by Otto Penzler
“They were right up front,” I said. “That’s where you left them when you came in on Friday. You know, when you finished after nine. Tony had already gone home, so he didn’t get the chance to clean them and put them away. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
I went up to the bar and got the drinks. When I came back, all three men looked a shade paler.
“You know, I noticed something unusual, too,” I said. “When we were looking in your bags, I mean. This detective, he’s asking me all these basic questions about golf clubs, and I happen to mention that a golfer normally carries fourteen clubs in his bag. So wouldn’t you know it, he actually counts the clubs in your bag—I think it was yours, Mr. Anderson—and there are only thirteen clubs there! Then he goes through the other two bags and oddly enough, in both of your other bags, thirteen clubs. Not fourteen. Very unusual. And then, of course, I happened to notice which clubs were missing. In all three of your bags, you didn’t have your 7-woods.”
“I can’t believe you were actually rummaging through our bags,” Anderson said. “What would possess you to—”
“I remember when Sal made you those 7-woods,” I said. “He sure knew how to make a club, didn’t he? For each one of you, he made it just right, custom fit it exactly to your game. Just the right weight. A little longer shaft on yours, Mr. Anderson, a slightly closed face on yours, Dr. Crowe. Absolutely perfect clubs to get out of the long rough out there. And boy, could you hit ’em. All three of you. I’m assuming you must have taken them out of your bags yesterday. You took them home with you for some reason, am I right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sabino said, perhaps a little too quickly. The other two men shot dark looks at him. “Tony usually does a good job of cleaning the clubs, but you know how it is when you have a favorite.”
“Of course,” I said. “Especially a custom-made club that—my God, what a terrible thought. Old Sal will never make another club. Anyway, you’ll have a chance to talk about all of this with the detective. I’m sure he’ll be up here to talk to you again, seeing as how you three were the last to see him alive.”
“Of course,” Anderson said. “Not that we’ll have anything else to tell him. I hardly think he’ll need to ask us about our clubs.”
“You know the funny thing about those missing 7-woods?” I said. “I mean, excuse me, the 7-woods you took home with you yesterday? Aside from being the right club to hit out of the rough, they’d also be just the right club to kill somebody with.”
“What are you suggesting?” Anderson said. “Are you suggesting—”
“Think about it,” I said. “Your driver’s the biggest club in your bag, but it’s too big. You know what I mean? It’s too clumsy, and hell, most driver heads these days are hollow. You could never get a good blow to the head with a driver.”
“This is not funny,” Sabino said.
“An iron is solid, but it’s too small,” I said. “You’d have to hit him just right. But those 7-woods he made you… solid, compact, but just big enough. Absolutely perfect for killing a man.”
“This is absolutely absurd,” Crowe said. “We don’t have to sit here and listen to this.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’m going back downstairs. I think I need to talk to the detective. In the meantime, I suggest you go home and get those 7-woods. You know, just to prove that they weren’t the murder weapons.”
“Wait a minute,” Anderson said. “Just wait one minute. We have to tell you something.”
“What are you doing?” Crowe said.
“Are you nuts?” Sabino said.
“We have to tell him!” Anderson said. “We obviously have no choice.”
“Tell me what, gentlemen?” I said. “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”
Anderson took a quick scan of the room and then bent his head down. “All right, listen,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t know where our clubs are. All right? We don’t know. They’re just gone.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“We’re telling you the truth,” he said. “You have to believe us. Our bags are right where we left them on Friday. After playing nine holes! And then leaving! We didn’t kill Sal, all right? We didn’t do it!”
“But your clubs just happen to be missing…”
“Yes!” he said. “That’s what we were talking about when you came up here. We didn’t know what to do. We were thinking we’d just go down there and take our bags out of the room, but… I mean, it would look a little suspicious.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A minute ago, you said you took them home with you. Now you’re telling me this story. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Why in God’s name would we kill him?” Crowe broke in, a little too loudly. The other two men cringed. “How could you even think that?”
“Oh, that’s not so hard to imagine,” I said. “Not after what he was doing to you.”
That stopped them. All three of them looked away.
“Listen,” I said, “I know how it works. Old Sal was a good teaching pro. And he certainly knew how to make a club. He got all three of you hitting the ball so well, especially with those 7-woods he made you, you started to believe in your games. How many times did you break 80 before Sal started working with you? Sabino, you couldn’t even break 90!”
“This is good,” Anderson said. “Are you suggesting that we killed Old Sal because he made us better golfers?”
I sat back in my chair. “No,” I said. “You killed him because of what happened next. He went out with the three of you, and he let you beat him. A professional golfer. He’s kind of old now, he can’t hit the ball like he used to. But still, you beat the pro. And then you beat him again. You were probably hitting those new 7-woods out of the rough like butter, weren’t you? And then maybe you had a bad round and you didn’t beat him, but he took you out on the range and he worked with you, got you swinging the club again. And then you beat him the next time. You stomped all over him. And then finally, what happened?”
Nobody said anything. They were all staring down at the table.
“How much was it?” I said. “The first time? How much did you play for? ‘Let’s make this more interesting.’ Is that what he said? ‘I’ll play all three of you. Three separate matches. Ten-dollar Nassau, automatic press on two down, and one down on 9 and 18.’ Is that how it started?”
Silence.
“He let you win some money the first time. And then the second time. Cardinal rule of being a club pro, never play the members for money, but you didn’t mind, did you? You took his money. Nobody was forcing him, right? It was all harmless fun. So he upped the ante. ‘Let me try to win some of my money back, fellas.’ How much did you start playing for? Fifty-dollar Nassaus? A hundred? How long did it take for him to finally beat you? How long until you owed him money? I’m sure it was always close—one good shot on 9, one clutch putt on 18. And then it started to add up, all those presses going at the same time. You gotta hand it to Sal, it can’t be easy playing three matches at once, keeping all the bets straight and playing just well enough to win them.”
Not a word from any of them.
“How did he keep you hooked?” I said. “Did he start giving you strokes? Did he give you little pep talks? ‘Come on, guys! Start playing like you were playing last month! You’ll win it all back in one round!’ Lord knows, you’re too embarrassed to tell anybody about it. You’re not going to go to the golf committee and tell them you’re losing money to the pro. You just keep playing and playing, and digging yourself into a bigger and bigger hole. Until what? How much did you owe him? What’s the grand total?”
“Look… ,” Anderson said.
“Give me the number,” I said. “How much did you owe him?”
“He hustled us,” Anderson said. “You’re right, okay? He hustled us. We owed him money. A lot of money. We admit it, okay? But you have to believe us, we didn’t kill him.”
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br /> Sabino dropped his head into his hands. “This is such a nightmare.”
“I gotta hand it to you guys,” I said. “The whole setup, it began with those 7-woods. Kind of poetic justice to use those clubs to kill him. I’ll give you points for style.”
“What do we have to do to make you believe us?” Sabino said. “We didn’t kill the man.”
“You know who I feel sorry for right now?” I said. “There are two cops down on that twelfth tee again. They’re on their hands and knees, looking for some kind of evidence, I guess. Something they might have missed yesterday. Wearing those hot blue uniforms, crawling all over that tee box. Of course you know what they’re going to find. About eighty-thousand little broken tees. Then they’ll start looking all over the golf course. And in the clubhouse. Maybe they’ll get lucky and find something. Hell, maybe they’ll even find the murder weapons.”
I let that them work on that for a long, long minute. It seemed to hit all three of them at once.
Anderson was the first to find his voice. “You’ve got our clubs,” he said. “You’ve got our clubs because…”
“Because you killed him,” Crowe said.
“You did it!” Sabino said. “I can’t believe it! You killed him!”
“Gentlemen,” I said. “Please. Why would I kill Old Sal?”
“So you can take over as the head pro!” Sabino said.
“You know it doesn’t work that way,” I said. “You know how the members are. They’ll go out and get some other old gasbag. In two months, I probably won’t even be working here anymore.”
“I got a better idea,” Anderson said. “You killed him because you owed him money, too! A little friendly wagering between two golf pros? He had his hooks in you, too, didn’t he?”
“Interesting theory,” I said. “But you’re forgetting one thing. Sal was an old man who made some extra money hustling gullible amateurs. He’d do it until he got kicked out of his club and then he’d go charm his way into a new one. That’s what he did, guys. He’s been doing this for years. The last thing he would do is play a real professional for money.”
“Then why do you know about our clubs?” Crowe said. “You had to be involved in this!”
“Well, just for the sake of argument,” I said, “let’s imagine that Sal once hustled the wrong men. Let’s say he hustled the last three men on Earth you’d ever want to hustle. Maybe, oh, let’s say he hustled these men about seven or eight years ago. And they haven’t forgotten about it. Let’s say that once they finally found out that Old Sal had set up shop at another club, they made some… discreet inquiries into whether there might be someone who could cooperate with them in arranging a little impromptu reunion between Sal and his three old friends. If someone were to provide them with both the opportunity as well as the—what would you call it? The necessary ‘tools’ to make it a successful reunion? Needless to say, that man would be well compensated for his assistance.”
“You set him up,” Anderson said. “You set him up and you… You set us up!”
“I’m just speaking theoretically now,” I said. “I’m not saying any of this really happened. But let’s imagine if the police were to find those clubs today. Or tomorrow. Your clubs. All of them with the distinctive wear and tear you might find if you had happened to beat somebody to death with them.”
“Whatever your game is,” Anderson said, “you’ll never get away with it.”
“I can see it now,” I said. “The most respected attorney in the city, taken to the police station for questioning in connection with the murder of Salvatore Burelli. Not to mention the most respected psychiatrist. And dare I say…”
Sabino closed his eyes.
“State Assemblyman Sabino,” I said. “Imagine that press release.”
“You’re mad,” he said. “You won’t get away with this.”
“The grand jury probably won’t even indict you,” I said. “It’s just circumstantial evidence, after all. I’m sure your careers won’t suffer in the slightest.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Sabino said.
“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe those clubs won’t turn up after all. And maybe I’ll even have a sudden recollection. ‘Yes, detective. I’m sorry about the confusion, but I just remembered. I did hear those three men come in after nine holes. And I believe I saw them leave, too. Yes, yes, it’s coming back to me now. They were long gone by the time Sal was killed. In all the commotion this morning, I just couldn’t think straight. I’m sure you understand…”
“What is it you want?” Anderson said. “Surely those men have already paid you.”
“If they did,” I said, “then you know they must have paid me very well, thank you. Which would make me feel so generous in return, I’d just have to share my good fortune with you.”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“I was thinking,” I said. “Now that Old Sal is gone, there’s an open spot in your foursome. As soon as the course is open again, I think we should go out and play. All this money I’ve fallen into, and you played such a big part in it. It’s only right that I give you a chance to win some of it.”
“You’re not suggesting…”
I looked out the window at the first tee. With any luck, the course would be open by noon. And what a perfect day it was to play a friendly round of golf.
“In memory of Sal,” I said. “A little money game, for old time’s sake.”
MISS UNWIN
PLAYS BY THE RULES
H.R.F. Keating
Miss Harriet Unwin was a better governess than golfer. Indeed, she had never even heard of the game of golf until, in the late summer of 1888, she came into the employ of Mr. Mungo McMurdo, manufacturer of Mungo McMurdo’s Marmalade, that well-known Scottish product made, all the more cheaply, in the East End of London. It was then that, to make her lessons for her charge, wee Margaret, more lively, she began to interest herself in what was, more than marmalade, Mr. McMurdo’s overriding interest, this curious activity that was beginning to be seen as something rather more than croquet played not on the lawn but on the links.
The library in the tall London house was a not very large room, somewhat tucked away just below the servants’ bedrooms. It was used by Mr. McMurdo more as a place where he would not be disturbed than as a room to read in. Mr. McMurdo was hardly a reading man, though his wife, almost a perpetual invalid, had a large collection of three-volume novels by such authors as Mr. Braddon and Mrs. Henry Wood. But Mr. McMurdo did possess one or two books about golf, and it did not take Miss Unwin long, in the mornings while he was away prowling his factory, to find out what there was to be found out about the strange game.
She learned that as long ago as the year 1618 King James I, because “no small quantitie of gold” left his kingdom “for bying of golf balls,” had granted a monopoly for their manufacture. It went to one James Melvill in Scotland, where the game had originated (or possibly in Holland, though that was something not really to be spoken about). She discovered, too, that the object of the game was to strike a little ball with one or another of a variety of club-headed sticks until it could be induced to drop into a small round hole some considerable distance away. She sighed as she read that piece of information, though she knew it behooved her for little Margaret’s sake to treat it as a great truth. She learned, finally, how the number of times the ball was struck had to be carefully counted, and that if there was a contest, the player who eventually made the fewest number of “strokes” was held to have won.
Before long, she had devised some games of her own for the benefit of lonely little Margaret, seldom seeing a mother who spent a great deal of her time in bed. Together they followed in imagination her father’s progress, off every afternoon to “the links” out in the London suburb of Blackheath. Consulting the meticulously filled-in cards Mr. McMurdo had had printed, which Margaret had managed to beg off him, together they added up the number of strokes he had taken to get ea
ch of his little white-painted gutta-percha balls into each of Blackheath’s seven holes. Then they worked out the average he had achieved over a week or a month. Margaret’s arithmetic improved immensely, although—Miss Unwin could not help noticing—Mr. McMurdo’s golf did not improve, however much he constantly affirmed that it had.
“Miss Unwin,” Margaret even said once, “why has Papa crossed out that ‘9’ and put in an ‘8’?”
Miss Unwin paused for only the shortest time before she replied.
“I expect when he had written down that figure, he recalled that it had taken him eight strokes and not nine before he had made that ball drop into the little flowerpot set in the earth there.”
“Oh, Miss Unwin, I do wish one day Papa would take me to Blackheath so I could see those pots. They sound so sweet. I could put some wildflowers in them.”
“Well, I am afraid he is hardly likely to let you go with him. You know how often he has said that the game of golf is much too serious an affair to have children watching him play it, or for the matter of that, to allow women anywhere near when it is being played.”
“But, Miss Unwin, Papa said just last week that he did so badly at the fourth hole because there were some boys playing football in his way. He was very, very cross, you know.”
“Perhaps he was right to be cross. However, that part of Blackheath is a common, open to all, so football is just another hazard that gentlemen playing golf there have to face.”
Nor was arithmetic the only subject Miss Unwin taught her charge through the medium of the game, which in the privacy of her head she continued to think of as an exceedingly strange way of spending the time. Margaret learned, for instance, that gutta-percha was “a sort of juice or sap, called gutta, that comes out of a particular sort of tree in a faraway country named Malaya, where they call all trees perchas. When that juice meets the air, it gets hard in the way that rubber does coming from a similar tree, though gutta-percha has proven to get harder.”
She explained to Margaret that gutta-percha had been found to be the ideal substance to be struck by any of the various “clubs” used in golf because of its property of bouncing. Then Margaret learned what it was that made some substances bounce well and others not so well, such as the balls made of feathers stuffed hard into little round bags of leather, until recent years the only ones available to the golfer. Margaret learned even the rudiments of economics when Miss Unwin told her that it had required many hours’ work to make only a few of those old-fashioned balls and that in consequence they had cost some five times as much as the gutta-percha ones, familiarly “gutties.”