The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

“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!”