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:
“What? Sure.”
“You... you didn’t put in any secret passageways, or anything as crazy as that?” The Inspector blushed.
Mars chuckled grimly. “If you can find a hole in the solid concrete, Inspector, I’ll crawl into it an’ let you chuck stink-bombs at me. Show you the plans if you like.”
“Never mind,” said the Inspector hastily. “Just a sort of desperate notion—”
“All the same I’m goin’ to bring out those blueprints.” Mars went to his wall-safe — which had been thoroughly explored before — and produced roll after roll of architect’s drawings. The Inspector was compelled to go over them. The others sat about and watched.
A half hour later, when Sergeant Velie had been dispatched on last-minute errands after suggestions by Mars as to possible hiding places (and had returned empty-handed), the Inspector shoved the plans back and dabbed at his brow with a shaking hand.
“That’s enough for tonight. My God, what a head! What time is it, somebody?” Mars raised the dark blue shades; broad daylight streamed in through the windows. “Well, we’d better all get some sleep. I think—”
“Has it occurred to you,” murmured Ellery from behind a barrage of fat smoke-rings, “that there are two detachable elements of the Colosseum which have not yet been searched?”
The Inspector started. “What d’ye mean?”
Ellery waved toward Tony Mars and Wild Bill Grant. “Don’t take this personally, gentlemen...”
“You mean Mars and Grant?” The Inspector laughed shortly. “Frisked long ago. I attended to that myself.”
“You can frisk me again,” said Grant coldly.
“Might be a good idea at that, old man. Thomas, do the honors. No offense meant, Tony.” In silence Sargent Velie complied. Then he repeated the ritual on Tony Mars. The result was negative, as they all knew it would be.
“Good night,” said Mars wearily. “I suppose you’ll have the Colosseum padlocked, Inspector?”
“Until we find that gat.”
“Well... see you soon.”
He left, closing the door slowly behind him.
The Major rose. “I think I’ll be getting along,” he said. “Anything more I can do, gentlemen?”
“Nothing, Major,” said the Inspector. “Thanks a lot.”
“I see,” smiled Ellery, “that you decided to stay after all. Can’t say I blame you, Major, under the circumstances. By the way, may I see you alone for a moment?”
Kirby stared. “Certainly.”
Ellery went out into the corridor with him. “Look here, Major, you can be of great service to us,” he said earnestly, “above and beyond what you’ve already done. Would your company be averse to lending a hand?”
“Naturally not — if it’s news.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Ellery shrugged. “At any rate, can you arrange a screening for me of the news-reel pictures your men took last night of the arena and bowl?”
“Oh! Of course. Say when.”
“Well — ten o’clock this morning. I want a few hours’ sleep. And I imagine you can use some yourself.”
The little Major smiled. “Oh, I’m something of a night-owl. We’ll be ready for you at ten, Mr. Queen.” He smiled, shook Ellery’s hand warmly, and walked with firm steps down the stairs.
Ellery returned to the office. At the door he bumped into Grant, who was coming out. The old showman muttered something which might have been farewell, and trudged off down the stairs.
Ellery dashed into Mars’s office, startling his father in the act of buttoning his overcoat. “Quick, dad!” he cried. “Put someone on Grant!”
“On Grant? You mean, on Grant’s tail?” The old man blinked. “What the devil for?”
“Don’t ask now, dad, please! It’s really important!”
The Inspector nodded at the Sergeant, and Velie disappeared. But he called the big man back. “Just a moment, Thomas. How thorough, El?”
“Everything! Details on every movement of Grant’s — phone tapped, correspondence intercepted and read, contents noted, every contact reported.”
“You hear, Thomas? But take it easy. Don’t put Grant wise to what’s goin’ on.”
“Got you,” said Velie, and disappeared for the second time.
The Queens were left alone in the huge building; the skeletal remains of their investigating force were waiting for them on the sidewalk before the Colosseum.
“Well,” grumbled the Inspector, “I suppose you know what you’re doing. The Lord knows I don’t. What’s the idea?”
“The vaguest. You’ve done the same about Kit Horne, too?”
“As you asked me. But I’ll be blamed if I can figure out why.”
Ellery struggled into his coat. “Who knows?” He adjusted his pince-nez firmly and hooked his arm in his father’s. “Avaunt, Prospero! I tell you, the whole success of our case may depend on sticking closer to Wild Bill the Gorgeous Grant and Kit Horne than their own shadows!”
The Inspector grunted; he was accustomed to his son’s crypticisms.
12: Private Screening
It is said in Ecclesiastes that the sleep of a laboring man is sweet; perhaps this points a stern moral to those who presume to labor with their brains rather than their muscles, for it is certain that after a prodigious effort of the cerebral cells the night before Mr. Ellery Queen crawled out of his bed of pain unrefreshed, ache-boned, cotton-mouthed, and already fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Major Kirby.
He gulped down two raw eggs, a steaming pannikin of coffee, an excited regurgitation of the preceding evening’s events issuing from Djuna’s chattering mouth, and then dashed downtown to Times Square.
The newsreel offices, adjunct of a large motion picture producing company, occupied the twelfth floor of a beehive building. Ellery emerged breathless from the elevator and found himself in the reception room just forty-five minutes late.
Major Kirby hurried out. “Mr. Queen! I thought something had happened to you. We’re all set.” The Major, remarkable man! exhibited no least sign of his all-night session; he was spruce, fresh, and his flat shaven cheeks were a healthy pink.
“Overslept,” groaned Ellery. “How do you do it? By the way, did you have any trouble with your editor, Major, over the excessive footage?”
Kirby chuckled. “Not a bit. He was tickled to death. We got the jump on every outfit in town. This way, Mr. Queen.”
He conducted Ellery through a large, noisy chamber filled with lounging men. It was thick with cigaret smoke; its typewriters clacked like Chinese firecrackers; a large peculiar-looking ticker-like machine was being studied by a group; boys rushed in and out.
“Quite like a newspaper office,” remarked Ellery as they pushed their way through.
“Worse,” said the Major dryly; “it’s a newsfilm office. And newsreel cameramen are just about one thousand percent more hard-boiled than newspaper reporters. This is a tough bunch; but they’re mighty sweet lads on the pick-up!”
They went through a doorway down a rather depressing corridor lined with doors. Somewhere there was a deep whirr of machinery. Coatless men rushed by.
“Here we are,” announced the Major. “One of our projection rooms. Use it for rushes. Come on in, Mr. Queen. Don’t mind the smell, do you? It’s the celluloid.”
It was a bare-walled room with two rows of removable seats. In the rear wall several square orifices framed the snouts of motion picture projectors. The opposite wall was largely covered by a pure white screen.
“Sit down,” said the Major in a cordial tone. “I’m ready when you are—”