The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #6
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Frederick A. Stokes Company
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)». Краткое содержание книги:
“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.”
The Inspector studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. “All right. But make it snappy. Maybe I’ll be through with the mob by the time you get back. Want Thomas to go alone?”
“No— Yes, come to think of it! And... before I go. Dad, I want Kit Horne with me, too.”
“The girl? She hasn’t been searched yet.”
“Then attend to it.”
“And the rest of ’em in the Mars box, too. Including Mars,” said the Inspector; and they quickly crossed to the southeastern part of the oval. The brave gaiety of hours before was quite washed out of them; the occupants of the Mars box for the most part sat in a rubbled silence, in attitudes of tired dejection. The only calm person there was the irrepressible Djuna; and he was calm because he was fast asleep in his chair.
The Inspector said: “I’m sorry, folks, but you can’t go yet. Miss Horne—”
There were welts under her eyes. “Yes?” she said dully.
“Would you mind coming down here?”
They roused themselves at that; and in Mara Gay’s eyes there seemed to be a kindling fire.
“And Mr. Grant, too — you, Curly,” said Ellery pleasantly.
Wild Bill and his son, both in the box, stared and regarded Ellery hopefully. Then Curly sprang to his feet, vaulted the rail, and held up his arms for Kit. She followed him without effort, her skirts describing a graceful parabola as she dropped to the tanbark; she landed with a little thump in Curly’s arms, and remained there for the fraction of a second. Young Lochinvar seemed loath to relinquish his fragrant armful; her hair tickled his nostrils and made them oscillate like tendrils in a breeze. But Kit disengaged herself gently and said to the Inspector: “Whatever it is — I’m ready.”
“It’s nothing much, Miss Horne. I’m just sending you back to your hotel. But before you go — to keep the records straight, y’know; somebody might have slipped it to you without your knowing — you’ll have to be searched like the rest.”
She flared up suddenly. “You think I...” Then she smiled and shook her head. “Of course. Anything.”
They moved in a group toward one of the small exits. At a signal from the Inspector Sergeant Velie fell into step behind them, and an Amazonian matron who, from her physique, might have mothered every 200-pound policeman on the force.
In one of the small rooms below, the matron — duly admonished to be gentle if thorough — searched Kit; in an adjoining room Sergeant Velie performed a similar service for Curly. The young couple were out in a matter of minutes; form had been “satisfied”; nothing at all incriminating — let alone the .25 automatic pistol which persisted in remaining elusive — had been found on them.
The Inspector escorted them to the main entrance. There they paused, and Ellery whispered: “You’re shipping the others off soon?”
“Yep. I’ll have them frisked right away.”
“Be very careful, dad, please! And — Really, you ought to send Djuna home. The poor tyke’s had enough excitement for one evening. He’ll be ill tomorrow.”
“I’ll send him home with Piggott or somebody.”
“And — keep Grant here until I return.”
“Grant, eh?” The Inspector nodded. “All right.”
Their eyes met. “Well — good huntin’,” said the Inspector.
“It’s bound to be good,” murmured Ellery. “Ah — by the way, you might release Major Kirby after another search. Just to be on the safe side, you know. I don’t think we’ll need him any more tonight, with Knowles holding down the fort at h.q.”
“Sure, sure,” muttered the old man absently. He took snuff with a marked degree of weariness in the gesture. “Y’know, there’s been somethin’ bothering me all night, son. What the dickens did you mean earlier tonight when you told Grant there was somethin’ missing from Horne’s body?”
Ellery threw back his head and gave an exhibition of silent mirth. “Lord, what an eternally surprising old coot you are, dad! Leave it to you to ask the right question at the right time.”
“Quit stallin’,” growled the Inspector. “What was it?”
Ellery stopped laughing and descended into a vast earthy calm. He tapped a cigaret slowly on his thumbnail. “It’s really very clear. Did you notice the pistol belt Horne was wearing?”
“Yes?”
“How many holsters hung from the belt?”
“Why, one... No, bedad, two!”
“Correct. Yet there was only one revolver on him; one holster then had no revolver. Query: Why does a man wear an old and treasured belt equipped with two holsters and still carry only one revolver? And that revolver also an old and treasured specimen?”
“There must be another one,” said the Inspector with an expression of surprise. “That’s right, by jiminy! Wouldn’t be surprised if it was a mate to that fancy ivory-handled rod we found in his hand.”
“I know it’s a mate,” murmured Ellery, and stepped abruptly out upon the sidewalk to rejoin Kit, Curly and Sergeant Velie.
The night air chilled the marrow. The Inspector watched them step to the curb. He watched a hawking taxicab dart up, and the four get in. He watched Ellery’s lips, and watched the cab shoot down Eighth Avenue. He stood there watching, in fact, long after there was anything left to see.
10: The Second Gun
Johnson, the detective Inspector Queen had detailed to guard Buck Horne’s room at the Hotel Barclay — a small, drab-looking, grizzled man with the air of the bona-fide shopkeeper and the eyes of a ferret — opened the door very wide and abruptly at Ellery’s knock. He lost his tense expression at sight of Ellery, grinned, and fell back. They trooped in, and Sergeant Velie closed the door.
“Anything doin’, Johnson?” rumbled the Sergeant.
“Nope. I was just thinking of taking off my shoes and havin’ a nap when Mr. Queen broke up my beauty-sleep.”
Kit went mechanically to a chintz-covered chair and sat down. She did not take off her gloves or coat. Curly, an overcoat over his Western clothes, dropped heavily on the bed. Neither spoke.
It was a large room, characterless in the typical hotel fashion, with a bed and two chairs and a dresser and a wardrobe and a night-table.
Ellery smiled at Sergeant Velie, said: “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Horne,” stripped off his light overcoat, pitched his hat on the bed, and went to work.
Johnson and Velie watched him in a sort of boredom.
It was a matter of moments, so swiftly did he search. The wardrobe with Horne’s clothes hanging neatly inside — city suits, an extra coat, two Stetson hats; the drawers of the dresser, which contained few and innocent articles; the drawer of the night-table. He straightened up thoughtfully; then regarded Kit with an apologetic grin.
“Mind if I go through your room, Miss Horne?”
Curly made a warlike movement. “Say, you, I don’t like—”
“Curly,” said Kit. “Not at all, Mr. Queen. Go right ahead. If I knew what you’re looking for—”