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CHAPTER XXIII
ALL WRONG

When Locke reached Fernandon, he found, as he expected, a furious message from Weegman awaiting him. In it he was savagely reprimanded, and warned under no circumstances to make any further deals without consulting Collier’s private secretary. He was also commanded to report at the office of the Blue Stockings baseball club without unnecessary delay.

Lefty merely smiled over this, but he did not smile over a long telegram from Franklin Parlmee, stating that he had not seen Virginia Collier nor heard anything further from her. Parlmee averred that he could not believe Virginia was in New York; he expressed the conviction that Locke had not seen her in the limousine with Bailey Weegman, but had been deceived by a resemblance. But if she were not in New York, where was she? And why had he received no word from her?

Janet watched Lefty frowning and biting his lip over Parlmee’s message. Her own face showed the anxiety she felt.

“What do you think?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem possible that Virginia could have been with that man, as you thought. You must have been mistaken.”

He shook his head. “I’m positive, Janet. I would be willing to wager anything that I made no mistake.”

“Then what does it mean? I can’t imagine Virginia being in New York without letting Frank know.”

“It’s got me guessing,” Locke admitted. “There’s a snarl that needs to be untangled.”

She grabbed his arm. “You don’t suppose–”

“What?” he asked, as she hesitated.

“You don’t suppose anything terrible could have happened to Virginia? Perhaps that villain has carried her off–shut her up somewhere! Perhaps she is helpless in his power this minute. He may be trying to force her into marrying him.”

Lefty laughed. “That sounds too much like a dime novel, my dear. Scoundrel though he is, Weegman would scarcely have the nerve to try anything like that with the daughter of Charles Collier. That’s not the answer.”

“But something’s wrong,” insisted Janet.

“No doubt about that,” her husband replied. “A lot of things seem to be wrong. Somebody is dealing the cards under the table.”

“I know,” said Janet, “that Virginia didn’t care for Mr. Weegman, and the more her father sought to influence her the less she thought of him. She was proud of Franklin because he had proved his business ability, and she thought Mr. Collier would give in soon. But I can’t understand why she stopped writing to me. She hasn’t written since arriving on this side.”

“We’re not getting anywhere by speculating like this,” said Lefty. “Can you be ready to go North with me to-morrow?”

“You are going back so soon?”

“Just as soon as we can start. I’m thinking I ought to have remained there. I only came South at all in order to make sure of Mysterious Jones, and now it looks as though I wasted both time and money by doing so. Perhaps I would have been better off if Skullen had succeeded in getting Jones away from me.”

“But the cottage–our lease runs another full month.”

“It can’t be helped. We’ll have to pay the rental and give it up.”

“And your arm–you thought another month down here might give you time to work it back into condition.”

“I’ve got plenty to worry about besides my arm. I’ve been told plainly that I’ve been picked to be the goat by a set of scoundrels who are trying to put over a dirty piece of work, and, if I fool them, I’ll have to do it with my head, not my arm. I’m going to stake everything on my ability to put the kibosh on their crooked game, and to stand any chance of succeeding I must be on the field of battle. So we must leave Fernandon to-morrow, my dear.”

To accomplish this necessitated no small amount of hustling, but Janet did her part. With the assistance of her maid and a colored man, the work was speedily done. There were tears in Janet’s eyes when she looked back at the deserted little cottage, as they drove away in a carriage to catch the train.

“It has been pleasant here,” she said. “I’ll never forget it. We were so quiet and so happy. Now, somehow, I have a feeling that there’s nothing but trouble ahead of us. You’ve taken a big contract, Phil.”

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

She looked up at him and smiled proudly. “Not a bit. You are not the sort of man who fails. I know you’ll win out.”

His cheeks glowed and a light leaped into his eyes. “After hearing you say that, I couldn’t fail, Janet, dear,” he said quietly but earnestly. “It’s going to be some fight, but let it come–I’m ready.”

The journey northward was uneventful. Locke had wired both Kennedy and Parlmee when he would arrive in New York, asking them to meet him at the Great Eastern. He did not stop off at the home town of the Blue Stockings, choosing to disregard for the present Weegman’s imperative order for him to report at once at the office of the club. By mail he had formally notified the secretary of the club of the trade with Frazer and the purchase of Mysterious Jones, directing that checks be sent immediately to the manager of the Wolves and to Cap’n Wiley. He had done this as a matter of formality, but he felt sure that Weegman would interfere and hold up the payments, even though they could, sooner or later, be legally enforced. Delay matters as he might, the rascal could not bring about the repudiation of business deals entered into by the properly authorized manager of the team. Locke hoped to have the situation well in hand before he should find it necessary to beard the lion in all his fury. The showdown must come before long, but ere that time the southpaw hoped to fill his hand on the draw.

When he had sent out the players’ contracts from Indianapolis he had instructed the men, after signing, to mail them directly to him in New York. He had made this request emphatic, warning each man not to return his signed contract to the office of the Blue Stockings. He had Kennedy to thank for suggesting this procedure.

“If the contracts go back to the club office,” old Jack had said, “Weegman may get hold of them and hold out on you. That would leave you in the dark; you wouldn’t know who had signed up and who hadn’t, and so you couldn’t tell where you stood. It would keep you muddled so you wouldn’t know what holes were left to be plugged. If you undertook to find out how the land lay by wiring inquiries to the players, you’d make them uneasy, and set them wondering what was doing. Some of them might even try belated dickering with the Feds, and, while you could hold them by law, it would complicate things still more. If the newspapers got wise and printed things, the stock of the club would slump still more, which would help the dirty bunch that’s trying to knock the bottom out of it.”

Beyond question, Kennedy was foxy and farseeing, and Locke looked forward expectantly to another heart-to-heart talk with the old man at the Great Eastern.

A big bundle of mail was delivered to Lefty after he registered at the hotel. Immediately on reaching his rooms he made haste to open the letters.

“Look, Janet!” he cried exultantly, after he had torn open envelope after envelope. “Here are the contracts–Grant, Welsh, Hyland, Savage, Dillon, Reilley, and Lumley all have signed, as well as the youngsters who didn’t attract special attention from the Feds. Not a man lost that the outlaws hadn’t gobbled up before Weegman so kindly forced the management upon me. We’ve got the makings of a real team left. Some of the deadwood has been cleared away, that’s all.”

With scarcely an exception, the players had sent, along with their contracts, brief, friendly letters congratulating Locke and expressing confidence in his ability to manage the Blue Stockings successfully. He had won the regard of them all; in some cases that regard fell little short of genuine affection. With him as their leader they would fight with fresh spirit and loyalty.

“It’s fine, Lefty!” exclaimed Janet, as she read some of those cheery letters. “There was a time when I could not have believed professional ball players were such a fine lot of men.”

“I might have had some doubts myself before I was associated with them,” he admitted; “but experience has taught me that they measure up in manhood as well as any other class. Of course, black sheep may be found in every business.”

As he spoke, he hurriedly opened a letter that had just attracted his attention among those remaining. He read it aloud:

My Dear Hazelton: I am writing in haste before sailing for Liverpool on the Northumberland. As I thought, you were wrong about having seen Virginia in New York. She is in London, and in trouble. I’ve had a cablegram from her which, however, explains very little. She needs me, and I am going to her at once. If you should wish to communicate with me, my address will be the Cecil. As I know that both you and Mrs. Hazelton feel some anxiety about Virginia, I shall let you hear from me as soon as I have any news.

Wishing you the success and good fortune you deserve as a baseball manager, I remain, sincerely yours, Franklin Parlmee.

When he had finished reading, he stood staring at the letter in surprise.

CHAPTER XXIV
WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

“Well, now, what do you know about that?” cried Lefty. “Sailed for Liverpool! The man’s crazy!”

“But he says he has had a cable message from Virginia,” said Janet. “She is in trouble in London. You were mistaken.”

“Was I?” queried the southpaw, as if not yet convinced.

“You must have been. All along I have thought it likely, but you persisted–”

“I saw her distinctly in that passing limousine, which was brightly lighted. True, I obtained only one passing glance at her, but it was enough to satisfy me.”

“You are so persistent, Phil! That’s your one fault; when you think you’re right, all the argument and proof in the world cannot change you.”

“In short, I’m set as a mule,” he admitted, smiling. “Well, there are worse faults. A mistake may prove costly or humiliating to an obstinate person who persists in his error, but, when he is right, such a person is pretty well qualified to win over all opposition. If I did not see Virginia Collier in that car, she has a perfect double in New York. I have great confidence in the reliability of my eyes.”

Janet, however, thoroughly convinced that her husband had been deceived by a resemblance, made no reply.

Lefty had looked for some word from Kennedy, but had found nothing from him in his bundle of mail. It was possible, of course, that old Jack had found it inconvenient to make the trip to New York just then; but, naturally, if he could not come on he would have let Locke know.

Lefty and Janet had not dined on the train, preferring to do so after reaching their destination. As they were passing the desk on their way to the dining room, Locke stopped short, staring at the back of a slender, well-dressed young man who was talking to one of the clerks. Then the southpaw sprang forward and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Jack Stillman!” he exclaimed impulsively.

The man turned quickly.

“If it isn’t Lefty Locke!” he cried, grabbing the pitcher’s hand. “And you’re the one man I’ve been palpitating to get hold of. You’re like the nimble flea. But I’ve got you now!”

“Murder!” said the southpaw. “My joy at spotting you caused me to forget. I should have passed you by, old man. For the moment I completely forgot your profession, and your knack of digging a column or so of sacred secrets out of any old ball player who knows anything he shouldn’t tell.”

Stillman was the baseball man of the Blade, a newspaper with a confirmed habit of putting over scoops. With the exception of Phil Chatterton, who was more of a special writer than reporter, Stillman was almost universally acknowledged to be the best informed pen pusher who made a specialty of dealing with the national game. He possessed an almost uncanny intuition, and was credited with the faculty of getting wise in advance to most of the big happenings in the baseball world.

“So you would have ducked me, would you?” said the reporter reprovingly. “Well, I didn’t think that of you!”

“I believe I should, if I’d stopped to figure out the proper play in advance,” confessed Lefty. “I don’t care to do much talking for the papers–at present.”

“Hang you for an ungrateful reprobate!” exclaimed Stillman, with a touch of earnestness, although he continued to laugh. “Why, I made you, son! At least, I’m going to claim the credit. When you first emerged from the tangled undergrowth I picked you for a winner and persistently boosted you. I gave you fifty thousand dollars’ worth of free advertising.”

“And made my path the harder to climb by getting the fans keyed up to look for a full-fledged wonder. After all that puffing, if I’d fallen down in my first game, Rube Marquard’s year or two of sojourning on the bench would have looked like a brief breathing spell compared to what would have probably happened to me.”

“But you didn’t fall down. I told them you wouldn’t, and you didn’t. Let the other fellows tout the failures; I pick the winners.”

“Modest as ever, I see,” said Locke. “Here’s Mrs. Hazelton waiting. We’re just going to have a late dinner. Won’t you join us?”

Janet knew Stillman well, and she shook hands with him. “Mrs. Hazelton!” he said, smiling. “By Jove! I looked round to see who you meant when you said that, Lefty. Somehow I’ve never yet quite got used to the fact that your honest-and-truly name isn’t Locke. I’ll gladly join you at dinner, but a cup of coffee is all I care for, as I dined a little while ago. Shan’t want anything more before two or three o’clock in the morning, when I’m likely to stray into John’s, where the night owls gather.”

When they had seated themselves at a table in the almost deserted dining room, Lefty warned Janet.

“Be careful what you say before him, my dear,” he said. “He’s looking for copy every minute that he’s awake, and nobody knows when he sleeps.”

Stillman became serious. “Locke,” he said, “I’ve never yet betrayed a confidence. Oh, yes, I’m a reporter! But, all the same, I have a method of getting my copy in a decent fashion. My friends don’t have to be afraid of me, and close up like clams; you should know that.”

“I do,” declared the southpaw promptly. “I didn’t think you were going to take me quite so seriously. You have been a square friend to me, Jack.”

“Then don’t be afraid to talk. I’ll publish only what you’re willing I should. You can tell me what that is. And if you’ve seen the Blade right along you must be aware that it’s the one paper that hasn’t taken a little poke at you since you were tagged to manage the Blue Stockings. Nevertheless, here to your face I’m going to say that I’m afraid you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

Lefty shrugged his shoulders. “As to that, time will tell. For once your judgment may be at fault.”

“I don’t mean that you couldn’t manage the team successfully if you were given a half-decent show,” the reporter hastened to make clear. “I think you could. But I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself in a mess that no man living could crawl out of with credit to himself.”

The southpaw gave the waiter the order. Then he turned to Stillman.

“I thought I might hear something new from you, Jack,” he said, “but you’re singing the same old song. To be frank with you, it’s getting a bit tiresome. If I were dull enough not to know I’d been picked for a fall guy, I could have obtained an inkling of it from the newspapers. It’s plain every baseball scribe knows the fact that there’s a put-up job, although none of them has had the nerve to come out flat and say so.”

“They’ve said all they really dared to–without absolute proof of a conspiracy. If you know so much, take my advice, hand me the proof, and give me permission to publish it. But it must be real proof.”

“I can’t do it yet. Perhaps, when the time comes, I’ll pass you what you’re asking for. Just now, considering your statement that you never double cross a friend, I’m going to talk freely and tell you how much I know.”

Sipping his coffee, Stillman listened to Locke’s story. That there was sufficient interest in it the attention of the reporter attested. Janet watched the newspaper man closely, and once or twice she caught the flicker of an incredulous smile that passed over his face, giving her the impression that Stillman had a notion that there were holes in Lefty’s narrative.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” asked the reporter, when dinner was over, and the dessert had been placed on the table.

Having received Janet’s permission, Stillman lit a cigarette, and for a few moments said nothing, being apparently engrossed with his thoughts.

Presently he said: “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Lefty wanted to know. “What I’ve told you is the straight fact. Weegman’s the crook. Kennedy knew it. I knew it when I took the position of manager. Garrity’s behind Weegman. What ails Collier, and why he was crazy enough to run away and bury himself while his team was wrecked, is the unexplained part of the mystery. But if we can block Weegman we may be able to put the whole game on the fritz.”

“I wonder,” repeated Stillman, letting the smoke curl from his mouth.

Locke felt a touch of irritation. “What are you wondering over? I’ve talked; now I’m ready to listen.”

The reporter gave Locke a steady look. “Evidently the possibility hasn’t occurred to you that you may not even suspect the real crook who is at the bottom of the affair.”

“Weegman conceived it,” replied Lefty. “He knew Garrity’s reputation. He was sure Garrity would jump at the chance to help, and to grab a fat thing at the same time, by stepping in and gobbling the Stockings when the moment came. Of course, Weegman will get his, for without his undermining work in our camp the thing couldn’t be pulled off. And Weegman’s looking to cop the big chief’s daughter when he gets the chief pinched just where he wants him.”

“Wheels within wheels,” said Stillman, “and Weegman only one of the smallest of them. He’s one of those egotistical scoundrels who can easily be flattered and fooled into doing scurvy work for a keener mind.”

“You mean Garrity?”

“I wasn’t thinking of him when I spoke.”

“Then who–”

“I had a man named Parlmee in mind,” stated the reporter.

CHAPTER XXV
HIDDEN TRACKS

His lips parted, his eyes wide and incredulous, Locke sat up straight on his chair and stared at Stillman. Janet, who had been listening attentively, gave a little cry, and leaned forward, one slim, protesting hand uplifted. The reporter drew his case from his pocket and lit another cigarette.

Presently Lefty found his voice. “You’re crazy, Jack!” he declared resentfully.

“Am I?” inquired Stillman.

“Oh, it’s impossible!” exclaimed Janet.

“Absolutely ridiculous!” affirmed the southpaw.

“Very likely it seems so to you both,” admitted the newspaper man, his calm and confident manner proclaiming his own settled conviction. “I listened to Lefty’s story, and I know he’s wise to only a small part of what’s been going on.”

“But Parlmee–Oh, it’s too preposterous! For once in your career, at least, you’re way off your trolley, Jack.”

“Prove it to me.”

“Why, it isn’t necessary. Franklin Parlmee is a white man, as square as there ever was, and as honest as the day is long.”

“There are short days in midwinter.”

“But his object–he couldn’t have an object, even if he were scoundrel enough to contemplate such a thing.”

“Couldn’t he?” asked Stillman, in that odd, enigmatical way of his. “Why not?”

“Why, he’s practically engaged to Virginia Collier.”

“But without the consent of her father.”

“Yes, but–”

“Bailey Weegman is said to have a great liking for Miss Collier. It was your theory that part of his object in seeking to wreck the Blue Stockings was to get old man Collier in a tight place and force his hand. Why couldn’t Parlmee make the same sort of a play?”

The persistence of the reporter began to irritate Locke, who felt his blood growing hot. Was his life beginning to tell on Stillman? Was it possible the pace he had traveled had begun to weaken his naturally keen judgment?

“Even if Parlmee had conceived such a foolish scheme, he was in no position to carry it out, Jack. On the other hand, Weegman was. Furthermore, it’s perfectly impossible to imagine Weegman acting as the tool and assistant of his rival, whom he hates bitterly. Forget it!”

Unmoved, Stillman shook his head. “Didn’t I say that Weegman was an egotistical dub, and an easy mark? He is naturally a rascal, and he thinks himself very clever, and so is just the sort to fall for a still cleverer rascal.”

Janet’s cheeks were hot and her eyes full of resentful anger. It was difficult for her to sit there and hear Parlmee maligned, and she was confident that that was what she was doing. She could not remain quiet.

“I know Frank Parlmee, Mr. Stillman,” she asserted, “and Lefty is right about him. There’s not a squarer man living.”

“How is it possible for Parlmee to use Weegman as a tool?” asked Locke.

“Through Garrity,” answered the reporter without hesitation.

“But I don’t see–”

Stillman leaned forward. “Listen: I am not at liberty to disclose the sources of my information, but it has come to me that this idea of wrecking the Blue Stockings originated in Parlmee’s brain. He saw himself losing out in the fight for Virginia Collier, and he became desperate. Conditions were ripe. Collier had hit the toboggan, financially and otherwise. A man of considerable strength of will, he had begun to break down. Parlmee knew of his plan to go abroad for his health, and of the arrangement to leave Bailey Weegman in charge of affairs. Collier had a great deal of confidence in Weegman’s ability, and this would now be put to the test. If Weegman should make a grand failure, as Parlmee intended he should, Collier would lose all faith in him; and probably, in his disappointment, he would hand him the g. b. That, above all things, was most to be desired by Parlmee, as it would get out of the way the rival who threatened to defeat him. How to put the thing across was the question. I am willing to give Parlmee the credit of a long-headed piece of work. He knew Weegman must be kept in the dark, must never be permitted to suspect that he was being used as a tool by his hated enemy.”

“It sounds altogether too impossible,” said Locke. But, to his annoyance, in spite of his persistently expressed faith, a shadowy uncertainty, a tiny, nagging doubt, was creeping into his mind. Stillman seemed so absolutely confident of his ground.

“Through his long association with Miss Collier,” the reporter pursued calmly, “Parlmee had learned much about inside conditions in baseball. He had plenty of opportunities to get at things entirely hidden from, or merely suspected by, the general public. He knew Garrity was a grasping scoundrel, who had long regarded the Blue Stockings with a covetous eye, and that, being utterly unscrupulous, he would do anything, as long as he could keep in the background, to break Collier’s grip and get his own soiled paws on the property. Therefore, Garrity was the man to deal with, and to Garrity Parlmee went. They met under cover in Chicago, and the deal was fixed up between them. Then Garrity got at Weegman, the real stool pigeon and the fall guy of the whole plot.”

Locke was listening without protest now. In spite of his desire not to believe, Stillman’s theory seemed possible; he would not yet admit, even to himself, that it was probable. Janet, too, was silent. The color had left her face, and beneath the table her hands were tightly clenched.

“Weegman was just ass enough to fall for it,” continued Stillman contemptuously. “What Garrity promised him I can’t say, but certainly it must have been a satisfactory percentage of the loot–maybe an interest in the team when Garrity got control; and Weegman would sell his soul for money. The moment Collier was out of the way he got to work. You know as well as I do what success he’s had. In order to cover his tracks as far as possible, he has picked you for the goat, and he’ll try to shunt all the blame on you.”

Lefty’s face was grim. He was endeavoring to look at the matter fairly and without bias. To himself he was compelled to admit that his knowledge of Parlmee had been obtained through casual association with the man, not through business dealings, and in no small degree, he, as well as Janet, had doubtless been influenced by the sentiments of Virginia Collier. A girl in love may be easily deceived; many girls, blinded by their own infatuation, have made heroes of thoroughbred scoundrels. It was practically impossible, however, for Locke to picture Parlmee as a scoundrel.

“You have made a statement, Jack,” he said, “without offering a particle of corroborating proof. How do you know all this to be true?”

“I have the word of a man I trust that Parlmee and Garrity had that secret meeting in Chicago, just as I have stated. A few days ago Parlmee made a flying trip to Indianapolis, and–”

“I know that,” interrupted Lefty. “I was in Indianapolis at the time. I met him there and had a brief talk with him.”

“On his way back,” resumed Stillman, “he stopped off at Cleveland to see Garrity, who happened to be in that city.”

“How do you know that?”

“My own business chanced to call me out to Cleveland at that time, and I saw Parlmee and Garrity together at the American House.”

Locke took a long breath, recalling the fact that Parlmee, although professing to be in great haste when in Indianapolis, had not returned to his New York office as soon as expected.

“That may have been an accidental meeting,” said the southpaw. “Your proof has holes in it.”

The reporter lighted a fresh cigarette. “How does it happen,” he asked, “that Parlmee is buying up all the small blocks of the club stock that he can get hold of?”

Lefty started as if pricked by the point of a knife. Parlmee, an automobile salesman, a man who had found it necessary to get out and show that he could make good in the business world, buying the stock of the club!

“Is he?” asked the pitcher.

“He is,” asserted Stillman positively. “I know of three lots that he has purchased, and in each instance he has paid a little more than it was supposed to be worth.”

“He–he may have bought it as an investment,” faltered Janet.

The reporter smiled at her. “As far as I can learn, Franklin Parlmee is not situated, financially, to invest much money in stock of any kind. With his stock depreciating, and bound to go lower in value, he would be a chump to purchase it as an investment. The man who pays more than its market value in order to get hold of it knows something about the doings behind the scenes that is not known to the general public. Apparently that man is Parlmee. Who’s furnishing him the money to buy the stock? My own guess is that it is the man who’s looking to get control of the club, and that man is Garrity.”

Still Janet protested that it was impossible, but she looked questioningly at Lefty, the doubt that she was fighting against was now beginning to creep into her eyes.

“Parlmee,” said the southpaw, “has gone to Europe. I have a message from him stating that he would sail on the Northumberland. If he’s behind the plot to wreck the Blue Stockings, why should he leave the field of action at this time?”

“If I’ve got his number,” returned Stillman, “he’s a liar in various ways. Perhaps he has sailed for Europe; perhaps he hasn’t. His message may be nothing more than a little dust for your eyes. But if he has sailed, there’s only one answer to that.”

“Out with it!” urged Locke. “Of course, you think it another move in the rotten game?”

“Sure as death and taxes. He believes the time is ripe to get at Collier. He’s gone across to get at him and twist the control of the club out of his hands. Probably he’ll appear before Collier in the guise of a friend anxious to save him from complete financial disaster. He’s got just about enough time to make the trip comfortably, get that business through with, and return before the regular meeting of the league magnates here in New York. Then, at the meeting, Tom Garrity will bob up serenely as the real owner of the Blue Stockings.”