Inspector Queen said: “Ever hear the story behind that final game, Miss Paris? The night before, a gambler named Sure Shot McCoy, who represented a betting syndicate, called on Big Bill and laid down fifty grand in spot cash in return for Bill’s promise to throw the next day’s game. Bill took the money, told his manager the whole story, donated the bribe to a fund for sick ball players, and the next day shut out the Tigers without a hit.”

  “Byronic, too,” murmured Miss Paris.

  “So then Sure Shot, badly bent,” grinned the Inspector, “called on Bill for the payoff. Bill knocked him down two flights of stairs.”

  “Wasn’t that dangerous?”

  “I guess,” smiled the Inspector, “you could say so. That’s why you see that plug-ugly with the smashed nose sitting over there right behind Tree’s box. He’s Mr. Terrible Turk, late of Cicero, and since that night Big Bill’s shadow. You don’t see Mr. Turk’s right hand, because Mr. Turk’s right hand is holding onto an automatic under his jacket. You’ll notice, too, that Mr. Turk hasn’t for a second taken his eyes off that pasty-cheeked customer eight rows up, whose name is Sure Shot McCoy.”

  Paula stared. “But what a silly thing for Tree to do!”

  “Well, yes,” drawled Inspector Queen, “seeing that when he popped Mr. McCoy Big Bill snapped two of the carpal bones of his pitching wrist and wrote finis to his baseball career.”

  Big Bill Tree hauled himself to his feet, whispered something to the Verne woman, who smiled coyly, and left his box. His bodyguard, Turk, jumped up; but the big man shook his head, waved aside a crowd of people, and vaulted up the concrete steps toward the rear of the grandstand.

  And then Judy Starr said something bitter and hot and desperate across the rail to the woman her husband had brought to the Polo Grounds. Lotus Verne’s mercurial eyes glittered, and she replied in a careless, insulting voice that made Bill Tree’s wife sit up stiffly. Jimmy Connor began to tell the one about Walter Winchell and the Seven Dwarfs … loudly and fast.

  The Verne woman began to paint her rich lips with short, vicious strokes of her orange lipstick; and Judy Starr’s flame kid glove tightened on the rail between them.

  And after a while Big Bill returned and sat down again. Judy said something to Jimmy Connor, and the Song-and-Dance Man slid over one seat to his right, and Judy slipped into Connor’s seat; so that between her and her husband there was now not only the box rail but an empty chair as well.

  Lotus Verne put her arm about Tree’s shoulders again.

  Tree’s wife fumbled inside her flame suède bag. She said suddenly: “Jimmy, buy me a frankfurter.”

  Connor ordered a dozen. Big Bill scowled. He jumped up and ordered some, too. Connor tossed the vendor two one-dollar bills and waved him away.

  A new sea deluged the two boxes, and Tree turned round, annoyed. “All right, all right, Mac,” he growled at the red-coat struggling with the pressing mob. “We don’t want a riot here. I’ll take six. Just six. Let’s have ’em.”

  There was a rush that almost upset the attendant. The rail behind the boxes was a solid line of fluttering hands, arms, and scorecards.

  “Mr. Tree—said—six!” panted the usher; and he grabbed a pencil and card from one of the outstretched hands and gave them to Tree. The overflow of pleaders spread to the next box. Judy Starr smiled her best professional smile and reached for a pencil and card. A group of players on the field, seeing what was happening, ran over to the field rail and handed her scorecards, too, so that she had to set her half-consumed frankfurter down on the empty seat beside her. Big Bill set his frankfurter down on the same empty seat; he licked the pencil long and absently and began to inscribe his name in the stiff, laborious hand of a man unused to writing.

  The attendant howled: “That’s six, now! Mr. Tree said just six, so that’s all!” as if God himself had said six; and the crowd groaned, and Big Bill waved his immense paw and reached over to the empty seat in the other box to lay hold of his half-eaten frankfurter. But his wife’s hand got there first and fumbled round; and it came up with Tree’s frankfurter. The big brown man almost spoke to her then; but he did not, and he picked up the remaining frankfurter, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed away, but not as if he enjoyed its taste.

  Mr. Ellery Queen was looking at the four people before him with a puzzled, worried expression. Then he caught Miss Paula Paris’s amused glance and blushed angrily.

  The groundkeepers had just left the field and the senior umpire was dusting off the plate to the roar of the crowd when Lotus Verne, who thought a double play was something by Eugene O’Neill, flashed a strange look at Big Bill Tree.

  “Bill! Don’t you feel well?”

  The big ex-pitcher, a sickly blue beneath his tanned skin, put his hand to his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it.

  “It’s the hot dog,” snapped Lotus. “No more for you!”

  Tree blinked and began to say something, but just then Carl Hubbell completed his warming-up, Crosetti marched to the plate, Harry Danning tossed the ball to his second-baseman, who flipped it to Hubbell and trotted back to his position yipping like a terrier.

  The voice of the crowd exploded in one ear-splitting burst. And then silence.

  And Crosetti swung at the first ball Hubbell pitched and smashed it far over Joe Moore’s head for a triple.

  Jimmy Connor gasped as if someone had thrust a knife into his heart. But Detective-Sergeant Velie was bellowing: “Wha’d I tell you? It’s gonna be a massacree!”

  “What is everyone shouting for?” asked Paula.

  Mr. Queen nibbled his nails as Danning strolled halfway to the pitcher’s box. But Hubbell pulled his long pants up, grinning. Red Rolfe was waving a huge bat at the plate. Danning trotted back. Manager Bill Terry had one foot up on the edge of the Giant dugout, his chin on his fist, looking anxious. The infield came in to cut off the run.

  Again fifty thousand people made no single little sound.

  And Hubbell struck out Rolfe, DiMaggio, and Gehrig.

  Mr. Queen shrieked his joy with the thousands as the Giants came whooping in. Jimmy Connor did an Indian war-dance in the box. Sergeant Velie looked aggrieved. Señor Gomez took his warm-up pitches, the umpire used his whisk-broom on the plate again, and Jo-Jo Moore, the Thin Man, ambled up with his war club.

  He walked. Bartell fanned. But Jeep Ripple singled off Flash Gordon’s shins on the first pitch; and there were Moore on third and Ripple on first, one out, and Little Mel Ott at bat.

  Big Bill Tree got half out of his seat, looking surprised, and then dropped to the concrete floor of the box as if somebody had slammed him behind the ear with a fast ball.

  Lotus screamed. Judy, Bill’s wife, turned like a shot, shaking. People in the vicinity jumped up. Three red-coated attendants hurried down, preceded by the hard-looking Mr. Turk. The bench-warmers stuck their heads over the edge of the Yankee dugout to stare.

  “Fainted,” growled Turk, on his knees beside the prostrate athlete.

  “Loosen his collar,” moaned Lotus Verne. “He’s so p-pale!”

  “Have to git him outa here.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes!”

  The attendants and Turk lugged the big man off, long arms dangling in the oddest way. Lotus stumbled along beside him, biting her lips nervously.

  “I think,” began Judy in a quivering voice, rising.

  But Jimmy Connor put his hand on her arm, and she sank back.

  And in the next box Mr. Ellery Queen, on his feet from the instant Tree collapsed, kept looking after the forlorn procession, puzzled, mad about something; until somebody in the stands squawked: “SIDDOWN!” and he sat down.

  “Oh, I knew something would happen,” whispered Paula.

  “Nonsense!” said Mr. Queen shortly. “Fainted, that’s all.”

  Inspector Queen said: “There’s Sure Shot McCoy not far off. I wonder if—”

  “Too many hot dogs,” snapped his son. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t I see my ball game in peace?” And he howled: “Come o-o-on, Mel!”

  Ott lifted his right leg into the sky and swung. The ball whistled into right field, a long long fly, Selkirk racing madly back after it. He caught it by leaping four feet into the air with his back against the barrier. Moore was off for the plate like a streak and beat the throw to Bill Dickey by inches.

  “Yip-ee!” Thus Mr. Queen.

  The Giants trotted out to their positions at the end of the first inning leading one to nothing.

  Up in the press box the working gentlemen of the press tore into their chores, recalling Carl Hubbell’s similar feat in the All-Star game when he struck out the five greatest batters of the American League in succession; praising Twinkle-toes Selkirk for his circus catch; and incidentally noting that Big Bill Tree, famous ex-hurler of the National League, had fainted in a field box during the first inning. Joe Williams of the World-Telegram said it was excitement, Hype Igoe opined that it was a touch of sun—Big Bill never wore a hat—and Frank Graham of the Sun guessed it was too many frankfurters.

  Paula Paris said quietly: “I should think, with your detective instincts, Mr. Queen, you would seriously question the ‘fainting’ of Mr. Tree.”

  Mr. Queen squirmed and finally mumbled: “It’s coming to a pretty pass when a man’s instincts aren’t his own. Velie, go see what really happened to him.”

  “I wanna watch the game,” howled Velie. “Why don’t you go yourself, maestro?”

  “And possibly,” said Mr. Queen, “you ought to go too, Dad. I have a hunch it may lie in your jurisdiction.”

  Inspector Queen regarded his son for some time. Then he rose and sighed: “Come along, Thomas.”

  Sergeant Velie growled something about some people always spoiling other people’s fun and why the hell did he ever have to become a cop; but he got up and obediently followed the Inspector.

  Mr. Queen nibbled his fingernails and avoided Miss Paris’s accusing eyes.

  The second inning was uneventful. Neither side scored.

  As the Giants took the field again, an usher came running down the concrete steps and whispered into Jim Connor’s ear. The Song-and-Dance Man blinked. He rose slowly. “Excuse me, Judy.”

  Judy grasped the rail. “It’s Bill. Jimmy, tell me.”

  “Now, Judy—”

  “Something’s happened to Bill!” Her voice shrilled, and then broke. She jumped up. “I’m going with you.”

  Connor smiled as if he had just lost a bet, and then he took Judy’s arm and hurried her away.

  Paula Paris stared after them, breathing hard.

  Mr. Queen beckoned the redcoat. “What’s the trouble?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Tree passed out. Some young doc in the crowd tried to pull him out of it up at the office, but he couldn’t, and he’s startin’ to look worried—”

  “I knew it!” cried Paula as the man darted away. “Ellery Queen, are you going to sit here and do nothing?”

  But Mr. Queen defiantly set his jaw. Nobody was going to jockey him out of seeing this battle of giants; no, ma’am!

  There were two men out when Frank Crosetti stepped up to the plate for his second time at bat and, with the count two all, plastered a wicked single over Ott’s head.

  And, of course, Sergeant Velie took just that moment to amble down and say, his eyes on the field: “Better come along, Master Mind. The old man wouldst have a word with thou. Ah, I see Frankie’s on first. Smack it, Red!”

  Mr. Queen watched Rolfe take a ball. “Well?” he said shortly. Paula’s lips were parted.

  “Big Bill’s just kicked the bucket. What happened in the second inning?”

  “He’s … dead?” gasped Paula.

  Mr. Queen rose involuntarily. Then he sat down again. “Damn it,” he roared, “it isn’t fair. I won’t go!”

  “Suit yourself. Attaboy, Rolfe!” bellowed the Sergeant as Rolfe singled sharply past Bartell and Crosetti pulled up at second base. “Far’s I’m concerned, it’s open and shut. The little woman did it with her own little hands.”

  “Judy Starr?” said Miss Paris.

  “Bill’s wife?” said Mr. Queen. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s right, little Judy. She poisoned his hot dog.” Velie chuckled. “Man bites dog, and—zowie.”

  “Has she confessed?” snapped Mr. Queen.

  “Naw. But you know dames. She gave Bill the business, all right C’mon, Joe! And I gotta go. What a life.”

  Mr. Queen did not look at Miss Paris. He bit his lip. “Here, Velie, wait a minute.”

  DiMaggio hit a long fly that Leiber caught without moving in his tracks, and the Yankees were retired without a score.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Queen. “Good old Hubbell.” And as the Giants trotted in, he took a fat roll of bills from his pocket, climbed onto his seat, and began waving greenbacks at the spectators in the reserved seats behind the box. Sergeant Velie and Miss Paris stared at him in amazement.

  “I’ll give five bucks,” yelled Mr. Queen, waving the money, “for every autograph Bill Tree signed before the game! In this box right here! Five bucks, gentlemen! Come and get it!”

  “You nuts?” gasped the Sergeant.

  The mob gaped, and then began to laugh, and after a few moments a pair of sheepish-looking men came down, and then two more, and finally a fifth. An attendant ran over to find out what was the matter.

  “Are you the usher who handled the crowd around Bill Tree’s box before the game, when he was giving autographs?” demanded Mr. Queen.

  “Yes, sir. But, look, we can’t allow—”

  “Take a gander at these five men.… You, bud? Yes, that’s Tree’s handwriting. Here’s your fin. Next!” and Mr. Queen went down the line, handing out five-dollar bills with abandon in return for five dirty scorecards with Tree’s scrawl on them.

  “Anybody else?” he called out, waving his roll of bills.

  But nobody else appeared, although there was ungentle badinage from the stands. Sergeant Velie stood there shaking his big head. Miss Paris looked intensely curious.

  “Who didn’t come down?” rapped Mr. Queen.

  “Huh?” said the usher, his mouth open.

  “There were six autographs. Only five people turned up. Who was the sixth man? Speak up!”

  “Oh.” The redcoat scratched his ear. “Say, it wasn’t a man. It was a kid.”

  “A boy?”

  “Yeah, a little squirt in knee pants.”

  Mr. Queen looked unhappy. Velie growled: “Sometimes I think society’s takin’ an awful chance lettin’ you run around loose,” and the two men left the box. Miss Paris, bright-eyed, followed.

  “Have to clear this mess up in a hurry,” muttered Mr. Queen. “Maybe we’ll still be able to catch the late innings.”

  Sergeant Velie led the way to an office, before which a policeman was lounging. He opened the door, and inside they found the Inspector pacing. Turk, the thug, was standing with a scowl over a long, still thing on a couch covered with newspapers. Jimmy Connor sat between the two women; and none of the three so much as stirred a foot. They were all pale and breathing heavily.

  “This is Dr. Fielding,” said Inspector Queen, indicating an elderly white-haired man standing quietly by a window. “He was Tree’s physician. He happened to be in the park watching the game when the rumor reached his ears that Tree had collapsed. So he hurried up here to see what he could do.”

  Ellery went to the couch and pulled the newspaper off Bill Tree’s still head. Paula crossed swiftly to Judy Starr and said: “I’m horribly sorry, Mrs. Tree,” but the woman, her eyes closed, did not move. After a while Ellery dropped the newspaper back into place and said irritably: “Well, well, let’s have it.”

  “A young doctor,” said the Inspector, “got here before Dr. Fielding did, and treated Tree for fainting. I guess it was his fault—”

  “Not at all,” said Dr. Fielding sharply. “The early picture was compatible with fainting, from what he told me. He tried the usual restorative methods—even injected caffeine and picrotoxin. But there was no convulsion, and he didn’t happen to catch that odor of bitter almonds.”

  “Prussic!” said Ellery. “Taken orally?”

  “Yes. HCN—hydrocyanic acid, or prussic, as you prefer. I suspected it at once because—well,” said Dr. Fielding in a grim voice, “because of something that occurred in my office only the other day.”

  “What was that?”

  “I had a two-ounce bottle of hydrocyanic acid on my desk—I sometimes use it in minute quantities as a cardiac stimulant. Mrs. Tree,” the doctor’s glance flickered over the silent woman, “happened to be in my office, resting in preparation for a metabolism test. I left her alone. By a coincidence, Bill Tree dropped in the same morning for a physical check-up. I saw another patient in another room, returned, gave Mrs. Tree her test, saw her out, and came back with Tree. It was then I noticed the bottle, which had been plainly marked DANGER—POISON, was missing from my desk. I thought I had mislaid it, but now …”

  “I didn’t take it,” said Judy Starr in a lifeless voice, still not opening her eyes. “I never even saw it.”

  The Song-and-Dance Man took her limp hand and gently stroked it.

  “No hypo marks on the body,” said Dr. Fielding dryly. “And I am told that fifteen to thirty minutes before Tree collapsed he ate a frankfurter under … peculiar conditions.”

  “I didn’t!” screamed Judy. “I didn’t do it!” She pressed her face, sobbing, against Connor’s orchid.

  Lotus Verne quivered. “She made him pick up her frankfurter. I saw it. They both laid their frankfurters down on that empty seat, and she picked up his. So he had to pick up hers. She poisoned her own frankfurter and then saw to it that he ate it by mistake. Poisoner!” She glared hate at Judy.

  “Wench,” said Miss Paris sotto voce, glaring hate at Lotus.

  “In other words,” put in Ellery impatiently, “Miss Starr is convicted on the usual two counts, motive and opportunity. Motive—her jealousy of Miss Verne and her hatred—an assumption—of Bill Tree, her husband. And opportunity both to lay hands on the poison in your office, Doctor, and to sprinkle some on her frankfurter, contriving to exchange hers for his while they were both autographing scorecards.”