"I'm telling you what I did," Softer snapped. He was trying to keep calm. "Ranwez's test took over half an hour. The second, Ekkert's, took less. I did it twice, to check. It was conclusive. The Beebright contained sodium phenobarbital. I couldn't get the quantity, in a hurry like that, but on a guess it was two grains, possibly a little more, in the full bottle. Anyone can get hold if it. Certainly that would be no problem for a bigtime gambler who wanted to clean up on a World Series game. And--" "The sonofabitch," Chisholm said. Doc Softer nodded. "And another sonofabitch put it in the bottles, knowing those four men would drink it just before the game. All he had to do was remove the caps, drop the tablets in, replace the caps, and shake the bottles a little--not much, because it's very soluble. It must have been done today after twelve o'clock, because otherwise someone else might have drunk it, 213 and anyway, if it were done much in advance the drinks would have gone stale, and those men would have noticed it. So it must have been someone-^" Chisholm had marched to the window. He whirled and yelled, "Ferrone did it, damn him! He did it and lammed!" Beaky Durkin appeared. He came through the door and halted, facing Chisholm. He was trembling, and his face was white, all but the crooked nose. "Not Nick," he said hoarsely. "Not that boy. Nick didn't do it, Mr. Chisholm!" "Oh, no?" Chisholm was bitter. "Did I ask you? A fine rookie of the year you brought in from Arkansas! Where is he? Get him and bring him in again and let me get my hands on him! Go find him! Will you go find him?" "Go where?" "How the hell do I know? Have you any idea where he is?" "No." "Will you go find him?" Durkin lifted helpless hands and dropped them. "He's your pet, not mine," Chisholm said savagely. "Get him and bring him in, and 214 I'll offer him a new contract. That will be a contract. Beat it!" Durkin left through the door he had entered by. Wolfe grunted. "Sit down, please," he told Chisholm. "When I address you I look at you, and my neck is not elastic. Thank you, sir. You want to hire me for a job?" "Yes. I want--" "Please. Is this correct? Four of your best players, drugged as described by Doctor Softer, could not perform properly, and as a result a game is lost, and a World Series?" "We're losing it." Chisholm's head swung toward the window and back again. "Of course it's lost." "And you assume a gambler or a group of gamblers is responsible. How much could he or they win on a game?" "On today's game, any amount. Fifty thousand or double that, easy." "I see. Then you need the police. At once." Chisholm shook his head. "Damn it, I don't want to. Baseball is a wonderful game, a clean game, the best and cleanest game on earth. This is the dirtiest thing that's happened in baseball in thirty years, and it's got to be handled right and handled fast. You're 215 the best detective in the business, and you're right here. With a swarm of cops trooping in. God knows what will happen. If we have to have them later, all right, but now here you are. Go to it!" Wolfe was frowning. "You think this Nick Ferrone did it." "I don't know!" Chisholm was yelling again. "How do I know what I think? He's a harebrained kid just out of the sticks, and he's disappeared. Where'd he go and why? What does that look like?" Wolfe nodded. "Very well." He drew a deep sigh. "I can at least make some gestures and see." He aimed a finger at the door Beaky Durkin and Doc Softer had used. "Is that an office?" "It leads to Kinney's office--the manager."