The Cincinnati Red Stalkings by Troy Soos Read Free Book Online Page A

that Charlie Gould’s bat was still on its rack above the desk, and the trophy balls were in their case. Cal McVey’s uniform jersey was on the wall—but I noticed that the bottom of it had been scorched; there was a burn mark on it about the size of my hand. If Perriman was killed in a robbery, why had those things been left at all—surely they were among the most valuable in the collection.
    I turned to go, then shot a quick glance at the wall below Gould’s bat. Harry and George Wright’s gold medals were still there. Helluva thief, I thought, who’d pass those up.

Chapter Five

    I fanned myself with an unused 1913 Cincinnati Reds scorecard, trying to stir up the warm, humid air that hovered in the parlor. The resulting breeze was too weak to prevent sweat from trickling down my face and splashing onto the pages of the Baseball Magazine I was leafing through.
    It was an hour or two after midnight, and I was alone, seated at my desk, where I’d stacked the publications Ollie Perriman had given me. I was in my summer underwear—a sleeveless nainsook shirt and knee-length drawers—but neither the light clothing nor the open windows could alleviate the oppressive heat. I found the quiet of the night peaceful and calming though. The only sound was the sporadic thwack of a moth bumping into the window screen; it was attracted by the glow from the brass lamp on the desk’s top shelf.
    A light footstep fell behind me, and I swiveled around in my chair to see Margie coming down the stairs, tying the sash of her red floral kimono. Her tread was somewhat unsteady, and her eyes were puffy.
    “Can’t sleep?” she asked in a drowsy voice.
    “Can’t stop thinking about Ollie Perriman getting killed.” I shifted in my chair, carefully peeling my posterior off the leather cushion as I moved.
    “It’s awful what happened,” Margie said soothingly, “but staying up and fretting won’t change things. Come back to bed, get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
    “Something about it doesn’t feel right,” I said. “I don’t think this was a simple robbery gone bad.”
    Margie let out a long breath, then sat down on the sofa and tucked her legs under her. “Why not?”
    “Because there were valuable things left behind.” I stuck the scorecard in the magazine to mark my place and set it down. “A couple of big gold medals were hanging on the wall right above Perriman’s desk. No thief could have missed seeing them. So why didn’t he take them?”
    “Maybe he thought they’d be too easy to trace?”
    “Could melt them down and sell them for the gold.”
    “Well ...” The muscles in Margie’s neck strained as she stifled a yawn. “Maybe he got scared after the shooting and ran out.”
    “Could be. But I don’t think it happened like that. The blood on the floor was by the desk—in a corner away from the door. So I don’t think Perriman walked in and surprised the robber. And if the killer walked in and shot Perriman where he sat, why rummage through the shelves and drawers afterward, but not take the medals?”
    “I don’t know,” she answered with a note of finality. “But I do know that reading all night isn’t going to help anything. How about if I get you some warm milk and cookies and then you try to go back to sleep?”
    “I’m not reading. I’m looking.”
    “For what?”
    “Not sure ...” I’d been trying to imagine what the man who killed Ollie Perriman could possibly have been after. “It seems to me like the thief was looking for something specific, not just something he could fence for a few bucks. And from what I saw, it didn’t appear that much, if anything, had been taken. So ... I got to wondering: what if he was after something Perriman had given me? What if it’s here?”
    “Oh!” Margie sat up a little straighter and her eyes opened a notch wider. “But that’s just a pile of ... What could be valuable in there?”
    “I can’t imagine.” These things