The Boy from Left Field (13 page)

The others gasped and stirred, but Ringo swung the crowbar, threatening them.

It was now or never, Hawk decided. He could see a tall, thin figure, the third Ripper who had been watching from the car, coming slowly up from the entrance. They were trapped now, and there was only one hope. He tightened his grip on the barrel hoop, jumped down from his perch, and flung it with all the force he could muster at Ringo’s back.

It hit the mark. Ringo screamed, swore, and staggered forward. Howling in pain, he dropped the crowbar, grabbed hold of the bag, and yanked it from Sterling’s grasp.

“Pick up the crowbar! Let’s flatten these stupid kids!”

Suddenly, from nearby came muffled shouts and the blare of voices as two small figures in blue appeared far down the passage near the entrance.

“STOP! DROP THOSE WEAPONS! YOU KIDS! OUT OF THE WAY. MOVE IT, NOW!”

It was two uniformed Toronto policemen. They approached the group, waving and shouting.

“YOU THREE BIG BOYS, DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND LINE UP AGAINST THE WALL. YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!”

Ringo swore and ran toward the open panel in the wall, swinging the bag, stuffed with the yelping dog, in front of him.

Sterling made as if to follow, but Martin tackled him, and Elroy helped pin him down.

“Ringo’s escaping!” Panny shouted, and, picking herself up, she ran after him. Hawk tried to cut him off, but Ringo was too fast for them.

The Ripper sprang through the doorway and into the darkness beyond.

They followed, plunging into the darkness of a narrow corridor. Then they heard a clank, as if an iron door had slammed shut just in front of them. They groped forward. Hawk’s fingers touched a metal door but the cold handle wouldn’t budge.

“He’s locked it — he’ll get away!” Hawk groaned.

“He’s got Chew-Boy! We’ve got to catch him.” Panny grabbed Hawk’s arm and led him back to the main corridor.

Hawk breathed a big sigh of relief. The policemen had come running up and shoved the other two Rippers against the wall.

As they systematically searched them, Panny lost her cool and started shouting. “What are you doing? The big fish has got away! And he’s got my dog. He might hurt him
.
WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE?”

Albert smiled weakly, nodded at Panny and the boys, and with a glance at one of the policemen, announced quietly, “This is my cousin, Stanley Perkins.”

Pursuit in the Dark

“Thanks for coming,” Panny said, making an effort to calm herself, “but you’re a little late. The head Ripper is escaping right now. He’s locked the passage doorway and we can’t follow him. And he has my dog!”

Elroy ran over. “Panny, I know where he’s got to. They showed me the escape routes, remember? Just follow me and we’ll get him!”

Officer Perkins, a very round man with goggle eyes, huge hands, and a rather large red nose, objected. “Now, just a minute, kids! You’ve already pushed things too far. You — hey, wait a minute! You can’t leave right now.”

Nobody paid any attention, however, and the four kids, with Elroy in the lead, tore off and away down one of the branching passageways. Only Albert stayed where he was.

“Look at it this way, Cousin Stanley,” he said, “I’ll be their representative. I’ll stay here and explain everything. You can take notes on the case, and if they need help, I’m sure one of them will get in touch. It’s not just any dog. It’s Chew-Boy they’re after. Anyway, I tipped you off on this one, and you’ll get a promotion for sure when you bring these guys in.”

Officer Perkins glared at his cousin. “Promotion? I’ll be lucky not to get suspended. What do you think, Horse?” The other officer, who was even bigger than Albert’s cousin, grunted. “If they come back with that Ringo character, we might get away with a reprimand, but if he happens to murder them … it won’t go well for us.”

Albert gasped and stared at him. “Gosh, do you think it’s even possible?”

Elroy, Panny, Hawk, and Martin charged at full speed down a dimly lit corridor that ran to the west side of the huge warehouse.

“We’ll catch him!” Elroy reassured them, breathing hard as he ran. “All the corridors have stairwells and elevators leading down to the basement. The only exit is on the west side. There’s a long basement that runs right across the building. After he locked the door on you, he went down a stairwell, then he must’ve cut back west. We should be right behind him when we get down there.”

“Is there anywhere he could have dumped Chew-Boy?” Panny asked. “An open sewer, a furnace — something horrible like that?”

“No — nowhere,” Elroy assured her. “He’s using him for a hostage, I guess.”

“If he opens that bag, Chew-Boy will bite his hand off,” Panny said angrily.

“Once he gets outside, I bet he’ll head for the car we saw,” Hawk told them. “Or, if the police have arrived there by then, he’ll probably just walk off somewhere to get a taxi.”

“Luckily, it’s deserted out there,” Panny said. “Otherwise we’d never find him.”

They sprinted along until they came to a dull red light shining on the right side of the corridor.

“That’s the stairs,” Elroy shouted. “I just hope they ain’t locked!”

They pushed easily through the heavy doors and bounded down the dusty, semi-dark stairwell. At the bottom they turned and entered another long hallway, this one at basement level.

“There’s the entrance. You can see some lights out there. It leads to a ramp, and that will take us up to the street. That was supposed to be our getaway route.”

“Whatever happened to the watchman?” Martin asked.

“He’s locked up at the front in an old closet. I gotta remember to tell the police that.”

“We can’t be far behind him now,” Martin gasped.

“Half a block at most,” Elroy said.

“Do you hear some noise out there?” Panny asked. “I thought the streets would be deserted.”

“I can’t understand it,” Elroy said. “There ain’t nobody in these parts at night. But I see lights movin’ and flashin’ too. Could be a fire or something. That’s the last thing we need!”

They finally reached the door and pushed out onto a low, sloping ramp. The street was slightly above them. They could hear voices, a multitude of them, and they saw windows lit, the lower stories of the old buildings being swept by lights.

“Sure ain’t a prayer meeting,” Elroy said.

At the top of the ramp they could see the street. A large bus, its lights flashing, had climbed the sidewalk and plowed into a lamppost, which was bent but still standing. Thin wisps of smoke drifted up from the vehicle’s engine. A crowd milled around, mostly women, middle-aged and clearly distraught. They were talking away while a couple of men worked over a figure lying prone on the street. A police car was parked nearby. It had all the appearances of an accident that had just happened. The sound of an approaching ambulance could be heard in the distance.

Elroy stopped, took in the scene, and looked at the others. “Bad luck. With all this distraction, he’ll get free for sure.”

“If he’s able to get free, that is,” Martin said. “That bus hit someone. Who do you think it might be?”

Panny sprang to life. “Ringo! Then what about Chew-Boy?” She took off in the direction of the bus with the boys following close behind.

When they reached the fringes of the crowd, they stopped. Some women drifted over, eyeing them curiously.

“Where did you kids come from? Are you his friends?”

“Who’s friends?”

A tall, cool-looking woman in jeans told them that a boy had been struck by the bus. A teenager. “He’s not dead, don’t worry,” she said. “But we’re all a bit ticked off because we’re going to be late for the dog show. And we came all the way from Buffalo, New York, to be part of it…. Not that I don’t feel sorry for the boy….”

The kids stood amazed as a second woman added, “Not that I blame the driver. Although he admitted that he got lost. We should be on a highway, not in the middle of these back streets. You do have speedways in Toronto, I assume?”

“Sure do!” Elroy said. “And we’re off on one right now!”

The three kids sprinted forward. “He’s got to have survived!” Panny prayed. “My poor Chew-Boy!”

When they got to the scene of the accident, the kids reassured themselves with a glance that it was, in fact, Ringo lying on the road. He wasn’t dead, that was clear, as he was yelling at one of the officers to leave him alone. But there was no sign of a little white dog.

Then, just as one of the other officers was shooing them away, the kids noticed something wonderful.

There, unmistakably, was Chew-Boy, sitting on the lap of a grey-haired man in a raincoat, receiving loving attention from five or six ladies, who were petting and talking to the baffled but pleased animal with an affection that even the most pampered lapdog would have envied. A torn, frazzled white bag lay in the gutter beside the group.

“Chew-Boy!” Panny called out as she ran over to her friend. He recognized her at once and jumped into her arms, as joyfully as he always had.

When they got back to the warehouse, the corridors were crowded with uniforms, and as the police probed everywhere the whole place came alive with light and sound. Word had spread quickly about the fate of Ringo, who had been seriously, but not fatally, injured. The other two Rippers, scowling and swearing, were handcuffed and led away. Once they were gone, the police had all the kids sit down, and a police psychologist started asking for their names and home addresses and phone numbers.

“But what about Skimmer O’Boyle’s treasure?” Hawk asked. “It belongs to Mr. Rizzuto. Babe Ruth’s baseball may be in there!”

The psychologist, a gentle-looking woman in a plain blue suit, gave him a blank look. “I think you’ve had enough excitement for one night,” she told him. “Your parents are being called and I’m sure they’re all anxious to see you safely at home. Just take a deep breath and relax and we’ll take care of everything.”

Her reassuring words made Hawk twice as frantic. But at this point Constable Perkins intervened. “It’s all right, Dr. Jones. I know what the boy’s taking about…. My cousin Albert explained it to me. Albert called Mr. Rizzuto and he and his lawyer are on their way here now. Meanwhile, I think we’ll all be here for a while until we get everything sorted out. The best news is that you kids will likely all get the morning off school tomorrow.”

Panny, who was sitting nearby, cut in. “That’s not such good news,” she said. “We love school.”

The constable sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

What’s in That Box?

A couple of hours later, Hawk arrived in a police car at his dad’s place on Condor Avenue. Jim was waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of the house. He frowned and shook his head, but gave Hawk a hug before leading him inside.

“You are one stupid boy,” he said. “Brave maybe, and intelligent, but also a damned fool!”

Hawk could see that although his father was a bit angry at him, and obviously had been worried, he was — in some funny way — very impressed.

When they sat down in the living room and Hawk had a glass of juice in hand, his father said quietly, “You weren’t honest with me, Hawk. That’s bad. It went fine when you told me about Charles and the Ferrets. I helped you with that one. You should have done the same in this case — even more so! If we’re gonna be pals, from now on you have to be honest, and you have to trust me.”

Hawk sniffed, swallowed a mouthful of juice, and fought back tears. “Yeah, Dad, I understand.”

Jim cleared his throat, smiled briefly, and said, “Besides me worrying, there’s your mother. She called tonight and I had to pretend everything was fine. She wants you to call her tomorrow, and what you tell her is up to you. But I suggest you save the detailed story until you see her in person.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Okay, then. Get some rest. Just lie low for a couple of days. No friends, just some reading and quiet reflection. But you’ll work on your schoolwork while you’re here. Call it a punishment, a grounding if you like. It’s for your own good.

“Your friend Mr. Rizzuto called me to apologize, and he explained that he wanted to set up a meeting and was wondering if he could hold it here — apparently it concerns you and your friends and the goings-on tonight. It’ll be first thing in the morning, before school, in a couple of days. You can get on with life after that. But for now, just go upstairs and get some sleep.”

Of course, Hawk found that “getting some sleep” was not so easy. He kept seeing the warehouse and its seemingly endless corridors, the blank walls, and shadowy recesses. He heard the clank of metal, the curses of the Rippers, the shouts of the police. He saw Ringo’s tattooed arm swinging the crowbar.…
Could he duck in time?
No!
He screamed and woke suddenly, sweating and trembling. When he finally lay back down, he drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The next two days passed in a kind of dream. Jim allowed Hawk a few phone calls and he was glad to hear that his friends were all doing fine — Panny and Chew-Boy, Martin, Elroy, and Albert (though Albert was in quite a bit of trouble with his parents). On the third day Hawk was up early, and ate a hasty breakfast with his father before the guests began to arrive.

Panny zoomed up on her bicycle (green panniers today). “Where’s the loot?” she joked, adding, “Hey, I miss school already!” Martin turned up with Elroy and they played catch in the backyard and talked about baseball, just as if they were old friends.

Then a small white moving truck arrived and parked on the narrow street in front of Jim’s house. Two men got out. One of them was Chick Ciccarelli, wearing the old number 10 on his T-shirt. He and his helper searched through the large packing case in the back of the van and hauled out two smaller square containers, each about the size of an old-fashioned steamer trunk. These they brought into the house, just as Mr. Rizzuto drove up in his red van.

He jumped out of the vehicle, shook hands with Jim, and gave Hawk a hug.

“I saved it, kid. I saved it for you to see. We’ll open it inside, when the gang’s all here.”

At that moment another car drove up, a small Mercedes, and two men got out. Mr. Rizzuto introduced his lawyer, Mr. Sverov, a stocky man dressed in a blue suit and tie, and Hal Hodges, a TV reporter in jeans and T-shirt. Hodges immediately hauled an enormous video camera out of the car.

“Everything documented, everything legal — that’s my motto,” said Mr. Rizzuto.

Another bicycle appeared — it was Ms. Calloway, who greeted Hawk with a big smile. “Well, you’ve been busy,” she said. “I’m glad it all worked out.”

“I don’t think I’ll do that again,” Hawk told her sheepishly.

“No, that wouldn’t be such a good idea. You can talk to the class about it this afternoon — you and Panny and Albert — and tell them what you learned from your experience. What’s responsible and what’s not. Ms. Clarke will be there, too. She wants to hear all about it, but this morning she’s busy in Room 21.”

Panny came out and greeted Ms. Calloway. “I don’t think Albert’s mother wants to let him come today,” she said. “She’s still a bit upset about the other night. Maybe if you called her, Ms. Calloway?”

Ms. Calloway smiled. “I guess I can give it a try.”

Hawk and Panny followed her inside. The two boxes had been set up on the living floor. The cameraman was already filming, and the lawyer was flipping through some legal-looking papers.

“We can start with the second box while we’re waiting for Albert,” Mr. Rizzuto said. “I don’t think it’s the one, but we have to be sure. The records just say ‘miscellaneous, including sports memorabilia.’ Why don’t you open it up for us, Chick.”

Ciccarelli, equipped with a hammer, pliers, crowbar, and other tools, started work. Hawk winced a bit at the sight of the crowbar.

The lock was soon sprung open and Chick lifted the lid. All eyes were on the small, wrapped packages he brought out.

Mr. Rizzuto unwrapped each parcel himself. “One Spalding tennis ball, slightly warped,” he began. “No apparent value.”

He went on unwrapping the little bundles one by one: “One polo mallet, good condition. One very old pair of binoculars, water-damaged. One bag of golf balls — no apparent value. One pair of old-fashioned roller skates. One beach blanket, one folding umbrella. One bag of advertisements, programs, and so on for Hanlan’s Point Amusement Park — pretty faded but these might be interesting…. And that seems to be it. Boy, I sure hope the other box has something more exciting than this pile of junk!”

At this point they stopped to have juice, coffee, and doughnuts. Albert arrived, and rather shamefacedly explained that his mother had made him swear not to go on any more unannounced “adventures.”

Then they proceeded to open the second box. Hawk watched nervously as Chick removed the lock.
Was this the end of his great dream of finding the Babe Ruth baseball?

Hal Hodges, the cameraman, was still filming.

Mr. Rizzuto peered into the box and held up crossed fingers. He unwrapped the first parcel and drew out what appeared to be a crumbling towel or rag. An ancient yellowed paper fluttered down. Panny picked it up and Mr. Rizzuto signalled her to read it. “Rowing trunks belonging to the internationally famous rower and later proprietor of Hanlan’s Point Hotel, Ned Hanlan,” she announced.

Panny giggled and looked around. “Don’t know how the bidding will go on that one, Mr. Rizzuto.”

“Well they might be worth something,” pronounced Mr. Sverov. “If they don’t fall apart first.”

“This looks more promising,” said Mr. Rizzuto. With a weak smile, he lifted his hat and dabbed at his sweating forehead. He had picked up a square box, not large, but big enough to hold a baseball. Hawk held his breath as Mr. Rizzuto tore away the paper. From the box he pulled a round object, swathed in a kind of linen.

“They didn’t have cellophane in those days,” Albert informed them, “or plastic wrapping.”

“It looks like a baseball!” Mr. Rizzuto shouted. Then, tossing the object up and down in his hand, he added, “It feels like a baseball.” He tore at the swathing, and as the wrapping fell away, Hawk and Elroy chanted in unison, “And it
is
a baseball!”

There it was at last — a baseball in Mr. Rizzuto’s trembling hands.
But was it THE baseball?

“It’s a very old ball,” he said. “It’s a professional ball. It’s been swatted hard at least once. Flat seams, not like today’s baseballs. Now let me see what that paper says.”

Inside the box was a note. Hawk, peering over Mr. Rizzuto’s shoulder, saw that it was handwritten in a script that was both crude and ancient-looking — he guessed that the note dated quite far back. Certainly he’d never seen anything like it, except in photographs of old documents, like treaties, wills, and deeds.

As the boy was pondering this, Mr. Rizzuto seemed to go manic. He screamed, jumped up and down, waved his arms, and would have dropped the precious baseball if Mr. Sverov had not made a splendid dive across the floor to catch it.

“I hope this really is the one you’re looking for,” the lawyer murmured, handing his client the old ball. “I just tore my best suit to rescue it.”

“It’s the one! It’s the one!”
Mr. Rizzuto shouted. “Just listen to this, everybody.”

They all drew closer as Mr. Rizzuto read from the paper: “This baseball recovered from water near Hanlan’s Point by young swimmer, 13 June, 1914. Paid youth 10 cents. Hit by Providence Grays player, name unknown. Try to resell to Leafs. Otherwise retain and store.”

“That’s the Toronto Maple Leafs
baseball
team,” Mr. Rizzuto explained. Thank God those cheapskates didn’t buy it back!” He turned to Hawk and stuck out his hand. Hawk shook his hand, danced away, then slapped hands in celebration with his father and all his friends. “Are we going to be rich?” he asked Mr. Rizzuto.

“You just might be,” said Mr. Sverov.

“You can bet your bottom dollar we’ll be rich!” cried Mr. Rizzuto “The date fits, the team fits, the ball fits like a charm. We’ve done it. We had the faith and we’ve done it. We’ve found Babe Ruth’s lost baseball!”