Электронная книга - «The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)». Краткое содержание книги:
Something entirely new in the field — a Wild West mystery in the heart of NYC. Ellery Queen's now-famous and much-imitated analytico-deductive method of solving crimes is brought to the acme of its development. Through logical reasoning and brilliare deduction, Mr. Queen narrows the field from literally thousands of potential suspects to the one and only possible murderer — the ultra-clever plotter who performed the seeming miracle of causing a gun to vanish before the eyes of twenty-thousand spectators!
“Well,” he growled, “what the hell’s eatin’ you now?”
“The hunger for a little information, Mr. Grant,” said Ellery affably. “Have you seen that man Miller in the last few minutes?”
Grant started, then sank back and sucked at a cigar. “Who?”
“Miller. Benjy Miller. Chap with the scarred face.”
“Oh, him.” Grant stretched his thick arms slowly. “Saw him aroun’ t’day,” he said with indifference. “Why?”
“Have you any idea where he is now?” asked Ellery.
Grant lost his air of indifference. He swung his feet to the floor, and frowned heavily. “What’s the big idea? Why all this sudden int’rest in my troupe, Mr. Queen?”
“Only in Miller, I assure you,” smiled Ellery. “Well, well, sir, where is he?”
Grant hesitated. His eyes shifted. “Don’t know,” he said finally.
Ellery glanced at his father, who began to show signs of interest. “Do you know,” murmured Ellery, settling back comfortably in a chair and crossing his legs, “I’ve been intending to ask you something for a long time now. But it slipped my mind until a few minutes ago. Mr. Grant, how well did Miller know Buck Horne?”
“Well? Well?” growled Grant. “How the tin-horn devil should I know? Never saw the critter b’fore in my whole life. Buck recommended him, an’ that’s all I c’n tellya.”
“How do you know Buck recommended him? On Miller’s say-so?”
Grant broke into a savage chuckle. “Hell, no. I’m no pilgrim, man. He give me a note from Buck, that’s how I know.”
The Inspector started. “A note from Horne!” he shrieked. “Why in the name of a merciful God didn’t you tell us that a month ago? Why, you said—”
“Tell you?” Grant bunched his chaparral brows. “Ya didn’t ask. I said he come from Buck, an’ I tole no lie. Didn’t ask for no note, did ya? I—”
“Well, well,” murmured Ellery hastily, “let’s not wrangle over it. Have you that note about anywhere, Mr. Grant?”
“In m’duds somewhere,” said Grant, beginning to poke about in his pockets. “I know I — Here ’tis! There, read that,” he growled, tossing a crumpled sheet of paper across his desk, an’ see if I put anythin’ over on you.”
They read the note. It was written in blotty ink on a piece of Hotel Barclay stationery, in a wide windy scrawl. It ran:
“Dear Bilclass="underline"
“This is Benjy Miller, an old friend. Needs a job badly — had hard luck in the Southwest somewhere, I guess. Drifted into town and hunted me up. So give him a job, will you? He’s a smart hand with a rope, right enough, and a good rider.
“I’m staking him to a few dollars, but what he really needs is a job. Hasn’t got a horse, so let him use one of mine, Injun, my old Hollywood standby. I’m using Kit’s for luck. Thanks—
Buck.”
“That Horne’s fist, Grant?” demanded the Inspector suspiciously.
“Sure is.”
“You’d swear to it?”
“I’ll let you swear to it,” said Grant coldly; and, rising, he went to a filing cabinet and returned with a legal document. It proved to be a contract between Grant and Horne. At the bottom of the last sheet were the signatures of the parties. The Inspector compared the scrawled “Buck Horne” of the contract with the handwriting of the note.
He returned the contract without speaking.
“On the level?” asked Ellery.
The Inspector nodded.
“So you don’t know where Miller is now, eh, Mr. Grant?” said Ellery pleasantly.
Grant rose and kicked his chair. “Hell’s fire!” he shouted. “What d’ye think I am to my employees — a wet-nurse? How th’ hell should I know where he is?”
“Tut, tut,” murmured Ellery. “Such temper.” And he rose and strolled from the room. The Inspector remained for a moment to converse with Mr. Wild Bill Grant. Whatever it was he said, it must have given him satisfaction, for when he came Out he was actually — for the first time in days — grinning; and from the room Ellery could hear Mr. Wild Bill Grant engaged in kicking Tony Mars’s furniture.
They questioned the detectives on duty. Had any of them seen a cowboy with a badly burned face leaving the Colosseum? One man, it seemed, had. Two hours or so before, Miller had quit the building. The detective had not noticed which way he had gone.
The Queens departed post-haste for the Hotel Barclay, the troupe’s headquarters.
Miller was not there. No one could be found who had seen him enter the hotel that afternoon.
By this time the Inspector was alarmed, and Ellery too showed signs of uneasiness.
“It begins to look,” muttered the Inspector as they stood helplessly in the lobby, “as if—”
Ellery was whistling nervously to himself. “Yes, yes, I know. As if Miller’s slipped through our fingers. Strange, very strange. I’m afraid — Tell you what! What are you going to do now, dad?”
“I’m going back to h.q.,” said the Inspector grimly, “and start the ball rolling. I’ll find Miller and sweat him if it’s the last thing I do. Why the deuce should he take it on the lam if he’s just one of the boys?”
“Not so fast. Because a man drops out of sight for three hours isn’t justification for calling the hounds out. He may have dropped into a speakeasy, or a movie. Well, do what you think best, dad. I think I’ll stay here... No, I’m going back to the Colosseum.”
At six o’clock, in the fading light, the Queens met again at the Colosseum.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” exclaimed Ellery.
“Same thing you’re doing.”
“But I’m fiddling around... Have any luck?”
“Well,” said the Inspector cautiously, “it looks as if we’ve struck something.”
“No!”
“Miller’s gone.”
“Definitely?”
“Looks that way right now. I’ve had the detail cover all his known hangouts since he hit the city — aren’t many. The whole troupe’s accounted for, except Miller. And none of ’em knows where he is. Last seen around two or three o’clock, leaving the building. Then he dropped out of sight.”
“Did he take anything with him?”
“Didn’t have much to take except the clothes on his back. It’s on the teletype now. Being watched for. We’ve spread the alarm. Oh, we’ll get him.”
Ellery opened his mouth, and closed it again without saying anything.
“I’ve been digging into Mr. Miller’s history a little,” said the Inspector. “And d’ye know what I found?”
“What?” asked Ellery, startled.
“Nothing, that’s what. A blind trail. Can’t find out a darned thing about the guy. He’s a mystery. Well, he won’t be much longer. I think we’re on the right track now.” He chuckled. “Miller! And Grant’s tied up in it somewhere, mark my words.”
“I’ve got all I can do to mark my own,” said Ellery. Then he grinned quizzically. “How about the downward direction of the bullets that killed your two dead men?”
The Inspector’s chuckle died, and again he looked unhappy. “Oh, that,” he said. “That sticks in my craw, I’ll admit...” He threw his hands up in despair. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m going back to Centre Street.”
23: The Miracle
Ellery continued to wander about the Colosseum. In his wanderings, which were for the moment aimless — being devoted merely to the expenditure of animal energy while his brain was busy with a Brobdingnagian mental jigsaw — he chanced across the large metallic gentleman of few words who was Inspector Queen’s right hand. Sergeant Velie in his stubborn way was engaged in mining. He was attempting to dig nuggets of fact out of what was obviously a salted mine. The facts he unearthed were no facts at all, but fancies. If there were facts beneath the terrain, they were extraordinarily well hidden.
