American Gun Mystery (20 page)

T
HE LOOSE AND VASTY
association of crime investigators and criminal-hunters, when they foregather on some fantastic afternoon in the capital city of the Fifth Dimension, might do worse than adopt as their organization’s war-cry that immortal device on the national aegis of Vraibleusia: viz.,
Something will turn up.
It would look particularly nice in Old English on a field
or,
with an embellishment of
gules
for symbolism. Statistics are uncertain, but it is not fanciful to say that half the sleuths in this world are waiting for something to turn up, while the other half are busily nosing along the trail of something that has already turned up. In either event the spirit of the motto holds.

The waiting period, however, is not necessarily a period of inaction. On the contrary, it is a period of frenzied activity which is termed “waiting” only because it accomplishes nothing and arrives nowhere. The activity, then, is of a negative sort; meanwhile, the something that is to turn up is biding its time—perhaps the psychological moment. It is the genius of most detectives that in the midst of a frantic and useless motion they preserve a calm philosophy. It is the philosophy of fatalism. The activity is merely animal energy expended to satisfy the conventional requirements of duty.

Ellery Queen recognized the signs from afar, and settled down—having no conventional requirements of duty to satisfy—to wait in a Stoical serenity. The worthy Inspector, however, who drew the sum of $5,900
per annum
from the City treasury for his services as a guardian of the peace, was compelled to go through the motions. One of the motivating forces was that bugaboo of all old-line policemen, the Commissioner. The Commissioner, who was drawn back from a sandy Florida gambol by the magnetic echoes of the Horne murder, vented his irritation on the Inspector—obviously the cause of his curtailed vacation; whereupon the Inspector was silent and pale before the Commissioner, and voluble and red before his Department. It was a trying time for all concerned.

The conventional things had been done. Buck Horne’s movements for weeks before his murder had been checked and re-checked so many times that the Squad was growing just a bit weary writing out reports. “Might’s well do one with a dozen carbons,” groaned Ritter, who was a notorious malcontent; and not without justice, for the twelfth checking elicited no more than the first. The victim had passed his last few Weeks on earth in a Matilda-Queen-of-Denmarkish innocence. All his correspondence was examined; it was meagre, blameless, and as dry as a squeezed lemon. His friends and acquaintances in the East were questioned; they told nothing of importance. The wires between Wyoming and New York, and between Hollywood and New York, sizzled with questions and answers; the total result of which was zero raised to the
n
th power.

There was no one, it seemed certain, under heaven and on earth who had the faintest motive for seeking Buck Horne’s life—excepting One-Arm Woody, and he was eliminated because of his physical handicap.

The identity of the visitor to Horne’s room at the Barclay on the night before Horne’s murder continued to remain a mystery.

And the
Colosseum’s
doors remained closed. Remained closed because of the weary insistence of Inspector Queen and the increasing irritation of Commissioner Welles. For the automatic which had fired the bullet which had in turn caused Buck Horne’s heart to stop beating was still undiscovered, despite an almost daily gleaning of the
Colosseum.
And Wild Bill Grant tore his hair and raved and shouted maledictions for the benefit of the reporters, vowing that never again would he bring his rodeo to New York. The Inspector piously echoed this sentiment, and the Commissioner almost dislocated his shoulders shrugging when he heard about it.

One line of inquiry—in the fruitless repetition of examination and cross-examination and re-examination of those harassed citizens involved in the Horne investigation—seemed fertile. That was the matter of Buck Horne’s finances. When questioned about this by the gentlemen of the press, the Inspector grew coy. He would not (or could not) say. Nevertheless, there was much mysterious activity on the part of Messrs. Ritter, Johnson, Hint, Hesse, and Piggott. The question was: What had happened to the three thousand dollars which the deceased had withdrawn from his account in small bills two days before his murder? No slightest trace of the money had been found.

It was a good question, but (it seemed) a very hard one to answer.

Ellery’s waiting took the form of a sociable relaxation. Perhaps for the first time since his undergraduate days he began to cultivate the gay life. His long tails emerged from the mothballs and flirted whimsically about polished dance floors. The laundry bills showed heavy additions for stiff bosoms and wing collars. He began to totter into the Queens’ West Eighty-seventh Street apartment in the small hours, slightly the worse for wear and vitriolic highballs. His sleep these nights was the profound coma of the physically exhausted, not unaided by the soporific effects of alcohol; and in the mornings he consumed pints of black coffee in a vain effort to scald the fuzz off his tongue. Djuna, a highly moral creature, complained in vain.

“It’s all in the cause of science,” Ellery groaned. “God, what martyrs we are sometimes!”

The inspector, who was attacking an egg at the moment, sniffed grouchily; and then examined his son with paternal anxiety.

“What the deuce are you accomplishing by this stepping out of nights?” he demanded. “You turning playboy on me?”

“To the last, no and yes,” replied Ellery. “To the first—a good deal. I am coming to know my characters. What a drama this is, dad! Take the Hunters, for instance—”

“You take ’em,” growled the Inspector. “
I
don’t want ’em.”

Nevertheless, it was a fact that Ellery had begun to cultivate his acquaintances of the Mars box. He spent much time with Kit Horne, who went through all the social motions with a mechanical smile while something distant and thoughtful glimmered in her soft eyes. In company with Kit, he attacked the night-clubs; more often than not with the Grants as members of the party; and more often than not the
Club Mara.
And there he was accorded the privilege of observing the regally emaciated Mara Gay—that Orchid of Hollywood—and Julian Hunter. He even met Tony Mars several times, and on two occasions found a group of representatives from the rodeo troupe hilariously engaged in consuming as much liquor as Julian Hunter’s waiters could serve. There was a gloss about the days and nights during the, period, an artificial sheen that covered something hard and unreal. Ellery lived, breathed, laughed, talked, and moved like a man in a dream.

Nevertheless, he did not permit reality to desert his senses altogether. It was impossible for him to spend every moment in the company of his new friends. So each morning found him at Police Headquarters reading the reports of the detectives detailed to survey the movements of Kit Horne and Wild Bill Grant—a survey, it will be recalled, dictated by him. In the case of Grant, he was irritated to find that the old Westerner was conducting himself in a vastly innocent manner. Whatever he had hoped to discover from placing a spy on Grant’s movements, contacts, and telephone conversations, it was certain that the hope was thus far a vain one. Grant drank hard, kept his troupe in hand—not a simple task—hovered watchfully over his son and Kit, and for the rest pestered the Inspector and Commissioner Welles with demands for the reopening of his rodeo.

As for the reports on Kit, they showed more promise. The girl’s faraway look, it turned out, had cold purpose behind it. An interesting incident was recorded one morning in the report of the detective assigned to watch her.

One night, several days after the murder, the operative had followed the’ girl from the Hotel Barclay to the
Club Mara.
Slim and brown in a white evening-gown, Kit had said coldly to the head waiter: “Is Mr. Hunter in?”

“Yes, Miss Horne. In his office. Shall I—?”

“No, thank you. I’ll find it myself.”

She had made her way along a row of private booths to the rear, where Hunter maintained his magnificent suite. The operative had checked his hat and coat, insisted upon a table near the rear, and ordered a highball. It was early, but the club was already crowded; Hunter’s famous jazz orchestra was blaring away at a new Calloway tune with the approved African tempo and savagery; couples were closely entwined on the darkened dance-floor; there was sufficient noise and darkness to cover the detective’s investigation.

He had risen quietly from his table and followed Kit Horne.

He saw her knock on the door marked:
Private. Mr. Hunter;
and after a moment observed the door open and Hunter’s well-garbed figure silhouetted against the bright background of the office.

“Miss Horne!” he heard Hunter exclaim in cordial tones. “Come in, come in. Glad to see you. I—” and then the closing door shut off the rest.

The operative looked about. The nearest waiter was lost in darkness. He was not observed. He pressed his ear to the panel.

He could not hear words, just tones. Now this operative, a specialist, was a highly trained eavesdropper; it was his boast that he could interpret emotions even if the words he barely heard were blurred and indistinguishable. So’ that his report became a study in homespun psychology.

“It started sociably,” went his report. “Miss H. from her voice was quiet, ready for anything; and she had made up her mind about something. J. H.’s voice boomed; I could hear he was friendly; but there was something queer, phoney, about it—he was slapping it on thick. I got the feeling they were sparring around for an opening. Then Miss H. got mad; her voice came through higher, tighter; she was slapping the words down like bricks. Laying the law down to Hunter about something. Hunter forgot to be friends; voice colder than ice; sneer came into it; words shot out fast, then slow, then fast again, as if the sneer was a cover-up for worry. She didn’t get it, because she got madder. I thought for a minute there would be a real blow-up. I was just getting ready to break in when I heard them stop jawing. So I wiggled out of the way. A second later the door smashed open and Miss H. came running out. I saw her face clearly; she was white, her eyes were hot and angry, and her lips were pressed tight together. She was breathing fast. She passed right by me and did not see me. He stood in the doorway a minute or two, looking after her in the dark, when he could not see her. I could not see his face, but his hand on the door was tight, knuckles white. Then he went back into the office. Miss H. took a cab back to the Barclay and did not go out again last night.”

The Inspector reached for one of his telephones. “Something at last,” he snapped. “I’ll find out what all this hocus-pocus is, by God! There’s your sweet nice Western lassie for you!”

Ellery started out of a reverie and clamped his hand over the telephone. “Dad! No!”

The Inspector was startled. “What? What’s this?”

“Please don’t,” said Ellery quickly. “You’ll spoil everything. For heaven’s sake, hold off. Wait. We can’t afford—”

Inspector Queen leaned back, annoyed. “And what,” he demanded, “is the holy use of putting a man on a hot trail and then when he finds out something, not doin’ anything about it?”

“A little incoherent,” grinned Ellery—who knew the battle was won, “but nevertheless a reasonable question. The answer is: that a possible relationship between Hunter and Kit Horne was not in my mind when I asked you to have the girl shadowed.”

“Suppose it wasn’t,” said the Inspector sarcastically. “After all, you can’t foresee
everything.
All right, now we find out there’s somethin’ up between Hunter and the girl. Why should we sit back and lose a chance, maybe, to get some new lead?”

“I’ll tell you why, and I’m not underestimating the possible importance of this unexpected Kit-Hunter relationship,” said Ellery. “There are two reasons. One is that you probably won’t get a word out of either of them. The other is—and this is by far the more vital consideration—that it will give away our hole card.”

“What hole card?”

“The fact that Kit Horne is being shadowed. You see,” said Ellery patiently, “once that girl knows she is under incessant surveillance, we lose our—”

“What?”

Ellery shrugged. “What’s the use of going into that? I admit the chances are all against anything coming out of it. But everything must be sacrificed to keep the way clear for that bare eventuality’s coming to pass—and for us to be aware of it when it does come to pass.”

“For a feller that went to college,” grumbled the Inspector, “you sure do talk like a Kentucky mountaineer with the mumps!”

To add to the Inspector’s irritation, a telegram was delivered to Ellery one morning at breakfast; a telegram which, under the circumstances, might have contained brilliantly illuminating information for all the old man knew; a telegram, in effect, which Ellery read quickly and without changing expression, and then flung into the healthy fire in the living room. The Inspector, whose pride was hurt, asked no questions; and although Ellery could not have been unconscious of his father’s pique, he offered no explanations. Had the old man been aware that the wire bore a Hollywood, California, source-line, he might have decided to swallow his pride and demand enlightenment after all. As it was, it was not until the very end that he discovered the contents of the telegram.

Ted Lyons continued to write sprightly tidbits about the celebrities involved in the Horne case.

Another complication arose at this time to add gray hairs to Tony Mars’s head, swell Wild Bill Grant’s profane vocabulary, and etch new lines on the face of Inspector Queen. The contract between Grant and Mars called for the rental of the
Colosseum
to Grant for a period of four weeks. Under the terms of the agreement, therefore, Grant was still entitled to the use of the premises for four weeks less one day—the day of the fatal opening. Yet three weeks had already elapsed, and the
Colosseum
was still kept barred by the police.
*
There would have been no difficulty had not Tony Mars’s other plans interfered. The stumbling block was the championship heavyweight prize-fight in which Tommy Black was the challenger. The articles had been signed months before, and the date set. The date had been so arranged that the fight was scheduled to take place in the
Colosseum
on the Friday night following the last performance of Wild Bill Grant’s Rodeo. With the battle only a week off, Mars found himself in an uncomfortable position. Tickets had been printed long before; the champion’s manager and cohorts were adamant; Grant would listen to no arguments but insisted on resuming his rodeo exhibition the instant the police ban was lifted from the
Colosseum. …
Powerful strings began to tug at Centre Street.