The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

“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.