THE SUSPENDED AX
All the next forenoon, Locke kept the wires hot. He 'phoned and
telegraphed to every one he could think of who might be able to give
him the information he desired so desperately. He met with one
disappointment after another. In each instance the reply came back
that both Charles Collier and his daughter were somewhere in Europe,
but no one appeared to know just where. If his efforts established
anything at all, it seemed to be the fact that Lefty had been mistaken in
thinking he had seen Virginia in New York; for if she were there, surely
some of these people would know of it. The feeling of helplessness,
of fighting against greedy and remorseless forces too strong for him
to checkmate, pressed upon him heavily.
It was a little after noon when he called the office of the _Blade_. He
wanted to talk to Stillman again. If anybody in New York could find a
person wanted, the reporter was the man to do it, and Locke believed that
for friendship's sake Stillman would attempt it.
Near the telephone switchboard in the hotel were two long shelves,
situated a little distance apart, at which patrons could consult the
different directories. At one of these, several persons were looking
up numbers, so Locke took his book to the other shelf and found the
call for the editorial rooms of the _Blade_. A man at the next shelf
turned, saw the pitcher, and listened when Lefty gave the number to the
operator. Instead of giving his own number, which he had found, the man
noted down the southpaw's call on a card. It was the fourth time during
the day that this same man had made a record of a number asked for by
Locke.
Returning the card to his pocket, the man pretended to busy himself again
over one of the directories, keeping his back partly turned toward the
pitcher. Soon he heard the switchboard girl repeat Lefty's number, and
direct him to booth No. 1.
The man closed his book and turned round slowly. The southpaw was
disappearing into a booth at the end of one of the rows, and, in closing
the door behind him, he unintentionally left it slightly open. The
watching man moved quietly forward until he was close to this booth,
through the glass of which he could see that Lefty's back was partly
turned toward him. There he paused, taking some letters and papers from
his pocket and running them over as if searching for something. While
appearing to be absorbed in his own affairs, he could hear every word
that the pitcher spoke into the receiver.
Getting the editorial rooms of the _Blade_, Locke asked for Stillman.
After a slight delay, he was informed that the reporter was not there. No
one could say just when he would be in.
"This is important," stated Lefty; "a matter in which he is greatly
interested. I must talk with him as soon as possible. Will you ask him,
as soon as he comes in, to call Philip Hazelton at the Great Eastern?
Yes, Hazelton; that's right. Why, yes, I'm Lefty Locke. All right;
don't fail to tell him immediately he arrives."
The man outside slipped the letters and papers into his pocket, and
turned away after the manner of a person who has suddenly decided upon
something. He had not walked ten steps, however, before he turned back.
The southpaw was paying for the call. The man watched him now without
further effort to avoid notice, and when the pitcher turned from the
switchboard he stepped forward deliberately to meet him.
"Hello!" said the man in a voice distinctly husky and unpleasant. "How
are you, Locke?"
Lefty stopped short and stared. It was Garrity, coarse, complacent,
patronizing. The owner of the Rockets grinned, showing the numerous
gold fillings in his teeth. His features were large, and his jaw was
square and brutal. His clothes were those of a common race-track follower.
"Quite well, thank you," answered Lefty coldly, thinking of the
pleasure it would be to tell Garrity his private opinion of him.
"Seems to me you look worried. I don't wonder, though, considering the
job they've handed you. Some job piecing together the tattered remnants,
hey? It's going to make you a busy little manager."
"I'm busy now," said the southpaw, moving as if to pass on; but
Garrity detained him. "You've got some positions to fill. The Feds
got at you hard. Shame to see a team like the Stockings shot to pieces.
You've got three or four bad holes, and I'd like to help you."
"_You_ would?"
"Sure. I've got the very lads you need, too--Mundy and Pendexter.
Both fast men. They work together like two parts of a machine. Mundy
covers the short field like Maranville, and Pendexter sure can play
that keystone cushion. They're the boys for you."
"How's it happen you are willing to let go of them?" asked Locke,
feeling some curiosity to know what lay behind this particular
proposition.
"Well, this is between us, mind? I'd just about as soon give up an eye
as part with either Mundy or Pendexter, but it's easier to lose them
than dispense with Pressly, my third sacker. That's been the trouble
with my team. Pressly loves Mundy and Pendexter as he loves aconite,
and they reciprocate. You know what a feud like that means. It knocks
the bottom out of any team. I can't fill Pressly's place, but I've
got a couple of youngsters that I can work in at short and second. I'm
not going through another season with those three scrapping. You need
the very players I'm willing to part with, and there we are."
Locke knew the man was not honest, and that he was holding something up
his sleeve. In order to make him show his hand, the southpaw asked:
"What do you want for Mundy and Pendexter?"
Garrity considered for a minute. "Well," he answered slowly, "I'll
trade them with you for Spider Grant--and cash."
Lefty stared at him in amazement. Was it possible the man could think he
was such a soft mark? He laughed loudly.
"You don't want much, do you, Garrity? The 'and cash' was a capper!
Man, I wouldn't trade you Spider Grant for your whole team--and cash!"
The owner of the Rockets scowled, glaring at Locke, the corners of his
thick-lipped mouth drooping.
"Oh, you wouldn't, hey?" he growled huskily. "I suppose you think
that's a joke?"
"Not at all; it's serious. I couldn't use the players you offer, anyhow.
Mundy does cover the short field like Rabbit Maranville--sometimes; but
he's got a yellow streak, and he quits. Pendexter knows how to play
second, and at the beginning of last season he hit like old Sockalexis
when the Indian first broke into the league. But the pitchers all got
wise to his weak spot, close and across the knees, and from a
three-hundred-and-sixty batter he slumped into the two-hundred class.
You were thinking of asking for waivers on him. Spider Grant--and
cash--for that pair! I didn't imagine that even you could think me such
a boob."
As he listened, Garrity's face showed his anger; his breath came short
and quick; his eyes were blazing with the fury of a wild animal.
"Have you got that all out of your system?" he asked, when Lefty
stopped. "You're a wise gazabo, ain't you? You know all about baseball
and players and such things! You've got a head bigger than a balloon.
But it'll shrink, give it time. It's plain you think you really
know how to manage a team. By the middle of the season, and maybe
considerable before that, your head will be about the size of a bird
shot. And you'll know a lot more then than you do now, believe me!"
The southpaw laughed in his face. "Don't lose your temper," he
advised, "just because you couldn't put a raw one over on me. Go
ahead and ask waivers on Pendexter. You'll get mine. I wouldn't
carry him on my team if you agreed to pay his season's salary for me. My
trade with Frazer gave you the notion that you could pick another good
man off me, and weaken the Stockings still more. You fooled yourself that
time, Garrity. Perhaps you'll find out before long that you are fooling
yourself in other ways."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I'll let you guess. But just remember what Bobby Burns said about
'the best-laid plans o' mice and men.'"
With this, Locke passed on, leaving the wrathy owner of the Rockets
glaring after him.
"You poor fool!" muttered Garrity. "I'll have you whimpering like a
whipped dog before I'm done with you. Your head's liable to roll into
the basket before the season opens. When the time comes, I'll lift my
finger, and the ax'll fall."