American Gun Mystery (15 page)

The Inspector studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. “All right. But make it snappy. Maybe I’ll be through with the mob by the time you get back. Want Thomas to go alone?”

“No—Yes, come to think of it! And. … before I go. Dad, I want Kit Horne with me, too.”

“The girl? She hasn’t been searched yet.”

“Then attend to it.”

“And the rest of ’em in the Mars box, too.
Including
Mars,” said the Inspector; and they quickly crossed to the southeastern part of the oval. The brave gaiety of hours before was quite washed out of them; the occupants of the Mars box for the most part sat in a rubbled silence, in attitudes of tired dejection. The only calm person there was the irrepressible Djuna; and he was calm because he was fast asleep in his chair.

The Inspector said: “I’m sorry, folks, but you can’t go yet. Miss Horne—”

There were welts under her eyes. “Yes?” she said dully.

“Would you mind coming down here?”

They roused themselves at that; and in Mara Gay’s eyes there seemed to be a kindling fire.

“And Mr. Grant, too—you, Curly,” said Ellery pleasantly.

Wild Bill and his son, both in the box, stared and regarded Ellery hopefully. Then Curly sprang to his feet, vaulted the rail, and held up his arms for Kit. She followed him without effort, her skirts describing a graceful parabola as she dropped to the tanbark; she landed with a little thump in Curly’s arms, and remained there for the fraction of a second. Young Lochinvar seemed loath to relinquish his fragrant armful; her hair tickled his nostrils and made them oscillate like tendrils in a breeze. But Kit disengaged herself gently and said to the Inspector: “Whatever it is—I’m ready.”

“It’s nothing much, Miss Horne. I’m just sending you back to your hotel. But before you go—to keep the records straight, y’know; somebody might have slipped it to you without your knowing—you’ll have to be searched like the rest.”

She flared up suddenly. “You think
I
. …” Then she smiled and shook her head. “Of course. Anything.”

They moved in a group toward one of the small exits. At a signal from the Inspector Sergeant Velie fell into step behind them, and an Amazonian matron who, from her physique, might have mothered every 200-pound policeman on the force.

In one of the small rooms below, the matron—duly admonished to be gentle if thorough—searched Kit; in an adjoining room Sergeant Velie performed a similar service for Curly. The young couple were out in a matter of minutes; form had been “satisfied”; nothing at all incriminating—let alone the .25 automatic pistol which persisted in remaining elusive—had been found on them.

The Inspector escorted them to the main entrance. There they paused, and Ellery whispered: “You’re shipping the others off soon?”

“Yep. I’ll have them frisked right away.”

“Be very careful, dad, please! And—Really, you ought to send Djuna home. The poor tyke’s had enough excitement for one evening. He’ll be ill tomorrow.”

“I’ll send him home with Piggott or somebody.”

“And—keep Grant here until I return.”

“Grant, eh?” The Inspector nodded. “All right.”

Their eyes met. “Well—good huntin’,” said the Inspector.

“It’s bound to be good,” murmured Ellery. “Ah—by the way, you might release Major Kirby after another search. Just to be on the safe side, you know. I don’t think we’ll need him any more tonight, with Knowles holding down the fort at h.q.”

“Sure, sure,” muttered the old man absently. He took snuff with a marked degree of weariness in the gesture. “Y’know, there’s been somethin’ bothering me all night, son. What the dickens did you mean earlier tonight when you told Grant there was somethin’ missing from Horne’s body?”

Ellery threw back his head and gave an exhibition of silent mirth. “Lord, what an eternally surprising old coot you are, dad! Leave it to you to ask the right question at the right time.”

“Quit stallin’,” growled the Inspector. “What was it?”

Ellery stopped laughing and descended into a vast earthy calm. He tapped a cigaret slowly on his thumbnail. “It’s really very clear. Did you notice the pistol belt Horne was wearing?”

“Yes?”

“How many holsters hung from the belt?”

“Why, one. …No, bedad, two!”

“Correct. Yet there was only one revolver on him; one holster then had no revolver. Query: Why does a man wear an old and treasured belt equipped with
two
holsters and still carry only
one
revolver? And that revolver also an old and treasured specimen?”

“There must be another one,” said the Inspector with an expression of surprise. “That’s right, by jiminy! Wouldn’t be surprised if it was a mate to that fancy ivory-handled rod we found in his hand.”

“I
know
it’s a mate,” murmured Ellery, and stepped abruptly out upon the sidewalk to rejoin Kit, Curly and Sergeant Velie.

The night air chilled the marrow. The Inspector watched them step to the curb. He watched a hawking taxicab dart up, and the four get in. He watched Ellery’s lips, and watched the cab shoot down Eighth Avenue. He stood there watching, in fact, long after there was anything left to see.

J
OHNSON, THE DETECTIVE INSPECTOR
Queen had detailed to guard Buck Horne’s room at the Hotel Barclay—a small, drab-looking, grizzled man with the air of the bona-fide shopkeeper and the eyes of a ferret—opened the door very wide and abruptly at Ellery’s knock. He lost his tense expression at sight of Ellery, grinned, and fell back. They trooped in, and Sergeant Velie closed the door.

“Anything doin’, Johnson?” rumbled the Sergeant.

“Nope. I was just thinking of taking off my shoes and havin’ a nap when Mr. Queen broke up my beauty-sleep.”

Kit went mechanically to a chintz-covered chair and sat down. She did not take off her gloves or coat. Curly, an overcoat over his Western clothes, dropped heavily on the bed. Neither spoke.

It was a large room, characterless in the typical hotel fashion, with a bed and two chairs and a dresser and a wardrobe and a night-table.

Ellery smiled at Sergeant Velie, said: “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Horne,” stripped off his light overcoat, pitched his hat on the bed, and went to work.

Johnson and Velie watched him in a sort of boredom.

It was a matter of moments, so swiftly did he search. The wardrobe with Horne’s clothes hanging neatly inside—city suits, an extra coat, two Stetson hats; the drawers of the dresser, which contained few and innocent articles; the drawer of the night-table. He straightened up thoughtfully; then regarded Kit with an apologetic grin.

“Mind if I go through your room, Miss Horne?”

Curly made a warlike movement. “Say, you, I don’t like—”

“Curly,” said Kit. “Not at all, Mr. Queen. Go right ahead. If I knew what you’re looking for—”

“It’s really not important,” said Ellery quickly, going to the door of the communicating bathroom and opening it. Whatever he was mumbling was drowned in the closing of the door as he stepped through the bathroom into Kit’s bedroom. He was back in three minutes, wearing a puzzled frown.

“It certainly should be. …Ah, the bed of course!” and he dropped to his knees beside Curly’s startled legs and peered underneath the bed. Then he reached far under and pulled; emerging after a moment, flushed but triumphant, with a small flat theatrical-type trunk at the end of his arm.

This he dragged to the center of the floor and opened without ceremony. A moment’s rummaging, and he straightened up with a savage gleam in his eye. He was holding in
his
right hand a revolver.

“Oh,
that!
” exclaimed Kit. “Why didn’t you tell me you were looking for the other gun, Mr. Queen? I would have known—”

“So you
didn’t
know,” said Ellery slowly, looking at the weapon.

A faint wrinkle appeared between her candid brows. “Why, no, I didn’t. I didn’t really notice in—in all the excitement. I took it for granted that he had both guns on him. But—”

“Was it his custom always to carry the two guns, Miss Horne?” Ellery asked dreamily.

“He didn’t have a hard and fast rule about it,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “He was notoriously careless, Buck, was. Sometimes he took both, and sometimes he took one. I remember seeing both in that drawer of the trunk just two or three days ago. He must have taken only one with him tonight—last night. Oh, I’m so confused, so tired. …”

“Reasonable enough,” agreed Ellery. “Relax, Miss Horne; it’s been a hard few hours. …Doesn’t it strike you as strange that while he took only one revolver of the pair with him, he still retained both holsters?”

She looked at him, startled; and then to his amazement began to laugh. “Mr. Queen!” she gasped; her laughter was tinged with hysteria. “I can see you don’t know much about Western doodads. And you didn’t examine the belt very carefully. Many, if not most, pistol belts have detachable holsters; but this one of—of Buck’s was specially made. You can’t
help
taking the two holsters along, you see; unless you leave the belt behind, too.”

“Oh,” said Ellery, flushing a little; and he bent his head to examine the revolver he had found.

It was an ivory-handled .45 single-action Colt, obviously and beyond question the twin of the revolver found clutched in the dead man’s hand. Its long barrel was as delicately chased, and its cylinder, as the mate; and the cunning little patches of ivory inlaid on the sides of the butt were carved in a similar steer’s-head design, sporting in the center of each an oval monogrammed
H.
The ivory inlays were worn and yellow, showing the same great age as those of the twin, except for one small patch on the left side of the butt; as Ellery held the revolver in his right hand, this portion of lighter ivory came between the tips of his curled fingers and the heel of his hand. The tip of the barrel and the upper edge of the sight were both rubbed smooth, as in the case of the first revolver.

“Seems as well-used and old as the other,” muttered Ellery absently, and there was a glint in his eyes which was drowned out when he saw Sergeant Velie pounce forward and Curly’s coiled figure spring from the bed.

Then he heard a wild sobbing. It was Kit—that Peerless Cowgirl of the Plains, Heroine of Countless Action Melodramas, Dauntless Daredevil of the West. …She was weeping with unashamed abandon, and her back heaved convulsively as she sobbed into her tear-dampened hands.

“Here, here, we can’t have any of that,” cried Ellery, tossing the revolver on the bed and darting forward. He was held back by a long hard arm attached to Curly’s muscular shoulder; and even the Sergeant submitted to superior wisdom and stepped back. Curly took the little wet brown hands from the little wet brown face and whispered what must have been magical words in Kit’s ears; for in a remarkably short time the heavings became less frequent, the sobs came more gently, and finally ceased altogether. Curly, frowning to conceal his pleasure, returned to his perch on the bed.

She sniffled three times and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m—I’m so sorry. Wasn’t that s-s-silly of me? Crying like a baby! I didn’t realize how much I—” She tucked the handkerchief away and looked into Ellery’s concerned eyes. “I’m quite all right now, Mr. Queen. I beg your pardon for making a scene.”

“I—uh—” said Ellery fluently, and blushed. Then he picked up the revolver. “There’s no doubt,” he said with severity, “of the fact that this was Buck Horne’s gun?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not the slightest.”

“And it is, of course, the mate of the one we found in the arena?”

She looked unhappy. “I—I didn’t notice which one he had, but I suppose it was—was the other.”

“He had more than two revolvers?” snapped Ellery.

“Oh, no. I mean—”

“You’re confused,” said Ellery gently. “Do you know, Mr. Grant?”

“Shore do,” growled Curly. “Why don’t you leave the poor kid alone? That’s one of Buck’s two prize shooters. Had ’em twenty years or more. Pop’s often tole me they were given to Buck by some ole Injun fighter—made up special for Buck, initials an’ all. Some irons!” Enthusiasm leaped into his voice; he took the revolver from Ellery and hefted it appreciatively. “Feel the weight of that, Queen. Perfect, huh? No wonder Buck wouldn’t part with ’em—used ’em all the time. He was a crack shot—you’ve heard
that
—an’ he was finicky as Annie Oakley ’bout the hang of ’em. That’s why he liked these so; they were plumb perfect in balance for ’is hands.”

Johnson, from his corner, rolled his eyes eloquently and turned away with a faint groan. Sergeant Velie shuffled his primeval feet. Even Kit looked askance at the orator. But Ellery seemed extraordinarily interested.

“Go on,” he murmured. “That’s very curious.”

“Go on?” Curly was surprised. “Ain’t nothin’ else to—”

“Isn’t,” said Kit mechanically; and they both colored. Ellery turned a humorous back upon them as he bent again over the revolver.

Employing a device which had served him in the past—a pencil wrapped in a silk handkerchief—he swabbed the interior of the eight-inch barrel thoroughly. The handkerchief emerged with nothing more suspicious than dust-specks, and remarkably few of these. But there was a generous oil-stain.

“Recently cleaned,” he observed to no one in particular.

Kit nodded soberly. “That’s not at all remarkable, Mr. Queen. Buck prized those weapons as if they were relics of his sainted mother. Cleaned them both nearly every day.”

Ellery broke open the cylinder and peered into the cartridge chambers. The gun was not loaded. He rummaged in the trunk drawer again and found a box of cartridges. They were .45 calibre bullets—wicked-looking things almost two inches long. He hesitated, then returned the box of shells to the drawer; but the weapon he pocketed.

“Nothing else here, I think,” he observed cheerfully. “Sergeant, you might go over the ground again to make sure I’ve missed no significant papers or things. But there
is
one thing more I’m going to do before I leave here, by Joe, and I intend doing that at once.”

He smiled and went to the telephone on the night-table. “Is this the hotel operator? Connect me with the desk, please. …Night-clerk? Were you on duty yesterday evening? …Fine. Please come up to 841. This is—well, police business.”