American Gun Mystery (17 page)

“I been off the trail, sir,” put in Miller eagerly. “Hard hit. Ain’t had a job fer months. Struck Noo Yawk—hearin’ Mr. Grant’s rodeo was here—hopin’ fer a job. Found out ’bout ole Buck’s bein’ with the show, an’ seein’ as he an’ me was waddies together in the ole days, I looked ’im up. He—he staked me, Buck did, to a couple o’ dollars, an’ he sent me over here t’see Mr. Grant. That’s all, sir; I can’t figger it, sir. It’s—”

The Inspector stared at the man’s slightly drooling mouth for a moment, thoughtfully, and then said: “All right, Miller. Go on back.”

Relief heaved through the ranks in visible waves. Miller stumbled hastily back to his place and sat down.

Then the Inspector said: “You, Woody, come here.”

The one-armed man sat very still for an instant; then rose and clumped forward, his high heels striking hollow sounds from the tanbark. A short cigaret dangled from his thin lips, and his arrogant mahogany features were twisted into a sneer.

“Got round to me, huh?” he said mockingly. “Well, well! So One-Arm Woody’s gonna be roped an’ branded an’ hogtied, huh? Mister, you ain’t got nothin’ on me!”

The old man smiled. “Why the speech, Woody? I haven’t even asked you a question. But as long as you think I’m trying to guzzle you, I might’s well ask ’em hot and heavy. Is it true that you and Horne had a run-in this afternoon—I mean yesterday afternoon, after rehearsal?”

“Shore it’s true,” snarled Woody. “That say I plugged ’im?”

“Of course not. But it doesn’t say you didn’t. You were sore because Horne was lappin’ up some of your gravy, weren’t you?”

“Sorer’n a cross-eyed bronc with the heaves,” agreed Woody. “Dog-gone near plugged ’im on the spot, come to think of it.”

“Humorous coot, aren’t you?” murmured the Inspector. “How well did you know Horne?”

“Knew ’m from way back.”

“Where were you in the bunch of horsemen following Horne, Woody?”

“Up front, on th’ inside, ridin’ with Curly Grant. Now listen close, Mister,” said Woody with an ugly grin. “If yo’re thinkin’ I blew a hole through Buck Horne yo’re way off yore feed. I bet there was most a thousan’ people had their eyes on me when Horne was plugged. I was shootin’ with the rest of the boys, wasn’t I? I had my right arm h’isted in the air, didn’t I? I ain’t got no left arm, an’ I was ridin’ with my knees when I was shootin’—ain’t that true? Horne was shot with a .25, an’ I tote a .45—ain’t that so? Back-track, Mister; yo’re follerin’ a blind trail.”

Slowly the arena emptied. The troupe was separated into men and women; the women were taken downstairs and searched; the men were searched on the spot. No .25 automatic was found on any of them. Where upon they were watchfully escorted out of the building and packed off to their hotel.

The
Colosseum’s
attendants were searched. No .25 automatic was found. They were sent home.

The other employees of Grant’s rodeo—among whom was Boone, the lurching little bowlegs—were searched after the horses and the other animals had been attended to. No .25 automatic was found. They were shipped off after the others.

All outer doors were locked. With the exception of Mars, Grant, and Major Kirby, only the police remained in the
Colosseum.

Ellery dawdled on the sidelines, nodding grimly to himself at each successive failure to turn up the missing automatic.

In silence they repaired to the upper floors at Mars’s invitation. In the promoter’s office they took seats, still silently; Mars went off on a raid of one of the refreshment booths and turned up with sandwiches and an urn of coffee. They chewed and gulped gratefully—and still without words. There seemed nothing to say.

After a while reports began to drift in. The first report was delivered by the slight, shy detective named Piggott.

He coughed apologetically. “Cleaned up the bowl, Chief.”

“Look over all the litter?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothin’!”

“Take your men and go on home.”

Piggott left in silence.

The second came five minutes later. This time it was Ritter, the burly member of the Inspector’s squad.

“Halls, cellars, store-rooms, booths, stands, alleys,” he droned. “Nothin’ doin’, Chief.”

The Inspector waved him wearily away.

Hard on Ritter’s heels trudged blond Hesse, the stolid—more stolid than ever.

“Went through the dressing rooms with a fine-comb, Inspector,” he said mildly. “Every drawer, every damn corner. Also the stables, horses’ gear, animal pens, rooms, anterooms, offices. …No luck.”

“Did you search this room, Hesse?”

“Yes, Chief. Like all the others.”

The Inspector grunted; and Tony Mars, his feet on his polished desk, did not even blink.

“All right, Hesse. …Ah, Thomas!”

Big Sergeant Velie tramped in, shaking the room; the iron lines of his face sagged a little as if they had been subjected to heat. He dropped into a chair and stared expressionlessly at his superior.

“Well, well, Thomas?”

“We combed the arena,” said Velie. “Every square inch, so help me. We even used rakes, damn it! Dug down pretty deep, just to make sure. …We didn’t find the rod, Inspector.”

“Hrrrumph,” said the Inspector vaguely.

“But we did find
this,
” said Velie, and dug a bludgeon forefinger into his vest pocket and brought out a small piece of battered metal.

They all came to their feet at that, and crowded round the desk.

“The shell!” cried the Inspector. “By God, that’s a hot one—found the shell and not the gun!” He grabbed it from the Sergeant’s fingers and examined it avidly. It was a brassy-looking piece of metal, crushed almost flat, and scarred and scraped as if it had been kicked or stepped upon. Minute specks of black dirt—the dirt from the arena floor—clung to it. “Where’d you find this, Thomas?”

“In the arena. Sunk in the dirt about an inch, like it’d been stepped on by somebody. About five yards from the track at the—let’s see—near the Mars box. … southeastern part of the arena.”

“Hmm. Major, is this the jacket of a .25 calibre?”

Major Kirby glanced at the scrap of metal briefly. “No doubt about it.”

“Near the southeastern end,” muttered the Inspector. “By jinks, where does that get us? Nowhere!”

“Seems to me,” said Grant, blinking, “it’s mighty important where you found th’ shell, Inspect’r.”

“Yeah? It’s so important it doesn’t mean a consarned thing. How do we know the spot where the Sergeant found it was the spot where the murderer shot from?” The Inspector shook his head. “Look at it—crushed, kicked around. Sure, it might have come from somebody standin’ in the arena; but it also might have been
thrown
from the audience, or dropped from one of the boxes at the lowest tier. No go, Grant; doesn’t mean a thing.”

“There,” said Ellery with a little mutter in his throat, “I thoroughly agree with you. …Lord, this isn’t credible!” They all turned to look at him. “A thirteen-ounce object four and a half inches long doesn’t just vanish into thin air, you know. It
must
be here!”

But the fact remained that, despite a ruthless, careful, painstaking search by scores of men specially trained in the investigation Of both probable and improbable hiding-places, the .25 automatic pistol which had killed Buck Horne was not to be found.

The fact stared them in the face with increasingly painful clarity. Everything had been gone over—literally everything; not only the superficial places but the tanbark track, the seats, all detachable flooring, all offices and filing cabinets and desks and safes, all aisles, horses’ rigging, stables, the watering-troughs, the armory, the blacksmith shop, the forge, all booths, storerooms, packages and trunks, all nooks and crannies, passageways, ramps. … there was nothing that had not, it seemed, been exhaustively investigated. Even the sidewalks abutting the building had been gone over in the vague thought that the automatic might have been dropped out of a window.

“There’s only one answer,” said Tony Mars with a frown. “It went out on somebody who was here last night.”

“Fiddlesticks!” snapped the Inspector. “I’ll vouch for
that.
Every pocket, every package, every valise, every damn shred of every thunderin’ soul who was in the place was gone over. That’s out, Mr. Mars. No, it’s still in the building some place. …Mars—for the Lord’s sake don’t laugh—you built this place yourself?”

“What? Sure.”

“You—you didn’t put in any secret passageways, or anything as crazy as that?” The Inspector blushed.

Mars chuckled grimly. “If you can find a hole in the solid concrete, Inspector, I’ll crawl into it an’ let you chuck stink-bombs at me. Show you the plans if you like.”

“Never mind,” said the Inspector hastily. “Just a sort of desperate notion—”

“All the same I’m goin’ to bring out those blueprints.” Mars went to his wall-safe—which had been thoroughly explored before—and produced roll after roll of architect’s drawings. The Inspector was compelled to go over them. The others sat about and watched.

A half hour later, when Sergeant Velie had been dispatched on last-minute errands after suggestions by Mars as to possible hiding places (and had returned empty-handed), the Inspector shoved the plans back and dabbed at his brow with a shaking hand.

“That’s enough for tonight. My God, what a head! What time is it, somebody?” Mars raised the dark blue shades; broad daylight streamed in through the windows. “Well, we’d better all get some sleep. I think—”

“Has it occurred to you,” murmured Ellery from behind a barrage of fat smoke-rings, “that there are two detachable elements of the
Colosseum
which have not yet been searched?”

The Inspector started. “What d’ye mean?”

Ellery waved toward Tony Mars and Wild Bill Grant. “Don’t take this personally, gentlemen. …”

“You mean Mars and Grant?” The Inspector laughed shortly. “Frisked long ago. I attended to that myself.”

“You can frisk me again,” said Grant coldly.

“Might be a good idea at that, old man. Thomas, do the honors. No offense meant, Tony.” In silence Sargent Velie complied. Then he repeated the ritual on Tony Mars. The result was negative, as they all knew it would be.

“Good night,” said Mars wearily. “I suppose you’ll have the
Colosseum
padlocked, Inspector?”

“Until we find that gat.”

“Well. … see you soon.”

He left, closing the door slowly behind him.

The Major rose. “I think I’ll be getting along,” he said. “Anything more I can do, gentlemen?”

“Nothing, Major,” said the Inspector. “Thanks a lot.”

“I see,” smiled Ellery, “that you decided to stay after all. Can’t say I blame you, Major, under the circumstances. By the way, may I see you alone for a moment?”

Kirby stared. “Certainly.”

Ellery went out into the corridor with him. “Look here, Major, you can be of great service to us,” he said earnestly, “above and beyond what you’ve already done. Would your company be averse to lending a hand?”

“Naturally not—if it’s news.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Ellery shrugged. “At any rate, can you arrange a screening for me of the news-reel pictures your men took last night of the arena and bowl?”

“Oh! Of course. Say when.”

“Well—ten o’clock this morning. I want a few hours’ sleep. And I imagine you can use some yourself.”

The little Major smiled. “Oh, I’m something of a night-owl. We’ll be ready for you at ten, Mr. Queen.” He smiled, shook Ellery’s hand warmly, and walked with firm steps down the stairs.

Ellery returned to the office. At the door he bumped into Grant, who was coming out. The old showman muttered something which might have been farewell, and trudged off down the stairs.

Ellery dashed into Mars’s office, startling his father in the act of buttoning his overcoat. “Quick, dad!” he cried. “Put someone on Grant!”

“On Grant? You mean, on Grant’s tail?” The old man blinked. “What the devil for?”

“Don’t ask now, dad, please! It’s really important!”

The Inspector nodded at the Sergeant, and Velie disappeared. But he called the big man back. “Just a moment, Thomas. How thorough, El?”

“Everything! Details on every movement of Grant’s—phone tapped, correspondence intercepted and read, contents noted, every contact reported.”

“You hear, Thomas? But take it easy. Don’t put Grant wise to what’s goin’ on.”

“Got you,” said Velie, and disappeared for the second time.

The Queens were left alone in the huge building; the skeletal remains of their investigating force were waiting for them on the sidewalk before the
Colosseum.

“Well,” grumbled the Inspector, “I suppose you know what you’re doing. The Lord knows
I
don’t. What’s the idea?”

“The vaguest. You’ve done the same about Kit Horne, too?”

“As you asked me. But I’ll be blamed if I can figure out why.”

Ellery struggled into his coat. “Who knows?” He adjusted his
pince-nez
firmly and hooked his arm in his father’s. “Avaunt, Prospero! I tell you, the whole success of our case may depend on sticking closer to Wild Bill the Gorgeous Grant and Kit Horne than their own shadows!”

The Inspector grunted; he was accustomed to his son’s crypticisms.

I
T IS SAID IN
Ecclesiastes
that the sleep of a laboring man is sweet; perhaps this points a stern moral to those who presume to labor with their brains rather than their muscles, for it is certain that after a prodigious effort of the cerebral cells the night before Mr. Ellery Queen crawled out of his bed of pain unrefreshed, ache-boned, cotton-mouthed, and already fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Major Kirby.

He gulped down two raw eggs, a steaming pannikin of coffee, an excited regurgitation of the preceding evening’s events issuing from Djuna’s chattering mouth, and then dashed downtown to Times Square.

The newsreel offices, adjunct of a large motion picture producing company, occupied the twelfth floor of a beehive building. Ellery emerged breathless from the elevator and found himself in the reception room just forty-five minutes late.

Major Kirby hurried out. “Mr. Queen! I thought something had happened to you. We’re all set.” The Major, remarkable man! exhibited no least sign of his all-night session; he was spruce, fresh, and his flat shaven cheeks were a healthy pink.