Murder in the Ball Park

by Robert Goldsborough

  “My name’s Archie Goodwin,” I told him as we met along the third-base line. “I’m a private investigator with a client whose nephew recently died. Among the dead man’s possession were a couple of keys, and we have reason to believe one of them may open gates here at the Polo Grounds.”

  “That so?” Marty said, clearly uninterested. “So what’s this dead guy’s moniker?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say because of some pending legal actions involving the deceased’s estate.”

  “Whole thing sounds pretty strange to me. I can’t see where some keys would be part of an estate,” the straw boss said, looking over his shoulder at the crew on the field. “Hey, rake the surface around second base,” he snapped, cupping his hand to his mouth. “It’s lumpy behind the bag. You can see that clearly from here.”

  “You’re right, it sounds strange,” I agreed, “but when lawyers get together, strange things always seem to happen. Maybe these keys have some value as antiques. They look pretty old. Here they are,” I said, pulling them out of my pocket. “Recognize either of them?”

  “I sure as heck do,” Marty said, jerking upright and putting his finger on one. “That’s no antique. No question, it’s one of our skeleton keys. I can tell by the serial number.” He took a key from a chain attached to his belt and held it against the one I had. “Yep, it’s one of ours, all right. See how the notches line up perfectly? They’re the same, no question. Yours will open every doggone gate around the periphery of this field. All of them.”

  “What about the other one?”

  He peered at it. “Doggoned if it’s not from Yankee Stadium. I used to work on their crew a few years back, and their keys are easy to recognize. They’re squared off at the top, not round like ours. Say, how did this dead guy happen to have these?” Marty demanded.

  “Beats me. Well, thanks for your time, Mr. . . .”

  “O’Farrell, Marty O’Farrell. Say, Mr. Goodwin, I’ll just take that Polo Grounds key of yours. It belongs to us.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “but it’s still part of a probate case, which may go on for some time, lawyers being lawyers, as you know.”

  “But, we—”

  “I promise that when this whole business is done, your key will be returned, and so will the one to your pals on the far side of the Harlem River at the Yankee Stadium.” I turned and trotted off before O’Farrell could respond, turning and taking one last look at the crew preparing the field for the arrival of the Pittsburgh Pirates.

  Driving back to the brownstone, I was glad O’Farrell, rather than his boss, had been in charge. If the top dog had been present, he might have wondered whether the key in question had played a part in Orson Milbank’s shooting. He also might not have given up the fight over that key so easily. But O’Farrell, likely not used to being in charge, was distracted in his attempt to stay on top of the ground crew’s work.

  It was twelve forty-five when I returned to the brownstone, which surprised me. My visit to the Polo Grounds had seemed much longer than it was. The good news was that I was back in time for lunch, or so I thought.

  I hadn’t been back at my desk for more than five minutes when the phone rang. It was Lon Cohen.

  “Hi, Archie. I thought you would want to hear the latest about Mona Fentress’s campaign for the state senate.”

  “Of course, we would,” I said, indicating to Wolfe that he should pick up his instrument. “Okay, fire away, Lon.”

  “Our political editor got the word minutes ago from the Fentress office that she has come out one hundred percent behind the Northern Parkway project. And get this: La Fentress is in favor of the original plan, not even the modified version that Orson Milbank had endorsed.”

  “That is most interesting, Mr. Cohen,” Wolfe said. “What do the political analysts on your newspaper conclude about this position of hers?”

  “That she realized she had only a slim chance of winning in the fall by opposing the Northern Parkway. Her opponent has been on record as pushing for the road, and all the polls we’ve seen have indicated that the district’s voters are increasingly in favor of it.”

  “How will the Gazette play this development?”

  “Right out there on page one, of course. For one thing, we’ve got a slew of subscribers up in those counties, loyal readers we have had for years. For another, because of the Milbank killing, this is going to be one of the most closely watched elections in years—and not just in this state, but nationally. Every other paper in town will be all over the story, too, along with the wire services, the whole works. Our people will be calling all the predictable sources for comments, including Jonah Keller, Ray Corcoran, the senator’s widow, the guy from that conservation group, and Franco Bacelli, of course, if he’ll even deign to talk to us.”

  “Did Mrs. Fentress make a statement?”

  “There’s just a short quote from her in the press release that a messenger delivered to us and presumably to all the dailies plus the television stations, the radio networks, and the AP, UP, and INS,” Lon answered. “She said that ‘After much careful consideration and reflection, I have decided that the constituents of this senatorial district would be best served by having the Northern Parkway follow the originally planned route.’ That’s it. But she’s giving a press conference in White Plains at four o’clock this afternoon, and it figures to be a doozy. We’re going to be sending two men and a photog.”

  “Would Mr. Goodwin be allowed to attend this event?” Wolfe asked, swiveling to face me.

  “I can’t think of any reason why not. I’m not sure they’ll even be checking credentials, but I’ll have our man Sanders—you’ve met him, Archie—wait at the door with a Gazette press card you can use if it’s needed. This circus, and I use the term advisedly, is being held in the auditorium of a school building,” Lon said, giving us the address. “Should make for some dandy drama.”

  “Well, there goes lunch. So, I’m back on my horse and off to the northlands once again,” I told Wolfe. “Any instructions?”

  “Be alert and observant, of course. But most important, drive with the utmost care,” he said. “You have another long voyage ahead.”

  Wolfe thinks anything more than a trip to his barbershop six blocks away is a major trek. He refuses to ride in a taxi or in a car driven by anyone except me or, on occasion, Saul Panzer.

  He also feels anyone else who willingly rides in an automobile takes his life in his own hands. With this in mind, I promised him I would scrupulously obey the speed limits and keep both hands on the wheel at all times.

  Chapter 22

  I located the stately, Gothic-style school building near the center of White Plains with no trouble, arriving almost a half hour before the scheduled four o’clock press conference. Larry Sanders of the Gazette greeted me at the front door.

  “Nice to see you again, Archie,” Sanders said, slipping a press card into my hand. “I hardly think you’ll need this, but take it just in case. I got here early, and nobody seems to be checking identification. I think Fentress and her people just want to see a big crowd, which may or may not turn out to her advantage. I’ve got you a seat with me down front; the place is filling up fast.”

  Sanders didn’t exaggerate. The high-ceilinged hall with rows of cushioned seats sloping down toward a bare stage with only a lectern on it was well over half full, and more people were filing in. I took a seat in the second row and looking around at those nearest me, I recognized several reporters, most of whom I knew by face, a few by name. Kneeling down in front of the first row, a battery of press photographers with flashbulbs in place on their trusty Speed Graphic cameras waited expectantly. This promised to be quite a show.

  At the appointed hour, Mona Fentress, regal in a businesslike navy-blue suit and matching pumps, strode confidently onto the stage from the wings amid a smattering of applause and a few hisses. She stood behind the lec
tern, which had the microphones of the major radio networks attached to it with clamps. Adjusting the main microphone as flashbulbs popped, she looked around the auditorium, moved her glance down to the press contingent, and spotted me, raising her eyebrows and sending the hint of a smile in my direction.

  “Thank you all so much for coming here today,” she said into the microphone. “I apologize for the short notice, but I felt it was important that I communicate my position both to the press and radio, as well as to the citizens of this district as quickly as possible.”

  “Your position is that you are a turncoat!” boomed a voice from the back of the auditorium. I swung around to look and saw a uniformed cop lay a beefy hand on the shoulder of a skinny guy about twenty-five.

  “That’s all right, Officer,” Mona Fentress said, holding up a palm. “He can stay, as long as he does not interrupt me again. We are not a nation in which everyone agrees upon everything, nor should we be. The ability to have free and open discussion is the very cornerstone of a democratic society, and I will never interfere with that cornerstone.” That brought a mixture of clapping and boos.

  “Now, if I may please continue,” she said, adjusting the microphone. “As many here already know, after much soul-searching and conferring with many groups and individuals in this district, I have decided to support and vigorously encourage the construction of the Northern Parkway, using its originally proposed route.” More applause and boos.

  “The route that I support will reap the maximum benefit for the majority of—” Mona stopped in mid-sentence as a group of fresh-faced young women in sweaters, skirts, and saddle shoes or penny loafers paraded down the center aisle—coeds from Vassar volunteering with Howell Baxter and CLEAR, as I later learned—who held up cardboard signs on sticks that read STOP THE ROAD!, SAVE OUR PARKLANDS!, and PROTECT OUR WAY OF LIFE!

  The candidate stood at one side of the podium and watched the procession as it passed by in front of her and marched up a side aisle. None of the sign carriers said a word, but their appearance drew scattered approving “oohs” and “aahs” along with some hisses and shouts of “Girls, go back to the classroom where you belong!” and “This is what happens when we let gals leave home and go off to college without parental supervision!”

  Mona Fentress looked on expressionless, then she smiled benevolently. “I respect your rights to protest,” she said, “and I am glad to see that all of you did so in a peaceful and respectful manner.” With that, she actually clapped, and I mentally saluted the lady for her grace under pressure.

  “But this is really a press conference, first and foremost,” she said, “and there are many members of the press here, several of whom I’m sure have questions for me.” She looked down at the first several rows.

  “Yes, you,” she said, pointing to a man who stood.

  “I am Dan Morrow, of the New York Times, and I would like to ask you how you think Senator Milbank would have felt about you supporting a road that he fought so long and so vigorously against.”

  “Of course, I recognized you immediately, Mr. Morrow, and I am so glad you are here. Yours is an excellent question. Actually, as you know, the senator had shifted his position somewhat, eventually easing up on his opposition to the parkway. In conversations I had with him shortly before . . . before what happened, I sensed that he might eventually embrace the original route. I cannot be sure of that, of course, but in my heart, I believe Senator Milbank would have taken the position I now have adopted. Yes, you in the blue suit over there.”

  “Ted Vinson of the White Plains Reporter Dispatch,” said a young man of no more than twenty-three who got to his feet. “You and your opponent are both in favor of the road being built. Given that, why should people in this district vote for you instead of him?”

  “I will tell you precisely why, Mr. Vinson. Because in my close work with Senator Milbank over the last several years, I have developed a deep knowledge of the needs and wants of the people of all walks of life and all social strata in these three fine counties. My worthy opponent, on the other hand, is a wealthy businessman who has isolated himself from the electorate and has no concept of—or experience with—the struggles everyday citizens go through.”

  “But never having lived in the district, you can hardly qualify as an expert on our needs yourself,” the White Plains reporter persisted.

  “However, I do have empathy, I have a caring heart, Mr. Vinson,” Mona said, jabbing an index finger at her breast. “And I have a lifelong concern for the underdog. I do not believe the same can be said for my opponent. I also should say at this point that I have had an apartment right here in White Plains for three years, which is my legal address.” That drew some applause but also groans of disbelief and a few boos.

  “Yes, you next,” Mona said, nodding and pointing to the man sitting next to me, who had risen.

  “Larry Sanders of the Gazette. Mrs. Fentress, how do you think that Franco Bacelli will react to your stance on the road?”

  That sent the crowd to buzzing, along with some shouts, including “Yeah, just how you gonna handle him?” and “You could find yourself in big trouble, lady.”

  Mona brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and cleared her throat. “Mr. Sanders, unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Bacelli is but one citizen among the tens of thousands who reside in this district. And while I will solicit and respect the opinions of each and every person who dwells in this constituency, I cannot let myself be swayed by any single individual and his or her special interests, concerns, or desires. I must consider the needs and wishes of the majority. To do any less would be a dereliction of duty on the part of any public servant, Mr. Sanders.” That brought well over half of the crowd to its feet, clapping and cheering.

  The rest of the session, which continued for over an hour, was pretty much more of the same, with reporters from papers both in New York City and the senatorial district peppering Mona Fentress with questions about her experience, her familiarity with the region, and her concern about what impact the new road would have on the local economy and the environment. Bacelli’s name was not mentioned again in the questions.

  Overall, I felt she handled herself well, and when she finally called an end to the questioning, she told the audience that she would hold more sessions like this one. “Except,” she said, “they will be more like town meetings than press conferences, because I am most interested in what the citizens of this district want and need from their elected representatives.”

  As the auditorium emptied out, I hung around as several reporters and a couple of other people, presumably voters, talked to Mona. A square-jawed guy about my age with a sandy crew cut stood at her side the entire time, smiling and nodding his approval of everything she said. After the last person had drifted away, Mona waved me over.

  “Archie Goodwin! How nice of you to come and watch me get grilled by the press and the voting public. How do you think I did?”

  “I hardly qualify as an expert on the rough and tumble world of politics, but I would say you more than held your own. You took a few good punches, but I don’t see any scars or bruises.”

  “I really appreciate those words. Archie, I’d like you to meet my campaign manger, Doug Yardley.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goodwin,” he said with a grin as he pumped my hand. “Mona has said a lot about you, all of it good.”

  “Glad to hear that. How do you feel your candidate did today?”

  “I thought she was absolutely terrific, especially when those Vassar girls walked down the aisle with the signs, and also her answer to the question about Bacelli. We were hoping someone would bring that up.”

  “I can’t take the credit. That was really Doug’s doing,” she said. “He told me beforehand that we would likely get a question about Bacelli and also get some sort of demonstration from the people at CLEAR, and that I should be very welcoming to them.”
r />   “It tends to take a little of the wind out of their sails when you applaud something your opponents do,” Yardley said. “I should head back to the office now,” he told Mona. “See you there in the morning, okay?”

  “Bye, Doug. I’ll be in the office tomorrow around eight thirty. Archie, can I talk you into buying me a drink?”

  “Why not? Do you have a car?”

  “It’s parked over at our new campaign office, which is just a block away from here. You can drop me there later. I know a nice, quiet little lounge where we can talk.”

  Chapter 23

  I drove us to the lounge, with Mona chattering excitedly all the way about her campaign. The press conference or rally, or whatever you want to call it, had really gotten her charged up, and she wanted to go back over every minute of it. I probably said no more than ten words during the ride.

  The bar was indeed quiet, as well as dark, with its only customers being two old gents sitting several stools apart at the bar. We settled into an upholstered booth in the corner, and then I got drinks from the bartender—a bourbon on the rocks for her and a Coke for me.

  “Not drinking?” she asked as I rejoined her.

  “I will definitely have something when I get home, after I’ve put the car to bed for the night.”

  “You are most virtuous, Archie Goodwin,” she said, clinking her glass against mine. “Mark me down as impressed.”

  “Don’t be. On more than a couple of occasions, I’ve driven with a drink or two in me, and I could feel it. I like to know that I am totally in control when I’m behind the wheel. Tell me about your campaign manager.”

  “Doug? He’s a great guy, really knows his stuff. He’s worked on a lot of campaigns for state legislators, and even helped get a client elected to the US House of Representatives from a district up around Syracuse in what was considered a big upset at the time. That’s when I first heard about him.”

  “Is Yardley’s experience the reason you didn’t go with Ross Davies to shepherd your campaign?”