American Gun Mystery (28 page)

“Alone?”

“Reckon!”

Ellery began to whistle a difficult tune from
Lakmé,
the intricacies of which absorbed his attention for some time. Meanwhile he was gazing about the room speculatively. Still whistling, he went to the table and jerked open the drawer. There was a clutter of odds and ends inside, none of which seemed to interest him after a casual inspection. Boone watched in, bewilderment.

Ellery went to the wardrobe and opened the door. Its interior was hung with various colorful garments, all of them from their small size the property of Boone. But Ellery, poking about among them, turned up one costume which from its large dimensions must have been worn by the vanished Miller for the rodeo performances. “Didn’t even take his duds away,” muttered Ellery, feeling through the pockets of the jeans.

“Weren’t his’n,” said Boone eagerly. “B’longed to th’ show.”

Ellery stiffened; he had felt something hard in one of the pockets. A look of remarkable intelligence came over his face, and then vanished as he wheeled sharply, ordered Boone to remain where he was, and ran to the door.

“Sergeant!” he shouted. “Sergeant Velie!” The name echoed down the corridor.

The good Sergeant popped out of one of the dressing rooms, tense and alert. “Yeah?” he cried. “What’s up, Mr. Queen?” and he lumbered swiftly up the corridor. Heads poked out of rooms; Ellery drew Velie quickly into the Boone-Miller cubicle and shut the door.

Velie looked from the stricken figure of Boone to the open wardrobe. “What’s the trouble?”

“Did you search this room last night, Sergeant?” asked Ellery softly.

“Sure.”

“The wardrobe, the clothes inside?”

“Sure.”

“Did you search it again this afternoon?”

A pucker appeared between Velie’s eyes. “No. Meant to later. Didn’t get round to it.”

Ellery went silently to the wardrobe and brought out the jeans he had been feeling a few moments before. He held it high. “Did you look through these last night, Sergeant?”

Velie’s eyes flickered. “No. Weren’t here last night.”

“Miller was wearin’ them jeans last night!” cried Boone suddenly.

“Ah,” said Ellery, lowering his arm. “Then that accounts for it very satisfactorily. Who searched Miller himself, Sergeant?”

“I did. And the rest o’ the gang, too.” The Sergeant’s reptilian eyes were narrowed.” Why?”

“You didn’t find anything oh Miller?” persisted Ellery gently.

“No!”.

“Don’t take such a belligerent tone, Sergeant,” murmured Ellery. “I’m completely satisfied that you’re a competent searcher. If you didn’t find, anything on Miller last night, it’s because there wasn’t anything to find. Excellent! Then it was brought into this room today, and placed in Miller’s discarded jeans.”

“
What
was put in Miller’s pants?” growled Velie.

Calmly, with the certainty of omniscience, Ellery wrapped a handkerchief about his right hand and slipped his hand into the pocket. But he did not withdraw it at once. He said sharply: “Who’s been inside the
Colosseum
today, Sergeant, besides the rank and file, and Grant?”

Velie licked his lips. “Grant’s son. Kit Horne. I think I saw Mars and Black, the pug.”

“Not Hunter or Mara Gay?”

“No.”

Ellery drew his hand out of the pocket of Miller’s jeans.

Whereupon a veritable miracle occurred. For his hand emerged holding a very tangible little piece of reality—an object for which he, Sergeant Velie, Inspector Queen, and the assembled detective strength of the New York City Police Department had been searching for weeks. It was something moreover which had not been found in Boone’s room until this moment for the remarkably simple reason that it had not been in Boone’s room during previous searches. Obviously, then, it had been brought to Boone’s room and Miller’s jeans
after
the last thorough search.

And the last thorough search, on the authority of Sergeant Velie, had been conducted the night before, directly after the murder of Woody.

That much, at least, was clear.

Dan’l Boone uttered a gasping little cry. And Sergeant Velie stiffened.

Ellery’s hand lightly held a small, flat, innocent-looking little .25 automatic pistol.

“W
ELL, I’LL—BE—DAMNED,”
breathed Sergeant Velie gustily. “What the hoppin’ hell do you know about that!”

“Let’s not be too sanguine,” said Ellery, gazing almost with fondness at the little weapon. “There’s a mathematical possibility that this isn’t the right one. On the other hand. …” He fell silent, and began with scrupulous care to swathe the automatic in the folds of his handkerchief. Then he dropped it into his pocket.

“Now, boys,” he said genially, and his eyes glinted in the direction of the silent Boone, “I want one thing understood at once.”

“Yeah?” whispered Boone, licking his lips. Sergeant Velie said nothing.

“Boone, old horse-nurse,” said Ellery, “do you value your carcass?”

“Huh?”

Ellery crossed the floor and placed his hand on the little cowboy’s shoulder. “Can you keep your mouth very tightly shut?”

“I—uh—guess so, Mr. Queen.”

“Let’s see you try.”

Boone goggled, and his mouth slowly closed.

“Excellent for a beginning,” said Ellery crisply, and there was no mirth in his eyes. “Boone, I give you my word. If you so much as breathe a solitary syllable about this—about our finding this automatic—I swear I’ll see you behind bars. Do you understand?”

Boone licked his lips again. “Got ya, Mr. Queen.”

“Good.” Ellery straightened. “You may go back to the others now.” Boone rose and wobbled to the door.

“Remember what I said, Boone,” said Ellery …

The little cowboy nodded once, and disappeared.

“I don’t have to warn you, Sergeant,” went on Ellery quickly, “that I don’t want this to get about.”

Velie looked hurt.

“To
anyone.
”

“Not the Inspector, either?”

“No, no.” Ellery frowned. “I think that’s best. Let me do the talking. This little affair is entirely between you and me. I’m certain Boone will keep quiet. …By the way, what was the procedure today with visitors to the
Colosseum?
They weren’t searched on their way in, were they?”

“Only on the way out.”

“I see. Yes, of course. Very convenient, I must say.” Ellery poked his elbow affectionately into Sergeant Velie’s laminated ribs and marched, humming, from the dressing room.

He made his way quickly to Grant’s office. The old showman was still there, staring at the wall in the falling gloom.

He looked up. “Huh. Back again, hey?”

“Back in the approved frontal position,” chuckled Ellery. “Sorry to intrude. May I use your telephone?”

“Go ahead.”

Ellery consulted a directory, then called a number. “Connect me with Major Kirby, please. …Major? Ellery Queen again. …No, no more previews, Major. …Ha, ha—yes! …Uh—Major, are you very busy? …I see. Then perhaps you can make it. I should very much like to have you meet me in the lobby of Police Headquarters in half an hour. …Good of you. Hop on it!”

Ellery hung up, faintly smiling. Wild. Bill Grant’s chair creaked a little.

Ellery said: “Thanks, Mr. Grant,” with the utmost cheerfulness, and left the office.

A half-hour later he confronted two silent men in the laboratory of the Bureau of Ballistics at Police Headquarters. Major Kirby was breathing hard, as from a brisk walk. Lieutenant Knowles looked inquisitive.

“Glad you made it,” said Ellery to the Major. “Not really necessary, I suppose, but you’ve been in on this from the beginning and I didn’t want to be hoggish. It’s really due you, this climactic part of the fun.” He took from his pocket the object wrapped in his handkerchief. Very carefully he undid the folds.

“The .25!” cried Major Kirby, with a sharp intake of breath.

“
A
.25,” corrected Ellery gently. “The purpose of this conclave, gentlemen, is to establish whether we are justified in using the definite rather than the indefinite article.”

“I’ll be blasted,” grinned Lieutenant Knowles. “Where’d you find it?”

“In a most unlikely place, Lieutenant,” chuckled Ellery. “Don’t be afraid to handle it. I’ve already had it tested for fingerprints and there aren’t any.” He shrugged. “Proceed,
mes amis.
Test for bore-marks. End this really unbearable suspense.” And he himself breathed rather more quickly than seemed necessary.

Lieutenant Knowles picked up the weapon, hefted it thoughtfully, and then withdrew the magazine. There was no necessity for excessive care; this little Colt arm was equipped with a “safety disconnecter” which automatically broke all connection between the trigger and sear upon withdrawal of the magazine. The magazine was empty. And there was no cartridge in the chamber. He looked up inquiringly.

“Yes,” murmured Ellery, “unloaded when I found it. Teeth pulled. Not really important, you know.”

Lieutenant Knowles loaded the automatic, adjusted his target, pulled the trigger without fanfare while Ellery dodged the falling shells spewing out of the ejector, and removed the exploded slugs from the testing target. Each bullet was imbedded in a blackish wad of burnt powder and grease.

Knowles selected one after some scrutiny of the seven he had discharged and, going to his laboratory table, carefully cleaned it. Then he went to a file and after some exploration returned with two bullets.

“From Horne and Woody,” he remarked; and sat down before his comparison microscope. “I established, you know, with the help of the Major, that both were shot from the same gun. So I can use either of these for comparison. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Major Kirby moved nearer the table.

Lieutenant Knowles set one of the bullets from the file on a stage of the microscope, and the bullet he had just selected from those discharged in the laboratory on the second of the twin stages. He began to fuss with his instrument. Satisfied that he had jockeyed the bullets into the same focus, he manipulated a wheel which caused the images to move together and merge. When he had completed this operation, he was peering through the eyepiece of the microscope at a single image. The image was that of a whole bullet; actually, it was composed of the two left sides of the bullets, so juxtaposed that they seemed to form a whole.

He peered intently, then raised his head and beckoned the Major. Kirby eagerly looked through the eye piece.

Ellery watched them with, an anxious expression on his face.

“Well, see for yourself,” said Major Kirby at last, raising his head; and Ellery took his place at the instrument’.

He saw the bullet greatly magnified, and was surprised to note the wealth, of detail brought out by the ’scope. It was like examining Tycho through a powerful astronomical telescope. There were actually valleys, hills, craters—it was like a lunar landscape. But the really astonishing feature of the exhibit was the similitude of the two sides of the image. Crater for crater, valley for valley, hill for hill, the two sides seemed identical. If there were infinitesimal differences caused by the minute variations of bullet-contour or firing conditions, they were not perceptible to his eye.

He straightened up. “So that’s the gun, eh?” he said slowly.

“Pretty sure of it,” said Lieutenant Knowles. “In fact, I’m positive. Be a terrific coincidence if two bullets from different barrels showed such similarity. Impossible!”

“Why not try the universal?” suggested Major Kirby.

“I’m going to. Universal molecular ’scope,” explained Knowles to Ellery, “will prove or disprove it beyond doubt. Equipped with vernier—facilities for microscopic measurement. Be a minute.”

He removed one bullet from the stage of the comparison microscope and placed it on the stage of another instrument. Studying the grooves through the eyepiece, he calculated the angle of pitch—the angle the grooves made with the bullet’s axis—and set down his result in degrees and minutes. He measured the depth of the valleys, which, were scratches. He used a micrometer to determine the distance between various marks on-the bullet. …When he was quite finished with the first slug, he laid it aside, put his notations conveniently before him, and repeated the entire process with the second.

It took very much longer than a minute. It took longer than an hour. And Ellery, impatient of this meticulous cautiousness of science, walked about smoking, muttering to himself, and thinking with such absorption that he was quite startled to hear himself addressed by Major Kirby.

He came to, and found the two experts smiling at him.

“Success,” said Major Kirby quietly. “There’s no ballistics expert in the world who could deny the facts, Mr. Queen—now. This automatic you found fired the bullets which killed Horne and Woody.”

Ellery stared at them in silence for an instant. Then he heaved a long sigh. “Journey’s end,” he said at last. “Or should I say—penultimate stop on our itinerary. Well, gentlemen. …” He strode swiftly to the table and picked up the automatic. He studied it fondly for a moment, and then put it without expression into his pocket. Lieutenant Knowles looked faintly startled.

“I have,” said Ellery calmly, “a most unorthodox request to make of you gentlemen. It’s of the utmost importance that no one—literally no one—learns the results of your little experiment.”

Lieutenant Knowles cleared his throat. “Hrrrrm! I don’t know—I’ve my duty to the Department, Mr. Queen. You mean—”

“I mean that not only don’t I want anyone at all to know that this weapon fired the shots which killed Woody and Horne,” said Ellery, “but I don’t even want the fact that the gun has been
found
to leak out. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

The expert rubbed his jaw. “Well, I suppose you’re the doctor. You’ve pulled off some funny ones around here in the past. I’ve got to keep my records straight, though. …”

“Oh, keep your records, by all means,” said Ellery quickly. “Ah—and you, Major?”

“You may depend upon me to keep my mouth shut, of course,” said Major Kirby.

“It’s a pleasure to work with you, Major,” smiled Ellery; and he went quickly from the laboratory.