10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 45: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

eet Se it seemed to be a sort of quiet, dis- ciplined excitement. A man was just passing in front of him and Phil said: ““Who’s the big shot here?” The man was short, plump and pleasant-faced. His clothes were rough and soiled—an employee, no doubt. He looked at Phil respectfully. “The big shot?” he said. “I sup- pose you mean Mr. Lowther, sir. He’s not one of the players, but he’s presi- dent of the club. I think he’s inside.” Phil went inside. There were dress- ing rooms and an office, and a large room with chairs and tables, and a bar along one side. He asked the bar- keep for Mr. Lowther. Mr. Lowther, it appeared, was right there at the bar, finding sportive pleasure in a whisky and soda. He was a man of nearly seventy, but large and bony and politely vigorous. He had a face something like Julius Caesar’s. Phil took him to one side. He said: “Mr. Lowther, I’m from the D.A.’s office.” He showed his official card. “T had private orders to come out here and stick around.” Mr. Lowther seemed faintly aston- ished. “Really? For what purpose?” “T don’t know,” admitted Phil. “ hope nothing much happens. Probably just a precaution. I thought I’d better let you know I was here—in case. By the way, is there anything special about today’s game?” “In a way, yes,” said Mr. Lowther. “It’s a sort of farewell game for Ted Latta.” 3 “Who’s Ted Latta?” R. LOWTHER’S ample eyebrows twitched. “Eh? Oh, of course you don’t know. Ted is one of our best - cricketers, and an excellent chap. He’s English. Most of our players are Eng- lish. Ted is leaving next week for Eng- land. The war, you know.” “A young chap, huh?” “Ted is about thirty. He’s a very good amateur flyer—has his own CORPSE BEHIND THE 8 BALL —__———43 plane. That’s why he’s going. We’re making an occasion of the game to- day. In honor of Ted, we’re raising a fund for war refugees. It’s in the na- ture of a gamble. You see, we’re play- ing the Tunbridge Green Club, who have come all the way from Chicago.” “But what’s the gamble?” “The Woodford Wells Club will do- nate a hundred dollars for every run that Tunbridge scores, and the Tun- bridge Green Club will put up a hun- dred for every run that Woodford scores. In that way, of course, the los- ing team will pay the most.” “Will that make much of a pot?” . “Fair. Probably about fifty thou- sand dollars.” Phil whistled gently. “Fifty thou- sand !” Mr. Lowther smiled. “You see, in an ordinary half-day game of cricket, each team gets one inning. But this is a full-day game, and each team should get two innings, or close to it. At any rate, we'll play until dusk. There should be a total of at least five hundred runs.” “Five hundred!” “This is cricket, not baseball, Mr. Massen.” Mr. Lowther started to turn away. “Well, I hope you enjoy the game.” “Before you go,” Phil said hastily, “show me your Ted Latta.” “Certainly.” Mr. Lowther led him out of the clubhouse and pointed down to the playing field. He said: “Ted is the man just this side of the nearer wicket. His position corresponds, in a general way, to that of shortstop in your baseball.” Mr. Lowther smiled. “It is what you’d call a hot spot.” The man indicated was well-built, a little under six feet, and even at a distance Phil could see that he was tawny-haired. At the moment, the bowler shot the ball down the pitch with the regula- tion overhead motion. Bang! Slap! “Oh, well-done!” exclaimed Mr. Lowther. comicdoolk (©