the pleasure of meeting Dr. Bradford.
The two caddies were there. Their boss rounded them up for me, and I made a deal with them: I would get sandwiches, two apiece, bananas, ice cream, and root beer, and we would go over under a tree and eat, drink and be merry, provided they wouldn't expect me to pay for their lost time. They signed up and we collected the provisions from the lunch counter and found the tree.
One of them, a skinny pale kid with brown hair, had been Manuel Kimball's caddy and the other had been Peter Oliver Barstow's. This other was a chunky lad with snappy brown eyes and a lot of freckles; his name was Mike Allen. After we got arranged under the tree, before he took his first bite he said: 'You know, mister, we don't get paid.'
'What do you mean, you work for fun?'
'We don't get paid all the time, only when we're out on a round. We're not losing any time. We couldn't get another match till after lunch anyhow.'
'Oh. You don't say so. You're too darned honest. If you don't watch out you'll get a job in a bank. Go on and eat your sandwich.'
While we chewed I got them onto the Barstow foursome. The way they rattled it off it was easy to see they hadn't gone over it more than a thousand times, with Anderson and Corbett of course, the other caddies, families and friends at home. They were glib and ready with an answer on every little detail, and that made it pretty hopeless to try to get anything fresh out of them, for they had drawn the picture so many times that they were now doing it with their eyes shut. Not that I really expected a damn thing, but I had long since learned from Wolfe that the corner the light doesn't reach is the one the dime rolled to. There was no variation worth mentioning from the versions I had got from Larry Barstow and Manuel Kimball. By the time the sandwiches and stuff were down I saw that the pale skinny kid was milked dry, so I sent him back to his boss. Chunky Mike I kept a while, sitting with him under the tree. He had some sense in him and he might have noticed something: for instance, how Dr. Bradford had acted when he arrived at the scene on the fourth fairway. But I didn't get a bite there. He only remembered that the doctor had been out of breath when he had run up with everyone waiting for him, and when he stood up after examining Barstow he had been white and calm.
I checked up on the golf bag. There was no uncertainty in him about that; he had positively put it in the front of Barstow's car, leaning against the driver's seat.
I said, 'Of course, Mike, you were pretty excited. At a time like that everybody is. Isn't there a chance you put it in some other car?'
'No, sir. I couldn't. There was no other car there.'
'Maybe it was someone else's bag you put in.'
'No, sir. I'm not a dummy. When you're a caddy you get so you glance at the heads to make sure all the clubs are in, and after I leaned the bag against the seat I did that, and I remember seeing all the new heads.'
'New heads?'
'Sure, they were all new.'
'What made them new? Do you mean Barstow had had new heads put on?'
'No, sir, they were new clubs. The new bag of clubs his wife gave him.'
'What!'
'Sure.'
I didn't want to startle him; I picked a blade of grass and chewed on it. 'How do you know his wife gave them to him?'
'He told me.'
'How did he happen to tell you?'
'Well, when I went up to him he shook hands and said he was glad to see me again, of course he was one of my babies last year-'
'For God's sake, Mike, wait a minute. What do you mean he was one of your babies?'
The kid grinned. 'That's what us fellows call it. When a man likes us for a caddy and won't take another one he's our baby.'
'I see. Go on.'
'He said he was glad to see me again, and when I took his bag I saw they were all new Hendersons, genuine, and he said he was glad to see I admired the new clubs his wife had given him for his birthday.'
There were a couple of bananas left and I handed him one and he began peeling it. I watched him. After a minute I said: 'Do you know that Barstow was killed by a poison needle shot out of the handle of a golf driver?'
His mouth was full. He waited till most of it was down before he answered. 'I know that's what they say.'
'Why, don't you believe it?'
He shook his head. 'They've got to show me.'
'Why?'
'Well…' He took another bite and swallowed it. 'I don't believe you could do it. I've handled a lot of golf clubs. I just don't believe it.'
I grinned at him. 'You're a skeptic, Mike. You know what my boss says? He says that skepticism is a good watchdog if you know when to take the leash off. I don't suppose you happen to know when Barstow had a birthday?'
