Murder at Fenway Park:. Troy Soos

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СКАЧАТЬ and quietly said, “This is Mickey Rawlings. He played for the Braves some last year. I let him in about twenty minutes ago and told him how to get to Stahl’s office.” He frowned at me slightly as he concluded his statement.

      The cop glared at the attendant. I think he wanted to get answers directly from me, preferably through a vigorous third degree.

      The portly man also looked at the attendant and spoke for the first time. “The kid doesn’t follow directions so good, does he?” The deep booming voice sounded like an umpire’s; it conflicted sharply with his bankerlike appearance. He turned to me, and with a wry look on his face said, “So you’re Rawlings. Welcome to Fenway, kid.”

      The cop let him speak without interruption or hostile looks, so I assumed the man had a position of authority. He quickly proved me right by barking some commands. He ordered the attendant, “Call Captain Tom O’Malley at the Walpole Street a. Tell him—uh, tell him what we have here. And I want him to handle it personally. Bring him to my office when he gets here.” He directed the policeman: “You stay here until O’Malley shows up and tells you what to do.” To me he said, “Come along with me,” and firmly pushed my elbow to get me started. I followed him through a course of passages without trying to keep track of the turns.

      We arrived at a door that had ROBERT F. TYLER painted on it in gold letters. My companion unlocked the door, and we stepped into an office that was large in size, but seemed cramped from all the ornate dark wood furniture that filled it. He moved as if the office was his, so I took it that my escort was the advertised Robert F. Tyler. I watched as he closed the door behind us and silently walked over to a sideboard. Tyler wasn’t as soft as he first appeared. There was a power to his movements that indicated an athletic past. He did have a prominent belly, but that was a sign of prosperity that no self-respecting executive would be without.

      Tyler filled a shot glass with amber liquid from a decanter and gulped it down. Emitting a satisfied sigh, he picked up another glass, filled it to the brim, and brought it to where I was still standing just inside the door. “Drink this. It will do you good.”

      I took the glass, tentatively took a sip, and shuddered at the taste.

      “All of it. Drink it right down.”

      I tilted my head back and obeyed. My first attempt at drinking liquor, when I was about twelve, had made me sick. This second attempt had the same result. I did make it to a cuspidor though, and I did feel somewhat rejuvenated by the liquid fire that poured in and out of me.

      Meanwhile, Tyler moved behind his desk and into a high-backed leather chair. When I looked as if I’d safely finished with the spittoon, he told me to have a seat. I sank into an armchair on the other side of his broad desk.

      I had the feeling we weren’t alone. I looked around and noticed three pairs of eyes staring at me—the dead glassy eyes of one moose and two deer whose heads were mounted on the walls.

      Tyler took a neatly folded white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead, and finally introduced himself, “I’m Robert Tyler. I’m one of the owners of the Red Sox. Officially, I’m the treasurer.” He didn’t extend his hand, and I didn’t offer mine. I suppose meeting over a corpse allows for dropping some of the social graces.

      My new boss went on, “I handle most of the business activities of the ball club. Ticket sales, player contracts, travel arrangements.” He thought for a moment, then suggested, “Why don’t we take care of some business now, and try to forget about that situation out there until the police get here. I have your contract somewhere ... Yes, here it is. You need to sign at the X.” He slid the paper to me, pulled a gold fountain pen from a desk drawer, and slid that to me, too. He didn’t say how much I’d be paid, but I saw on the contract that it would be $1,400 a year—more than a hundred dollars a month!

      While I quickly signed, Tyler continued, “Everybody knows what a terrific outfield we have, but we can use some shoring up in the infield right now. Injuries. A week into the season, and we already got injuries. Jake saw you with the Braves last year, said you looked pretty good, figured you could help us.

      “We could use another pitcher, too. And maybe somebody to give Jake some time off at first—he’s not getting any younger. We’ll get whoever we need. I don’t plan to come up short at the end of the year because of bad luck at the start.”

      I pushed the signed contract back to him.

      He settled deeper in his chair, and muttered mostly to himself, “New ballpark ... best outfield in baseball ... Honey Fitz is crazy about us ... we should be all set.” Tyler was no longer looking at me; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. I wondered what a “Honey Fitz” was.

      Three delicate raps joggled the door, and the attendant stuck his head in. Before he could speak, an overweight policeman wearing captain’s insignia elbowed past him into the room.

      The officer and Tyler exchanged nods of recognition and curt greetings.

      “Bob.”

      “Tom.”

      The captain turned to face me and asked, “Is this the suspect?”

      Suspect? Me? I was too astonished at the question to say anything.

      Tyler answered, “This is Mickey Rawlings. He just joined the club today. He found the body.”

      O’Malley grunted in response and squinted hard at me, trying to make his eyes look penetrating. “Was he dead when you found him?” he demanded.

      “Yes,” I answered. “I think so ... I’m sure he was. I didn’t really check him. I mean, he was so ... He must have been dead. I yelled at him but he didn’t answer. He was dead.”

      “Do you know who he was?”

      “No. Who was he?”

      “I’m asking the questions!” the captain bellowed angrily. “Did you see anyone?”

      My first impulse was to answer that I hadn’t. But after a moment’s thought, I wasn’t so sure. Once I set eyes on the dead man’s face, I was oblivious to all else. Perhaps there was someone there, and I just hadn’t noticed. I answered, “I don’t think so.”

      O’Malley rolled his eyes. “Did you hear anything?”

      “No—well, yes. I mean I heard a noise—like something fell, but that was before I went in the hallway.”

      “Like something fell,” the officer repeated. “Did you hear footsteps? Somebody running away? Anything else?”

      “No, I don’t think so.”

      “Didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. That’s a lot of help.”

      I shrugged in apology.

      Tyler spoke up again. “Do you need Rawlings for anything else?”

      “Not right now,” O’Malley answered, but as a final note he warned me, “Don’t leave town.”

      Tyler overruled him. “He has to leave town. We start a road trip tomorrow.” O’Malley scowled, but silently capitulated. Ignoring the captain, Tyler swiveled toward me. “You’ve had a helluva day, and we’re leaving for New York in the morning.” He scribbled on some stationery. СКАЧАТЬ