American Gun Mystery (13 page)

Hesse’s eyes widened. “Search twenty thousand people?” he gasped.

“It’s a tall order, I know,” said the Inspector glumly. “But it looks as if we’ve got to do it. Now, Hesse, you tell Ritter. …”

He walked out into the corridor with the detective, enumerating the commands “necessary to begin the task of searching to the skin the population of a small city. This was the good Inspector’s private meat; he began to look almost happy.

“Take all night,” said the Inspector when he returned, “and I s’pose I’ll be on the carpet tomorrow, but what the devil! Got to be done. …Oh, come in, Major!”

Major Kirby, looking tired, nevertheless contrived also to look curious. He snapped a glance at Ellery.

“Still grinding?”

Kirby shook his head. “Stopped long ago. Good grief, when the home office finds out how much film we’ve used there’ll be war! Lucky I had plenty of stock with me. Well, sir, what can I do for you? Your Sergeant here tells me you wanted me especially.”

“Not I,” said the Inspector. “My son. Spill it, El.”

“It all depends,” said Ellery abruptly, “on you, Major. This evening we were informed that during the War you had achieved a reputation for being a crack pistol shot. Is that true?”

The Major’s small black eyes turned to small black stones. “And just what,” he said crisply, “do you mean by that?”

Ellery stared, and then burst into laughter. “Heavens, I’m not pumping you, man, as a murder suspect! I’m really interested for an entirely different reason. Is it true or isn’t it?”

Kirby’s expression wavered; then he smiled slightly. “I suppose it is. I won a few medals.”

“And I was also told that you’re something of a firearms expert. Is that true, too?”

“I’ve made a study of ballistics, Mr. Queen. More a hobby than a profession. I shouldn’t care to call myself an expert—”

“Thy modesty’s a candle to thy merit,” laughed Ellery. “How would you like to engage in a little experting for me?”

Major Kirby stroked his mustache nervously. “Happy to oblige, of course,” he murmured, “but I’ve a duty to my company, you know. That film we shot—”

“Nonsense! We’ll arrange all that. You’ve a lieutenant of some sort in your crew upstairs, haven’t you?”

“Yes. My chief cameraman will do. Name of Hall.”

“Excellent! Suppose—”

“I’ll have to talk to Hall first. We’ve made something of a scoop here tonight, Mr. Queen, with these pictures, and speed is our byword in this business.” He became thoughtful. “Tell you what. I’ll drop everything if you’ll let my men go at once. Film they’ve ground out will be developed, printed, cut, and assembled with sound for distribution to Broadway theaters by morning.
Must
get it out. It’s a go?”

“It’s a go,” said the Inspector unexpectedly, “but you and your men will have to go through the formality of a search, Major, before we release you.”

The Major cooled. “Is that necessary?”

“I should hope to tell you!”

Kirby shrugged. “Very well. Anything for some action. All right, Mr. Queen, I’m with you.”

The Inspector said genially to Sergeant Velie: “Thomas, there’s a special job for you. Go upstairs, search Major Kirby and his crew, and every bit of equipment.”

The Major seemed startled. “I say, now—”

“Just form, Major, just form,” said the Inspector affably. “Go on now, the two of you. I’ve work of my own.”

In twenty minutes the job was done. Sergeant Velie, than whom there was no more thorough disrespecter of persons on the metropolitan force, himself supervised a search which included Major Kirby’s slender body, Major Kirby’s natty clothes, Major Kirby’s resentful and jeering crew of cameramen and sound engineers, Major Kirby’s cameras, Major Kirby’s ohms and watts and rheostats (in a manner of speaking)—in a word, everything connected with Major Kirby and his unit, down to the last coil of cable, was picked over, scrutinized felt, pinched, pressed, eviscerated, anatomized, dismembered, and divellicated.

The result was a complete absence of discovery. There was nothing on that platform, nor anything on the persons of the men on the platform and the apparatus on the platform, which even remotely resembled an automatic. Whereupon, under special escort, the group of newsreel men was packed out of the building, armed with a hastily scribbled message from Major Kirby to the editor of his newsreel company.

The Major was the last to be pawed over. Found pure, he was passed directly out of the building by a side exit into Ellery’s arms. Ellery was waiting on the sidewalk with a huge police bag at his knee which contained forty-five pieces of assorted lethal hardware and some hundreds of cartridges.

The Inspector saw them off. “You’ll shoot whatever you find in the way of artillery down to us at Headquarters?” asked Ellery soberly.

“You bet.”

The old man stood gazing thoughtfully after their departing cab. Then he rather grimly went back into the
Colosseum,
to supervise the bodily search of twenty thousand persons.

T
HE TAXICAB ROARED DOWNTOWN
. The bag nestled comfortably at Ellery’s feet, and he nudged it every once in a while with his toe as if to reassure himself that it was there. What his thoughts were was masked by the darkness of the cab and punctuated by the orange period made by the tip of his cigaret; but the Major’s thoughts were shining clear, despite the darkness.

For not long after the machine swung into Eighth Avenue, headed downtown, he said in a light tone: “I’m pretty lucky tonight, come to think of it.”

Ellery made a polite noise.

The Major’s little laugh put froth on the thunder of the exhaust. “I usually carry an automatic—habit I haven’t been able to shake off since the War.”

“But tonight you didn’t.”

“But tonight I didn’t. That’s right.” Kirby was silent for a moment. “Don’t know what made me leave it home. Premonition?”

“You recall what Emerson had to say about intuition in his
Persian Poetry!”

“Eh? No, I’m afraid not.”

Ellery sighed. “It doesn’t matter, really.”

Neither man spoke again until the cab pulled up before the dark fortress on Centre Street which was Police Headquarters.

With admirable foresight, Ellery had preceded their journey with a telephone call, so that they found a tall gangling gentleman of professorish mould, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, awaiting them in the lobby downstairs. He was dressed in rusty brown, he wore a silly-looking hat two sizes too large for his cranium, and he had the lined dry face and the lantern-jaw of Father Prohibition.

This amazing creature nodded benevolently to Ellery and uncoiled his length from a bench like a snake. “Well, sir,” he said in a cavernous roar, “what are you doing here at this time of night? I thought the Queen clan retired early.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“We’ve had a little murder at the
Colosseum
tonight. That’s why I called you. Sorry to get you out of bed at one in the morning, Lieutenant, but—”

“Poker game,” said the tall man dryly.

“Then there’s no harm done. Lieutenant, I want you to meet a brother-ballisticker—Major Kirby. Lieutenant Kenneth Knowles, Major, ballistics expert of the Department.”

The two experts eyed each other and shook hands.

“Let’s amble over to your office,” said Ellery impatiently. “God, this bag weighs tons! There’s work to be done.”

They repaired to Room 114, on the door of which was printed the words:
Bureau of Ballistics.
Lieutenant Knowles ushered them through a neat office lined with filing cabinets into a laboratory.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Ellery briskly, setting the bag down and opening it, “the problem is simple enough. I’ve asked Major Kirby, Lieutenant, to sit in on this because he’s something of a ballistics fiend himself, and two authoritative noodles are always better than one.”

The Lieutenant’s spectacles gleamed with professional interest as he saw the tumbled heap of short arms in the bag. “Glad to have the Major, of course. But what—”

“Now I,” said Ellery, “know absolutely nothing about firearms. I don’t know a—a Luger from a howitzer. I want scientific information. First take a look at this bullet.” He produced the red-coated pellet which Dr. Prouty had dug out of the dead man’s torso. “The Inspector says it’s from a .25. I want to be sure.”

The little Major and the tall Lieutenant bent over the tiny slug. “He’s right,” said Knowles instantly. “That’s from a .25 automatic pistol. Eh, Major?”

“No doubt about it. Looks like the Remington cartridge,” murmured Major Kirby. “Hmm! So this is what killed Horne, eh?”’

“I presume so. At least, that’s what the Assistant Medical Examiner excavated from his heart.” Ellery frowned. “What can you gentlemen tell me about this bullet?”

Both men laughed. “Here!” chuckled Lieutenant Knowles. “We’re not magicians. Can’t tell much from a slug without putting it under the ’scope. Lucky at that, Mr. Queen—what do you say, Major? Ever see a discharged bullet in such prime condition for microscopic examination?”

“It’s not much banged up, I’ll admit,” muttered Kirby, turning it over carefully in his fingers.

“You see,” began the police expert in his best classroom bass, “it’s not always true that an expert can ‘fingerprint’ a discharged bullet, as they say. By that I mean it isn’t always possible, due to the condition of the bullet, to get a satisfactory picture of the marks. I’ve had bullets so damn smashed and battered—”

“Yes, yes,” said Ellery quickly, “but give me a picture of this thing—a virgin picture, I mean. What’s it look like, undischarged?”

“Can’t see that that will help you,” said the Lieutenant, surprised.

“Perhaps Mr. Queen doesn’t know whether it will help or not,” suggested Major Kirby with a smile. “Why, the .25 automatic with the proper ammunition—this bullet, for instance—is loaded with fifty grains, and is metal-incased. It’s lead inside, of course, and it’s contained in a jacket of cupro-nickel. Velocity at, say, twenty-five feet would be—let’s see—seven hundred and fifty foot-seconds; energy is sixty-two footpounds. …”

“Enough,” said Ellery weakly. “I can see that’s not the right tack. Let’s try it another way. Will this bullet—this .25 calibre bullet, mind you—fit anything but a .25 automatic pistol?”

“No,” said both men at once.

“Well—how about the .22 revolver?” said Ellery feebly. “That’s an even smaller arm, of course. Wouldn’t the .25—”

Lieutenant Knowles went away. When he returned he was carrying three cartridges. “Better clear this up right now,” he said. “There are very small .22’s, of course, and they use .22 ammunition, which in that case is the so-called ‘.22 short.’ Here’s one of ’em.” He displayed a cartridge “incredibly tiny—it seemed little more than a half-inch long, and was very slender. “You couldn’t fire this baby out of a .25 automatic. Now take a look at this one.” He held up a cartridge which, while its circumference was identical with that of the tiny bullet, seemed twice as long. “This is what’s called the ‘.22 long rifle,’” explained Lieutenant Knowles. “It’s a .22, all right, but it’s made to fit much bigger weapons. The reason for that is that lots of people who want .22 bullet results also want .38 gun ‘feel.’ The weapons in which this .22 long rifle ammunition fits are big fellows—big as .38’s, and bigger. But now take a look at this.” He exhibited the third cartridge. It was thicker than the .22 short, and shorter than the .22 long. “This is the brother of this little bullet Doc probed out of the stiff. It’s a .25 calibre automatic. It’s the only bullet, far as I know, which will fit a .25 automatic pistol. Right, Major?”

“I think so.”

“All of which means,” groaned Ellery, “that I’ve lugged my arm off for nothing.” He kicked the police bag full of weapons with viciousness. “In other words, the Horne bullet must have been shot from a .25 automatic—is that right? Couldn’t have been shot from any other type or size of arm?”

“Now you’ve got it,” said the Lieutenant with a grin, and he dug his right hand inside his coat. It whipped out with a blue-shining little pistol, flat as Tommy Black’s hips, and so small that it nestled quite comfortably in the palm of Knowles’s large hand. “Only four and a half inches long,” he said with a smacking of his lips, “two-inch barrel, weighs thirteen ounces, magazine holds six husky little cartridges—slide lock safety, grip safety—why, this little Colt’s a beauty! Always carry one. Want a look at it? Your murderer carried one just like it, Mr. Queen!”

Ellery reached for it eagerly. “Uuuump!” said the Lieutenant with a grin. “Wait ’til I pull the teeth out of my pet. Fellow like you’s liable to plug me in the
kishkes.
” He pulled out the magazine, dumped the six cartridges into his hand, and removed the seventh cartridge from the firing chamber. Then he replaced the magazine and handed the weapon to Ellery.

“Ah,” said Ellery, and hefted the pistol cautiously. It felt a little heavier than he had expected it to, but it was still feather-light in comparison with the official revolvers he had been accustomed to seeing and, on occasion, handling. It snuggled in his palm very cosily. “I wonder why,” he muttered half to himself, “our man used this in preference to a bigger and more effective weapon?”

Unexpectedly, the Major chuckled. “More effective? I say, Mr. Queen, you don’t realize what that little jigger you’re holding is capable of. You could shoot right through a two-inch board with this thing at a very respectable distance!”

“Let alone soft human flesh,” muttered Ellery. “So that’s it. Not effectiveness. Then convenience. Small. …” He returned the pistol to the police expert and gazed raptly at his
pince-nez.
“Well!” He returned the glasses to his nose. “One question more before we dig into this bag. How long would it take to empty the magazine, firing at top speed?”

“I’ve done it in two and a half seconds, and it was a rusty old stop-watch at that,” boomed Lieutenant Knowles.

“Two and a half seconds!” Ellery whistled, and momentarily grew thoughtful again. “Then we find the trail of our old friend the expert marksman again. One shot sufficed, eh. …Very well, gentlemen. Let’s see what Santa Claus has brought us.”