Good Year For Murder by A.E. Eddenden Page B

and dropped. So that when Tretheway arrived back refreshed, he found old Ammerman beside Jake, sitting on the grass.
    â€œWhat happened?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œSlight collision.” Jake nodded at Ammerman. “Just knocked the wind out of our friend.”
    â€œIt was a good clean check,” Ammerman wheezed.
    â€œWhat’s the score?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œSeventeen to nothing,” Jake said.
    â€œHm.” Tretheway watched the politicians at bat.
    Pennylegion got a hit and held at first base, but Trutt, Wakeley and Bartholomew Gum went down two, three, four. In minutes the City Council was out in the field again.
    What Mayor Trutt lacked in pitching ability, he made up in shouts. He shouted at all the infield for being out of position (which they were) every time a run was scored; he shouted at Henry Plain for all his unfavourable calls; and he shouted at Controller Pennylegion every time he dropped a wild pitch. Pennylegion knew baseball, particularly the betting odds, and had an accurate, strong throw. Unfortunately, there was no one to throw it to. F. McKnight Wakeley played first base as though he were on parade and wore his glove backwards on the wrong hand. Gumand Emmett O’Dell made fewer errors than anyone except Pennylegion.
    In the outfield, Valentini, now playing Ammerman’s position, accounted for a few outs on easy fly balls, but Taz and Morgan were an athletic detriment to the team, until Morgan made his decisive play. At the top of the fourth, score 32 to 4, an ox-like sanitation worker with muscles bulging from years of throwing garbage over the side walls and backs of high trucks, smashed a line drive into the unprotected mid-section of Alderman Morgan who, at the time, was looking at something in the sky. The thump was heard back at the pavilion. Morgan Morgan sat down heavily and threw up on his plus fours.
    Everyone ran to the outfield to make sure Alderman Morgan was all right—including the garbageman who had hit the pitched baseball. Morgan recovered almost immediately, physically unharmed, but Umpire Henry Plain decided it was best to end the ball game without further chance of injury.
    As the crowd started to drift away from the baseball diamond, Zulp materialized beside Tretheway.
    â€œWhere’s Wan Ho?” Zulp whispered hoarsely in Tretheway’s ear.
    â€œEh?” Tretheway jumped.
    â€œI think we’ve got our man.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDammit, Tretheway! Our man. The killer.”
    â€œWho?” Tretheway tried desperately to second-guess the Chief. Mac and Jake leaned forward. Ammerman remained seated on the grass.
    â€œConstable.” Zulp looked at Jake. “Arrest that man.”
    â€œWhat man?” Jake asked.
    Zulp surreptitiously jerked his head in the direction of the shuffling crowd. “That one.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œThe big one, dammit!” Zulp said impatiently. “The one that struck down Morgan.”
    â€œHold on.” Tretheway saw Wan Ho in the crowd and beckoned him over. “I’ll stop him if necessary. How do you know he’s the one?”
    â€œDidn’t you see him attack Morgan?” Zulp asked.
    â€œWith a softball?” Tretheway said.
    Wan Ho entered the circle. “Can I help?”
    When Wan Ho heard Zulp’s off-the-cuff theory of the garbage-man’s premeditated attack on an elected official, he took a deep breath and explained why such a conclusion was unlikely.
    â€œNobody, not even a professional ball player, is that accurate with a ball and bat. And from that distance, a blow in the stomach, especially with a softball, would never be lethal. And another thing,” Wan Ho continued, “if Morgan had been on his toes, nothing would’ve happened. He would’ve caught it or got the hell out of the way.”
    Zulp, undaunted, wore what he considered a knowing look. “Here’s the clincher.” He lowered his