American Gun Mystery (25 page)

The troupe moved restlessly about. Their horses under the charge of Boone were placidly drinking at the watering troughs.

No one said anything; Kit Horne stood by in a coma of bewilderment; the Grants were still and pale; Tony Mars was on the verge of hysteria; in the Mars box Hunter and Champion Black peered intently over the rail into the arena.

Dr. Samuel Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County, rose from his knees and flipped the blanket back over the dead man. “Shot in the heart, Inspector.”

“Same place?” asked the Inspector hoarsely, who looked as if he were living through the horrible episodes of a preposterous nightmare.

“As the other one? Pretty much.” Dr. Prouty closed his bag. “Bullet nipped through the fleshy part at the bottom of the stump of his left arm and lodged in the heart. If he’d had a whole arm he’d probably be alive this minute. As it was, he almost escaped. An inch higher, and the slug might have lodged in the stump.”

“One shot?” asked the old man tremulously. He seemed suddenly to have remembered Ellery’s peroration on the marksmanship of the murderer. “One shot,” said Dr. Prouty.

The routine things were done. Forearmed by unhappy experience, Inspector Queen took every precaution against the possible escape of the criminal and the disappearance of the weapon.

“I suppose it’s a .25 calibre again?”

Dr. Prouty probed for the bullet. He brought it out soon enough—a well-preserved little slug covered with blood. It was unquestionably the bullet of a .25 automatic pistol.

“What about the angle, Sam?” muttered the Inspector.

Dr. Prouty grinned mirthlessly. “Damn remarkable, I call it. Just about the same as the angle the Horne bullet made.”

The riders were segregated and their arms collected. They were searched. Everyone was searched. Sergeant Velie combed the arena again, and again found the shell—a battered shell, obviously again kicked about by human and equine feet, and in a spot yards from where the first shell had been found.

But the .25 automatic remained merely a fantastic notion.

Lieutenant Knowles, the police ballistics expert, was on the scene this time. Once more the ghastly and tedious business of searching twenty thousand people was begun. Some .25’s—so repetitive was the event!—were again turned up. In a long chamber off the arena Knowles set up a makeshift laboratory. He pressed Major Kirby into service, and the two men spent long minutes firing into an improvised target made of absorbent cotton loosely rolled. With the aid of the microscope the Lieutenant had brought with him, comparisons were made between bullets of the .25 calibre automatics found, and the bullet from the dead man’s body. …The search continued. Inspector Queen, in a fine roaring rage, was everywhere at once.

The Commissioner of Police himself made an appearance, and an official close to the Mayor.

Everything was done. Nothing was accomplished.

When it was all over, only one thing seemed certain besides the fact that murder had been committed.

Lieutenant Knowles, weary and slouching, appeared with his report, Major Kirby striding silently at his side.

“You’ve examined all the guns?” snapped the Inspector.

“Yes, Inspector. The automatic that was fired at your dead man isn’t here.”

The Inspector was silent. It was so incredible that words were superfluous.

“But there’s one thing I can state positively, although I’ll check up with my universal when I get back to the laboratory,” continued Lieutenant Knowles. “Major Kirby thoroughly agrees. The bullet that killed Woody shows the same identifying marks as the bullet that killed Horne.”

“You mean they both were fired from the same automatic?” asked the Commissioner.

“Right, sir. No doubt about it at all.”

And Ellery Queen stood by and gnawed at the fingernail of his right forefinger, deep in thought and unwilling shame. No one paid the least attention to him.

The ghastly comedy played on. Gradually the crowd was weeded out, sent away. The arena was finecombed. The bowl, the offices, the stables, the whole maze of the
Colosseum
was gone over with eyes and fingers quickened by official censure.

And the automatic remained missing. It seemed that there was nothing to do but confess complete mystification and failure. …

And then while the Commissioner, the Mayor’s representative, the Inspector, Lieutenant Knowles, and Major Kirby stood eying one another in the curiously strained manner of men who are afraid to face an unpleasant truth, Curly Grant furnished a diversion—a radical diversion, since it was so far the only event of significance in the period of Woody’s murder which was not the duplication of a kindred event in the Horne murder.

Curly appeared in the eastern gateway, wild-eyed, disheveled, and loped like a mustang across the tan-bark track to his father, who was standing alone in the arena contemplating his boots. They all turned sharply, sensing something wrong.

They heard very clearly what Curly Grant had to say. It was said in a voice choked with bewilderment, resentment, and anger.

“Pop! The money’s gone!”

Wild Bill Grant looked up slowly. “What? What’s that you’re sayin’, son? The—”

“The money! The ten thousand! I put it in a cash box in my dressin’ room this afternoon, an’ now it’s gone!”

C
URLY GRANT’S DRESSING ROOM
was little more than a closet. It contained table, mirror, wardrobe, and chair. On the table there was an ordinary green metal box. The box was open, and the box was empty.

The Inspector was perhaps sharper than usual. Before leaving the arena he had been called aside by the Commissioner and the Mayor’s representative. They had “chatted” for some time. Then the two officials had stamped off. The incident had left Inspector Queen acutely irritable.

“You say you put the dough in this box?” he snarled.

Curly nodded shortly. “It was handed to me by Mr. Comerford, pop’s lawyer, this afternoon at the jamboree in the arena. S’pose you heard about that. Afterward I came in here, put the money in this box, an’ locked the box. The box was in the drawer here. When I just came in here I found the drawer open, an’ the box just like you see it.”

“When was the last time you saw the box with the money actually in it, Grant?” rasped the old man.

“When I stowed ’er away this afternoon.”

“Were you in here before the performance tonight?”

“No. Didn’t have to be. Was dressed fer the show this afternoon.”

“Didn’t you lock your door?”

Curly’s jaw hardened. “No. Never do, by thunder! I know these folks. They’re friends o’ mine. Wouldn’t pull a dirty trick like that on me.”

“You’re in New York now,” said the Inspector dryly, “and not everybody who floats around this dump is a friend of yours. My God, anybody who leaves ten grand lyin’ around behind an unlocked door deserves to lose it!” He snatched the box from the table and carefully examined it.

Now Mr. Ellery Queen had until this moment presented the appearance of a slightly astonished codfish. The murder, the vain search for the automatic, and now the theft of Curly Grant’s legacy—particularly the theft of Curly Grant’s legacy—had left him completely dumfounded, with his mouth witlessly open, as if his brain had received a severe shock; as if, in fact, some jeweled theory had been jarred out of its nice precision by a totally unexpected event.

But habit and a certain resource of resiliency came to his rescue, and a more rational light shone from his eyes. He stepped forward and blinked at the ravished box over his father’s shoulder.

It was in effect nothing more than an ordinary little cash-box. Its lid opened upward, double-hinged at the back. But instead of the usual eye-and-flap on the front, this box had two sets of eyes and flaps, and one was on each of the short sides of the box. When the lid was lowered, the flaps fitted over the eyes on the body of the box, and locks could be slipped through the eyes, thus furnishing double protection—a lock on each side.

Now each eye of Curly Grant’s box held the ring of a lock, and the locks in both instances were still shut and untouched. The box had been forced open by a much cruder method than breaking the locks. The thief had grasped the locks and twisted them until the strain upon the metal eyes had told and the eyes themselves had given way. The eyes lay on the table, twisted rings still entwined with the closed locks. In each case the eyes had been turned toward the back of the box, as was clear from the convolutions of the twisted metal.

The Inspector put the box down and said grimly to Sergeant Velie: “These dressing rooms were searched for the rod before, Thomas, weren’t they?”

“Right, Inspector.”

“Well, have the boys go over them again—not for a rod but for the swag. Didn’t find ten grand on anybody searched tonight, did you?”

Velie grunted. “Not much.”

“Well, by God, nobody can tell me that dough’ll disappear like the .25, Thomas!’ Raid those dressing rooms!”

Sergeant Velie silently departed. Ellery leaned against the wardrobe, deep in thought, his confusion and stupefaction superseded by a new and apparently invigorating line of thought.

“Yo’re wastin’ yore time,” said Curly defiantly. “You won’t find no ten thousand of
my
dollars in these rooms, not by a long shot!”

The Inspector did not reply. And so they waited. Kit sat in the only chair, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands, and stared expressionlessly at the floor.

And then, of course, Sergeant Velie barged triumphantly into the room, a mammoth in the doorway, and flipped something across the room to the table. It landed with a little thud.

They looked at it, startled. It was a sheaf of yellow-backed bills held together by a rubber-band.

“Ha!” exclaimed the Inspector with sour satisfaction. “There’s
one
mystery solved, anyway! Where’d you find it, Thomas?”

“In one of the dressing rooms along here.”

“Come along,” said the Inspector; and dumbly they followed him, astonishment in the eyes of all except Ellery.

Sergeant Velie paused by an open door.

“Here she is,” he said. “This room.” He pointed to a small table, its drawer open and cluttered with unimportant odds and ends of masculine character. “Found it in that unlocked drawer. Right on top. Damn crook didn’t even take the trouble to hide the loot,” growled Velie.

“Hmm,” said the Inspector. “Whose room is this, Grant?”

Curly chuckled hoarsely, to the Queens’ amazement, and even Wild Bill uttered a short ugly laugh. As for Kit, she shook her head with weary resignation.

“Ain’t found a crook at all,” drawled Curly. “You’ve lost one.”

“Lost one? What the deuce d’ye mean by that?”

“This room belonged to One-Arm Woody!”

“Woody!” exclaimed the Inspector. “So that’s the ticket. One-armed wonder stole the dough and was knocked off before he could get away with it. Now isn’t that queer? I don’t see. …Murder and robbery just couldn’t have had anything to do with each other! God, what a mess!” He groaned and shook his head. “Here, Grant, you’re sure these are the same bills that lawyer gave your son this afternoon?”

The old showman took the sheaf and counted the bills. There were ten. “Look the same. I couldn’t say for sure. Comerford didn’t bring the money with him from Cheyenne. I had it in trust, an’ Mars gave me the cash—saved me the trouble o’ goin’ to the bank. I gave ’im a check on m’own bank.”

“Thomas, get Tony Mars.”

The Sergeant returned with the haggard promoter very shortly. Mars examined the bills. “Tell you in a minute,” he muttered. “I always keep a raft of cash in my safe upstairs, an’ I’ve got the serial numbers somewhere on me. …” He fished in his wallet. “Here it is! Check ’em, Bill.” He read the numbers slowly aloud. And Grant nodded with each number.

“Fine!” said the Inspector. “I mean—terrible. It’s more of a mess than ever. Here’s your money, Mr. Curly Grant; and for the love of heaven hang on to it, will you?”

In the small hours, with dawn a hair’s-breadth away, the Queens—that normally affectionate father and son—were back in their Eighty-seventh Street apartment. Djuna was fast asleep and they did not disturb him. The old man pottered into the kitchen and brewed some coffee. They drank it in silence. Then Ellery paced the livingroom rug, and the Inspector with ashen face sat before the fire; and for long hours they remained that way—long after the sun was up and there was a stir of morning traffic in the street below.

A blank wall at the end of a dark alley. …Every living soul in the
Colosseum
had been searched; every square inch had been gone over. And with no result. The automatic had not been found, as if after exploding the cartridge which had buried itself in Woody’s body the wielder of the weapon, like Merlin, had caused it to vanish by merely wishing it away.

And so the Inspector sat, and Ellery pounded up and down, and there seemed nothing to say.

But gradually a look of relief spread over Ellery’s drawn features as normal intelligence recovered from the shock; and once he even intoned a vague quotation as he chuckled to himself.

Then Djuna appeared and bundled them both off to bed.

E
LLERY AWOKE TO THE
accompaniment of a vigorous shaking.

“Git up!” shouted Djuna in his ear. “There’s a feller here.”

Ellery blinked the drowse out of his eyes and groped for his dressing gown.

The visitor proved to be a brash young man bearing a large manila envelope. “From Major Kirby, Mr. Queen,” he said. “Just printed ’em, he said to tell you.”

He tossed the envelope on the table and left, whistling.

Ellery tore open the brown packet. Inside were a dozen damp, curly photographic prints. They depicted the last earthly moments of the late unlamented One-Arm Woody.

“Ah,” said Ellery with satisfaction. “That Major chap’s a prince, Djuna, simply priceless. He anticipates your every wish. Hmm.” He examined the series of infinitesimally differing photographs with scrupulous attention. …It was amazing how faithfully these pictures coincided with those earlier pictures of Buck Horne’s demise. Except for the figure of Woody himself, with its distinguishing characteristic of the left-arm stump, these might be the same photographs the Queens had examined in the Major’s projection room a month before.