American Gun Mystery (14 page)

He squatted on the floor and began tossing revolvers out of the bag. The Lieutenant and the Major watched him in silence. And when the bag was empty Ellery looked up at them, and they looked down at him, and none of the three said a word for some minutes.

Then simultaneously they looked at the floor. Ellery had separated automatics from revolvers. And in the pile of revolvers there were forty-four long-barreled weapons, and in the “pile” of automatics there was no pile at all, for only one weapon lay there—a lonely little exhibit. Ellery scanned the tag attached to the trigger-guard. It read:
Ted Lyons.

Still in silence he scrabbled through the pile of cartridges. And he found no .25 calibre automatic bullets at all.

“Well, well,” he said softly as he rose. “Not much grist in the mill. Apparently our friend the mongering newspaperman was the only occupant of the arena proper who carried a weapon capable of having fired the bullet which killed Horne. I suppose there’s nothing to do but test Lyon’s automatic.”

Ellery strolled about, humming a mournful tune, as Lieutenant Knowles, assisted by Major Kirby, prepared to test the single suspect weapon. The Lieutenant busied himself setting up a peculiar-looking target of unknown substance on the firing-range; then he and the Major retired to a far corner of the room, conferring earnestly as Knowles examined the seven cartridges in Ted Lyons’s pistol.

“Not blanks.” Then the Lieutenant said: “I’m a rotten shot, Major. Want to pot that target?”

“Don’t mind,” replied Kirby, and taking up a position some twenty feet from the target pointed the small weapon and almost negligently squeezed the trigger. A continuous, deafening report raised by the echoes in the little laboratory made Ellery jump. By the time Ellery came to his senses the little man was smiling, some acrid-smelling smoke was drifting off, and the target looked like Swiss cheese.

“Nice work, Major,” said Knowles admiringly. “Sprayed ’em in a circle, eh? That will give us a number of specimens. Let’s get busy.”

He strode back from the target, juggling half a dozen spent bullets which were swathed in black greasy coats. He looked at them keenly when he got to the table. “Let’s test these babies.”

He removed his coat, waved Ellery into a chair, and then occupied himself with a very simple business. There was a familiar instrument on the work-table which had some curiously unfamiliar features. It seemed to be an unusual type of microscope.

“Companion ’scope,” he explained. “Got a double comparison eye-piece, as you can see. You know this dingus, Major?”

Kirby nodded. “Quite well. I used one for some time in the army, and I’ve one at home for my own amusement.”

Ellery watched the two men anxiously. The blood-coated bullet Lieutenant Knowles bathed in a solution, and then rubbed gently dry. It emerged quite clean; it was leaden in color. He studied it under the microscope for some time; and then he raised his head and motioned Major Kirby to the eye-piece.

“Beautiful markings!” exclaimed the Major, looking up. “It certainly won’t be any trouble matching those marks to a comparison specimen, Lieutenant!”

“Maybe not. Now let’s see how these bullets you just fired stack up,” said Knowles briskly; and he busied himself again with the microscope. The fatal bullet remained where it was; but the six shot into the target a few moments before succeeded each other in slow order. There was much to-do with screws and careful turnings of the new specimens; both men conferred frequently, and the Major checked each of the Lieutenant’s findings. And at the end they nodded with solemn certainty, and Knowles turned to Ellery with an air of finality.

“There’s nothing certain but death and taxes, they say! Well, here’s one thing sure, Mr. Queen—the bullet that killed your man
didn’t
come from this fellow Lyons’s automatic. Don’t even have to use the universal molecular. The marks haven’t anything in common.”

Ellery digested this for a moment, then got to his feet and began to pace the floor. “Hmm. Nice to find
one
example of fixation in a wavering world. By the way, I suppose you’re both absolutely sure?”

“No question about it, Mr. Queen,” said Major Kirby earnestly. “When we can arrive at a conclusion at all, you may be sure it’s the right one. This matter of checking fired bullets is now pretty much of an exact science. You see, all modern arms are rifled—I suppose you know what that means. The inside of the barrel is—well, you might almost describe it as etched spirally. The .25 automatic’s barrel has six grooves and six lands in a left-hand twist—it sounds complicated, but it’s really very simple. There’s a spiral, or twist, which runs from end to end of the barrel inside, cut into the metal; the depressions made by the cutting are called the grooves, the raised spirals of metal
left
by the cutting are called the lands. Six of each, as I say. Now there are always minute differences in lands which are visible under the microscope. Naturally, when the bullet on firing passes through the barrel, it spins through the grooves, and the marks of the lands are left on the bullet. …”

“I see. And by putting two bullets under the microscope you can see if the markings are similar or dissimilar?”

“That’s right,” said the Lieutenant. “You focus the two specimens until they merge into one—or seem to; you see the left side of each slap against the other; then it’s easy to see if all the markings match, or if they don’t.”

“And these don’t?”

“And these don’t.”

Whatever Ellery in the helplessness of the moment was about to say was choked back by an unexpected interruption. A tall, burly individual hurried into the laboratory, carrying a small bag.

“Ah, Ritter!” said Ellery eagerly. “More guns?”

The detective dumped the bag on the work-table. “From the Inspector, Mr. Queen. Sent ’em down with me—on the run. Found ’em, he said to tell you, on people from the audience.”

And he disappeared.

Ellery opened the bag with shaking fingers. “Jerusalem, a ten-strike!” he cried, taking out the weapons. “Look at these—at least a dozen automatics!”

There were, to be exact, fourteen automatics. Of the fourteen—each was tagged with its bearer’s name and address—four were of .25 calibre, the small four-and-a-half-inch weapons with which they were concerned. There were three revolvers in the batch as well; but to these they paid no attention.

Major Kirby and Lieutenant Knowles retired to the firing-range again, and for some time the resonant reports thundered through the office as they shot bullets into the target. They returned with four tagged bullets, each from one of the .25 automatics in the batch Ritter had brought from the
Colosseum.
These went under the lens of the comparison microscope one by one, and for some time there were no sounds but the intakes of breath in the laboratory.

And at the conclusion of the tests Ellery did not even have to ask the verdict. It was clear from the two experts’ scowls that not one of the four bullets examined matched the bullet which had killed Buck Horne.

There was a note at the bottom of the bag. It said:

“El: Some popguns found on the mob. Sending ’em all along, though it’s a cinch we want only .25’s. Not half-through with this crowd. Would you believe so many birds here tonight came heeled? More later—if I find them.”

It was signed by Inspector Queen.

“Lieutenant, will you stick around?” asked Ellery with desperate calm as he regarded the litter of weapons.

“You mean there’ll be more? All right; I guess I can scare up a poker game with some of the boys. Good night, Major; it’s been a pleasure. Give me a ring one of these days; I’ve got a private collection of firearms I’d like to show you some time.”

“You have?” cried Kirby. “I’ve got a little collection of my own, you know! What’s your oldest arm?”

“An 1840—”

Ellery grasped the Major’s elbow. “Come along, now, Major,” he said soothingly. “You may play with the nice Lieutenant some other time. At the moment urgent business calls us back to the
Colosseum.
”

I
T WAS PAST THREE
when Ellery and the Major returned to the
Colosseum
—past three of one of the darkest nights Ellery could recall.

“There’s no moon, so we can’t yodel that ancient rallying call: ‘There’s blood on the moon!’” Ellery remarked as they pushed by a detective he knew. “Give me good old darkness every time as the proper setting for a murder.”

“It’s light enough in here,” said Major Kirby dryly.

It was light enough, to be sure, to illuminate a very odd scene. The spectacle of unrestrained mass anger can be terrible; but there is nothing quite so depressing as the spectacle of mass resentment held in check by authority. The auditorium of the
Colosseum
was thunderous with silent rage. Few faces did not glare sullenly; and those that were meek were horribly tired. If this was the most stupendous reconnaissance in the history of modern policing, it was also the most disagreeable. If looks could kill, there would have been two hundred officers and plainclothesmen stretched out stark and cold on the floors.

As it was, the search of the twenty thousand proceeded quietly, rapidly—and fruitlessly.

Ellery and Major Kirby found Inspector Queen—fatigued but imperturbable—presiding like Napoleon over the forces of investigation from a small table which had been set throne-like in the center of the arena. Reports came to him in an unending stream. At the innumerable exits detectives passed members of the audience from hand to hand until the exhausted and harried citizen found himself, somewhat dazed, on the sidewalk outside the building. Matrons summoned hastily from nearby precincts pawed over the women. Occasionally a man would be singled out of line, searched more thoroughly, and finally turned back to the arena under escort. Once the object of this special attention was a woman. These ephemeral celebrities were promptly brought up before the Inspector, who questioned them and had them more thoroughly searched. It was from this small but select group that the artillery which Detective Ritter had brought downtown to Headquarters had come; they were “suspicious characters,” members of the underworld in good standing, with whose face every detective and officer of the police force was thoroughly familiar.

“Amazing,” remarked the Major as they waited for the Inspector to conclude his interrogation of a brawny creature with sleepy eyes, “how many kinds of people a representative crowd like this will turn up.”

“How many kinds of crooks,” murmured Ellery, “and heaven alone knows how many kinds of murderers. …’Lo, dad! We’re back.”

The Inspector rose quickly. “Well,” he said with soft eagerness, “did you find anything?”

“Did
you?
”

The old man shrugged. “Nothing. Plenty of rodmen here tonight. Whole town’s here, by damn. But—” He waved his hands helplessly. “There’s another pile of guns waiting for examination. Is Knowles waiting downtown?”

“Yes. Any .25 automatics in the bunch?”

“One or two.”

“Send them down to Knowles; he has the bullet and he’s prepared to work all night if necessary.”

“I’ll wait until we’ve cleaned out this crew. Well, son, well! I asked you if you found anything!”

“Will you excuse me, Major?” murmured Ellery, turning to the silent companion.

“Certainly.”

“You might be good enough to stand by,” said Ellery. “It’s possible we may need you—”

“Glad to help.” Kirby turned on his heel and walked off.

“Nothing doing, dad,” said Ellery in a rapid undertone. “Knowles and Kirby made it clear that only a .25 automatic could have fired the bullet. But not one of these cowboys had a .25; forty-four of the forty-five weapons were .44’s, .45’s, and .38’s. The forty-fifth was the automatic Velie took from Ted Lyons. But comparison tests showed that it hadn’t fired the fatal shot.”

“So,” grunted the old man.

“Another interesting fact Knowles dug out for me before I left h.q. With the exception of Wild Bill’s revolver and the three guns Lyons had on him, all the guns taken from the rodeo crowd had been fired just once a piece—presumably therefore during that single fusillade at the moment Horne toppled from the saddle.”

“All loaded with blanks?”

“Yes. Of course, there’s the theoretical possibility that the single cartridge missing in each instance might have been a lethal bullet rather than a blank, but that doesn’t help us because none of them is a .25. Grant’s revolver has three cartridges missing; that corresponds with the number of signal-shots he fired from the center of the arena before the murder, as I remember it; and here, too, there’s no possibility that his gun fired the fatal shot, because his is a .45. As for Lyons, neither his own automatic nor the two large-calibre guns he swiped from the armory had been fired at all—Have you examined the armory?”

“Yep,” said the Inspector gloomily. “Nothing doing.”

“Not a single .25 automatic?”

“Not one.”

“Well, but good Lord!” cried Ellery in an exasperated tone, “this is ridiculous. That automatic
must
be here somewhere. It can’t have got away. The place has been kept tighter than a drum-head since the instant of the murder.”

“Maybe we’ll turn it up in the crowd before we’re through.”

Ellery sucked a fingernail; then he rubbed his forehead wearily. “No. I don’t believe that will happen. Too easy. There’s something remarkably queer—and, yes, remarkably clever, too—about this, dad. I have the distinct feeling. …” He blinked suddenly, and then began to polish the lenses of his
pince-nez.
“Hmm. There’s a thought. …You’re staying on here, of course?” he said abruptly.

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I’m not! I’ve just remembered. There’s something I must do.”

“Must do?”

“Yes. Must have a peep at Buck Horne’s room in the Barclay.”

“Oh.” The old man seemed disappointed. “I’ve been leaving that. Have to do it, of course. I’ve sent Johnson up to watch the place. But there’s nothing special—”

“Indeed, there’s something very special up there,” replied Ellery grimly, “and I intend to see it before the hour’s up.”