentioned.”

  “As in Remisier? For just a single bottle of that joyous elixir, I would sell my firstborn.”

  “We don’t want your firstborn, we just want your soul,” I told him. “See you at the usual time.”

  When the bell rang at seven o’clock, I swung the door open to Lon Cohen, lean, well dressed, shoes polished, black hair slicked down, and a thin smile on that dark, thoughtful face. If he was not the smartest newspaperman in New York, and maybe in the entire republic, I had yet to meet that individual. “Reporting as requested, Archie—and hungry as usual,” he said, giving me a mock bow.

  “Step inside, and we’ll soon take care of the hungry part.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were in the dining room sampling the Cape Cod clam cakes. Lon was itching to know what information Wolfe was looking for—that was invariably the reason for a dinner invite—but he well knew Wolfe’s “no business talk at the table” policy, so he joined in the dinner conversation on whether the United States would use atomic bombs against North Korea. Wolfe said no, I said probably, and Lon sided with Wolfe, arguing that Harry Truman had presided over enough nuclear devastation after Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

  Dinner behind us, we sat in the office with coffee while Fritz poured brandy for Lon and me, receiving a broad grin and a nod of appreciation from our guest. “Mr. Cohen,” Wolfe said, “I will ask a question I have posed to you on numerous occasions: Is it fair to say that in our past dealings, we have benefited more or less equally?”

  “I would have to say that when you factor in the meals here—and the incomparable Remisier—I have probably gotten the better of the deal,” Lon answered, raising his snifter in a salute.

  The folds in Wolfe’s cheeks deepened, which for him is a smile. “I am glad to hear that, for, once again, I am about to draw upon your storehouse of knowledge.”

  “By all means, draw away.”

  “A prospective client has asked me to investigate the murder at the Polo Grounds of Senator Orson Milbank.”

  Lon jerked upright in the red leather chair. “Well, I will be damned! When Archie called with the dinner invite, the first thing that occurred to me was that it had something to do with the Milbank shooting.”

  “You are perspicacious, sir. I have not yet accepted the commission, and I may not. To make a decision, I need more information.”

  “I’d love to know who your would-be client is, but I suppose that’s off-limits for now,” Lon said.

  “You suppose correctly, although if I accept the commission, you eventually will learn that person’s identity.”

  “Now comes a question you no doubt were expecting: Will I also get a scoop?”

  “I never make a promise I cannot keep, but that seems likely. Now for my second question of the evening: Was it widespread knowledge that Senator Milbank would be attending the baseball game on that fateful day?”

  “Very much so,” Lon said. “He has always been a strong proponent of citizens displaying the American flag at their businesses, homes, schools, and churches. He has even given flags free to his constituents who have requested them. And Milbank had made it known through his very efficient publicity mill that he would be attending the game on Flag Day—June 14—to underscore his great respect for the Stars and Stripes.

  “One of our reporters learned that he had tried to get the Giants to let him throw out the first pitch. The team management said no, telling him they only give that honor to public officials who represent New York City, such as the governor or the mayor, the latter who often tosses out the first pitch on opening day in April.”

  “Was Mr. Milbank offended by this rebuff?” Wolfe asked.

  “So we heard via the grapevine, but because he and his entourage already had purchased front-row box seats, the senator said they would attend the game, each of them carrying a flag. The Giants’ organization had no objection to that. And why should they?”

  “Archie, who was at the game, told me the senator and his cortege did indeed file into the stadium carrying and waving small flags,” Wolfe said. “Am I correct in assuming it would have been easy for someone to possess advance knowledge that Mr. Milbank would be at this particular game?”

  “Absolutely,” Lon said. “The senator was an out-and-out publicity hound, and his office trumpeted the fact to the newspapers that he would be at the Polo Grounds—even where he would be sitting, so the press photographers would be able to spot him easily.”

  “Talk about a marked man,” I put in. “Milbank might just as well have worn a bull’s-eye.”

  Lon nodded while reaching for the Remisier at his elbow to refill his snifter. “Yeah, he made it ridiculously easy for anybody who wanted to get him. That’s a big part of what’s driving the police crazy, including no less than your old sparring partner Cramer.”

  Wolfe grunted. “Does the baseball team have any explanation as to how an individual with a rifle was able to get into their stadium unchallenged and apparently unnoticed?”

  “They’re falling all over themselves with excuses,” Lon said. “The Giants claimed they were shorthanded on ushers and other employees that day, said there’s a flu epidemic going around, which happens to be true, although they may be exaggerating the extent of the impact on their staffing. Besides, that lack of staffing was irrelevant in this instance because the outfield grandstands, where the police say the shot came from, are normally closed to paying customers on weekday afternoons and locked. However, we found out from the team’s management that one gate to those outfield stands was found to be open after the shooting, and the lock had not been forced. The Giants insist that the gate had been locked the day before after a crew of electricians had been there to do some rewiring.”

  “Is it possible the electricians had neglected to lock the gate when they left?” Wolfe asked.

  “Our man asked the Giants that very question,” Lon replied, “but they claimed—and we have no reason to doubt them—that a watchman making his usual rounds the night before had checked all the gates around the periphery of the park. He found every one of them locked, including those that
lead to the outfield grandstands.”

  “Okay, now let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “Somehow the shooter was able to get in, probably well before the game, and probably using some sort of key. He was toting a rifle, likely in some sort of case. He then climbed to the empty upper deck, where he shot Milbank dead from less than three hundred feet away—hardly a great distance for any half-decent marksman. Then it’s probable that he slipped quickly out of the Polo Grounds during the ensuing chaos, not bothering to close the gate behind him.”

  “That would seem to sum it up, Archie,” Lon said. “Sounds bizarre, I know. However, that appears to be the most plausible scenario.”

  “But where did the shooter get a key?” I asked.

  “As he should have, our man posed that very question, and the stadium’s head of maintenance had no answer. There are skeleton keys that open all the gates in the park, and he seemed vague as to whether they all are accounted for. He, our man, that is, got the impression that the maintenance department did not exercise much control about who had keys to those gates.”

  “No wonder Cramer’s beside himself,” I put in.

  “Do your reporters or their sources have any insight as to a possible suspect?” Wolfe asked.

  “Our guys hear all sorts of stories, some of which you may have picked up on. By far the most popular theory, not surprising, has Franco Bacelli behind the murder because Milbank had reneged on his total opposition to that parkway. Besides, the shooting has all the earmarks of a Mob hit.”

  Wolfe rang for beer. “Mr. Bacelli hardly ranks among nature’s noblemen, to be sure, but would he be likely to kill a politician because of his stance on a highway, even a highway that might run near his home?”

  “A fair question, and one I’ve been asking myself a lot lately,” Lon said. “In the past, people who have defied him on even the most minor matters within the crime syndicate have ended up dead, or have simply disappeared, which also probably meant they were dead. The man is absolutely obsessive about defiance. Having said that, however, I find it difficult to believe he would order a killing over such a relatively trivial matter.”

  “Setting aside Franco Bacelli for the moment, who else might desire Mr. Milbank’s death?”

  Lon shrugged. “That is a tougher one. He had made enemies, to be sure. But had he made them angry enough to kill him?”

  “What about others who had disagreed with the senator on the issue of that highway?”

  “Jonah Keller, the real estate kingpin up north, is one tough customer, but offhand I don’t see him behind a murder. Same with this bird Ray Corcoran, who heads up that Westchester–Putnam–Dutchess tri-county businessmen’s group. They both were pushing damned hard for the parkway. They felt it was absolutely essential for the growth of their region.”

  “Would you agree?”

  “I’m not so sure,” Lon said, “but I can see where a strong argument could well be made for this high-speed divided parkway bringing more businesses—and more residents—to the area.”

  Wolfe poured beer and drained half a glass. “Would you say Mr. Milbank had enough power in the legislature to influence whether the road got built, and if so, its path?”

  “He definitely does have that power, according to our Albany correspondent. Milbank had been in the senate a long time, and although he could be a pompous blowhard on occasion, he was one smart operator, and he worked to build up a lot of political capital among his fellow senators. He had voted for enough of their pet projects around the state that a majority of them would probably back him, although the issue had not yet come to a vote.”

  “Now that he is gone, what is likely to happen?” Wolfe posed.

  “We are close enough to the November election that the Milbank seat will be left vacant until then. The man who was running against him, and who now seems likely to win the seat, is in favor of the road being built, and in its originally planned location. It remains to be seen who will replace Milbank on the ballot and what that candidate’s position will be.”

  “So, would you say the real estate and business interests appear to have won the fight?”

  Lon nodded. “Sounds to me like you’re building a case for Keller or Corcoran as the murderer.”

  “Not necessarily. I merely make an observation,” Wolfe said. “What of the individuals and organizations opposed to the road?”

  “They are loud but mostly toothless, including that group calling itself CLEAR. Their best hope was Milbank, even given that he had backed down and proposed that alternate route. Although he waffled, I don’t believe any of those people would have wanted him dead. They hardly seem to be the murdering types.”

  “What can you tell us about Mr. Milbank’s private life?”

  “Everything I hear from our man up north is that the senator was carrying on with his fetching press secretary, Mona Fentress,” Lon said. “They had been seen all over both Manhattan and Albany, including coming out of the DeWitt Clinton Hotel in the capital early one morning. Very early.”

  “Maybe they were having a breakfast meeting,” I said with a grin.

  “And maybe I am the heir to the Rockefeller millions,” Lon shot back. “Of course, Milbank wanted everyone—particularly his constituents—to think he and Mrs. Fentress were always together because they were planning strategy. You have to wonder, though, just how much strategy gets discussed on the dance floor or in the corner booth at a nightclub on the outskirts of Albany.”

  “The Gazette has eyes in many places,” Wolfe observed.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Lon said, “although we have never written a word about the Milbank–Fentress situation. I realize the press in this town does not always have a sterling reputation, but we, I’m speaking now only for the Gazette, are not about to print unproven accusations about a public figure’s real or perceived extramarital activities.”

  “Were the spouses of those two suspicious of their relationship, Mr. Cohen?”

  “I can’t answer for Milbank’s wife, the former movie actress who’s rumored to have had a few flings of her own. But I do know that Mona’s husband, the advertising executive Charles Fentress, has been heard in public growling about all the time his wife spends with the senator. One of our gossip columnists who seems to have ears everywhere says there have been a couple of dandy scenes in which Fentress has verbally ripped into his wife, although there are no reports that he ever attacked her physically.”

  Wolfe drew in a bushel of air and exhaled loudly. “Has he accused his wife of infidelity?”

  “Not that we have heard, although heaven knows what he’s said to her in private. I should point out that Fentress himself has somewhat of a reputation with the ladies. From what I’ve heard, his wife could level some of the same charges at him that he has fired off at her. ”

  “What a sweet bunch they all are,” I put in. “So it seems both Milbanks and both Fentresses apparently like to shop around? Sounds like Charles Fentress is a first-class hypocrite.”

  “Along with being arrogant, generally obnoxious, and not overly bright,” Lon said. “Story goes that he got into one of the Ivy League schools for two reasons: his famous father was an alumnus, and the younger Fentress’s ability as a tennis player. He was ranked as the best tennis player among eastern universities two years in a row.”

  During Lon’s recitation, Wolfe’s face had registered various degrees of disgust. He had never taken a divorce case and surely never would, and although the subject of divorce did not arise during our conversation, we had definitely entered the realm of what Wolfe once termed marital fragmentation. However, when Lon concluded his recitation, Wolfe thanked him warmly. “As usual you have been most helpful,” he said. “I would be appreciative of any other information relating to Mr. Milbank’s death as your legions uncover it.”

  Lon chuckled. “Legions, eh? Sounds almost Roman. Any cha
nce of naming your client? Not for print, of course.”

  “When I choose to divulge that information, it will be to the Gazette. On that you have my word.”

  “That is good enough for me. Well, this has been a most interesting evening, and for me one of the most gastronomically satisfying in months. My compliments to Fritz.” Lon got to his feet, and I walked him to the front door. “Just remember who your old buddy is when Wolfe cracks this baby,” he said.

  “He hasn’t made a decision yet,” I said, “so he may not do any cracking at all.”

  “Hah, so you say. I’ve got a sawbuck that says he’ll take the case, all right, and deliver somebody to Inspector Cramer inside of two weeks.”

  When I returned to the office, Wolfe was pulling something out of his middle desk drawer. It was Elise DuVal’s check with its many zeros. “Archie, deposit this in our account tomorrow morning. I will give you instructions at eleven.”

  “Yes, sir. As usual, your wish is my command.” So Lon Cohen was barely down the front steps of the brownstone, and already he was half right.

  Chapter 6

  At seventeen minutes after nine the next morning, I stepped briskly out of the Midtown branch of the Continental Bank and Trust Company, having made one Lawrence S. Hopkinson very happy. For the record, the very prim and proper Mr. Hopkinson is a senior vice president at Continental who also likes to fancy himself as Nero Wolfe’s personal banker. When I presented him with the DuVal check, I thought he was going to hug me, but he restrained himself, settling instead for an offer of coffee, which I politely declined. I had tasted the bank’s coffee before.

  Back in the office, I entered onto file cards the germination records that Theodore had brought down from the plant rooms earlier in the morning, although my mind was elsewhere. I was pleased that Wolfe had stirred himself to tackle the Milbank affair but disappointed that he hadn’t given me marching orders either last night or first thing this morning while he was having breakfast in his bedroom. However, Nero Wolfe moves at his own speed, and experience long ago taught me I could rarely if ever accelerate that speed.