A Spoonful of Luger (9 page)

And
he
turned
out
to
have
been
correct
about
the
range.
It
would
have
been
four
or
five
feet,
because
the
shell
case
had
flipped
into
the
fireplace
and
trickled
down
inside
that
pile
of
cigarette
packets,
which
made
it
reasonably
certain
where
the
murderer
had
been
standing.
The
sergeant
lifted
it
out
carefully
on
a
pencil
and
produced
a
six
inch
steel
rule
from
his
pocket.
He
also
had
a
neat
little
pocket
magnifier.
Dead
efficient.
Bycroft
glanced
at
me,
a
bright
light
in
his
eye.
Oh
no,
I
thought,
and
turned
away.

“German,”
Sprague
said.
“The
firing
pin’s
slightly
off-centre.
It’s
a
7.65
mm.
A
high-velocity
cartridge.
We
guessed
that
much.
This’d
be
a
Mauser.
Look
at
the
length
of
the
case.
We’re
looking
for
a
Mauser
automatic.
Damn
it
all, they
went
out
of
production
— “

“How
long
is
it?”
I
asked.
I
mean,
you
don’t
want
to
interfere,
but
the record
ought
to
be
straight.

For
a
moment
he
turned
and
looked
at
me,
as
though
aware
of
my
presence
for
the
first
time.
Bycroft
was
silent,
letting
it
mature.

“Twenty-one
millimetres.”

That
did
it.
The
Mauser
pistol
ammunition
had
a
twenty-five
millimetre
case.

“Then
it’s
a
Luger
we’re
looking
for,”
I
told
him.
Then
because
he
glared,
“not
a
Mauser.”

“Damn
it,
you’re
only
guessing,”
he
grumbled.
And
Bycroft
smiled.
I
knew,
then,
why
he
hadn’t
thrown
me
out
long
before.

“I’m
not
guessing.
The
Mauser
cartridge
is
longer.
Look
it
up
if
you
don’t
believe
me.”
It
was
a
mistake.
Nobody
likes
to
be
told
to
look
up
things.
“That’s
a
Parabellum
7.65,
and
you
know
bloody
well
the
gun’s
got
to
be
a
semi-automatic
with
a
fully-locked
breech.
It
doesn’t
leave
much
choice.
Even
the
Walther
P38
uses
Auto
Pistol
ammunition
in
their
7.65
model,
and that’s
a
short
case.
There’s
only
the
Luger
ever
used
that
case
size,
their
own
ammunition
in
their
own
gun.”

“He’s
right,”
said
Bycroft
placidly,
and
I
thought
Sprague
would
explode.

Bycroft
obviously
spent
a
lot
of
his
time
struggling
to
keep
on
top
of
Sprague,
whose
fierce
efficiency
and
drive
were
apt
to
be
overpowering.
Any
ploy
was
legitimate
in
his
attempts
to
emphasize
his
authority.
But
he
knew
when
to
conserve
an
advantage.

“The
bullet,”
he
said,
slipping
in
a
diversion.
“It
must
be
somewhere
in
here.”

Sprague
found
it
in
the
woodwork
in
a
corner
of
the
window,
chest
high,
which
cheered
him
up
no
end.
I
lent
him
my
penknife.
The
wood
was
fairly
rotten
and
fell
away
easily,
so
that
he
was
able
to
get
the
bullet
out
without
adding
any
scratches.
He
cradled
it
in
his
palm.
You
could
almost
hear
him
thinking:
now
we’ll
know.

“Nickel-jacketted,”
he
said,
peering
at
it
through
the
magnifier.
The
bullet had
gone
right
through
Cleave,
which
meant
that
it
had
not
encountered
bone
on
the
way,
and
the
wood
had
been
rotten,
so
there
was
almost
no
distortion.
“Beautifully
marked,”
he
murmured.
“Eight
rifling
grooves.
Four
grooves
for
Mauser,
six
for
Walther ... ”
He
glanced
up,
beating Bycroft
to
it.
“You’re
right
it’s
a
Luger
we’re
after.”

Bycroft
said
nothing.
Just
at
that
moment
a
silence
was
more
telling
than
a
sarcastic
comment.
I
simply
nodded
in
agreement.
Sprague’s
jaw
was
moving
ominously
as
he
put
the
cartridge
case
and
the
bullet
into
a
plastic
bag
for
the
ballistics
experts.

Bycroft
slapped
his
palms
together
and
looked
round
him.
Everything
was
coming
along
fine
—
so
far.

“Let’s
have
him
in,”
he
said.

Sprague
looked
at
him,
his
eyes
wide.
“Him?”

“The
lad
who
found
all
this.”

The
sergeant
could
not
have
known
about
him,
but
Bycroft
managed, simply
by
glancing
at
me,
to
suggest
delicate
surprise
at
Sprague’s
ignorance.
But
I’d
forgotten
all
about
the
poor
young
devil,
and
my
obviously
blank
reaction
somewhat
spoiled
the
effect.

Bycroft,
however,
had
got
it
all
organized.
It
turned
out
that
the
patrol
car
men
had
kept
him
inside
their
vehicle
while
they
waited,
and
a
brisk
shout
brought
them
all
across.