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:
“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?”