No Coffin for the Corpse

Chapter Eight: The Missing Guns

If we had needed anything more to tell us that what we were investigating was no practical joke — this was it. Wolff stared at Dunning for a moment, then abruptly started toward him, steering a course so direct that I had to step back in order to avoid being run down. He had forgotten me completely.

Dunning let him pass, then turned, and followed him out. Galt glanced nervously at Merlini and myself, started to speak, changed his mind, and hurried after them. Kathryn didn’t move.

Merlini looked at her. “I guess you called it,” he said. “If the ghost is the thief, he’s certainly up to no good. Come on. It might be wise if we all stick together from here on.”

She led the way out across the hall toward the door just at the foot of the stairs. My knowledge of firearms was limited to a nodding out-of-date acquaintance with the army Springfield gained in a college R.O.T.C. class and a scattered miscellany of dubious information acquired in my reading of detective fiction. But I knew, as soon as I stepped into the gun room, that Wolff’s collection was the sort that would make any museum curator mutter enviously in his sleep. And I suspected that his name was on the mailing list of every gun dealer in the country, right up at the top and in capital letters. He hadn’t had to limit himself, as many collectors do, to a specialized collection. He had gone the whole hog from harquebuses to Zigzag Derringers — and beyond.

A window, covered on the outside with close-set iron grilles, pierced the opposite wall above a worktable flanked by bookshelves. The four walls were covered ceiling-high with firearms arranged in neat chronological order. They began to the right of the window with the earliest fourteenth-century hand cannon, and progressed clockwise around the room through the matchlock, wheel lock, flintlock, percussion, and cartridge periods to the latest World War II automatic rifles. There were several allied objects; two or three pieces of armor, a case of swords, several crossbows, a halberd, and some powder horns.

In the center of the room a group of glass-covered exhibition cases held smaller special collections. One was of historical association pieces — guns that had been carried by such persons as Annie Oakley, Wyatt Earp, the Dalton boys, John Paul Jones, Bill Cody, and John Dillinger. There was a collection of Colts, one of dueling pistols, and one labeled: Special-Purpose Arms.

It was this last case which Wolff and Dunning were examining. The secretary pointed to several arms catalogues stacked on the case next in line.

“I found those,” he said, “scattered about on the special-purpose case. When I picked them up to return them to their shelves I saw immediately that two of the exhibits were gone. It looks as if someone had strewn the catalogues about so that we wouldn’t notice—”

Merlini, who had lifted the hinged top of the case and was examining the lock, said, “Bolt sheared off. And the shape of this indentation in the frame would suggest—” He glanced quickly around the room, saw several military rifles in a near-by rack, and finished, “that it was levered up with one of those bayonets.”

Wolff stared at the case with a scowl that promised trouble. Dunning fidgeted uneasily. I crowded in, wondering what special-purpose arms were, and discovered that, without their labels, I wouldn’t have recognized many of them as guns at all. This was, evidently, the freaks-and-oddities department. Small typed cards below each specimen bore such inscriptions as: Apache Pistol Combination Revolver, Brass Knuckles, and Dagger: Poacher’s Cane Pistol; Belgian Harmonica; East Indian Combination Matchlock Pistol, Ax, and Dagger; “My Friend” Knuckle-Duster Pistol; English Duckfoot Flintlock; Pencil Pistol, Chicago Protector Palm Pistol; etc. etc.

There were empty spaces above two of the cards. Merlini read the description on one aloud, Campbell & Harris Spring Gun. 25 caliber. He looked up at Wolff. “What is a spring gun?”

“A trap gun,” Wolff answered, still staring at the case. “Fasten it to a tree or anchor it to the ground, tie a string to the hole provided in the trigger and stretch it across an animal run. Anything touching the string—”

Merlini nodded. “I get the idea. I don’t like it much.” He read from the second card. Vest-Pocket Model Revolver. Smallest practical 5-shot revolver made. 25 caliber. Grip and trigger folds up around cylinder, making it easy to carry in vest pocket or lady’s purse without being conspicuous. Weight: 5½ ounces. Overall length when folded: 3 inches. He paused a moment, then added, “Someone has peculiar tastes. Were they valuable?”

Wolff, who had gone over to the worktable under the window, said, “No. They’re both modern pieces.” He pulled open a drawer beneath the table. “Dunning. You said four guns. What others—”

The secretary turned. “The lock on that drawer has been forced the same way. Two of the .38 target pistols are gone.”

Wolff scowled. “You can forget those. I took them this morning. But I didn’t force this lock.” He lifted a cardboard carton from the drawer, took the cover off, and looked inside. “This what you meant when you said there were cartridges missing?”

Dunning nodded. “Yes. That box of twenty-fives was unopened this morning. Now there are six shells missing. The trap gun would hold one, the vest-pocket revolver, five.” His tone of voice was the same as though he were announcing the escape of a captive cobra. I knew how he felt. That trap gun, loaded and its whereabouts unknown, was definitely not a pleasant prospect.

“Those two guns you took, Wolff,” Merlini asked. “Where are they?”

The man motioned toward his hip. “I’ve got one. I gave Mrs. Wolff the other. In view of what’s been happening around here, I thought—”

“Loaded?”

“Yes. Naturally.”

Merlini cast an uneasy glance at the array of deadly weapons that surrounded us, then approached Wolff and looked at the lock of the open drawer. “Do collectors usually keep ammunition on hand to fit their pieces? I should think that many of these guns would be too valuable to fire.”

“Fire them?” Wolff looked startled. “Of course not. There’s a shooting range outside and this drawer holds several target pistols of various calibers. The shells are intended for those.”

Merlini came back again to the special-purpose-arms case, lifted its glass top, and peered through it at the light. “The missing guns from this case,” he asked, “when were they seen last?”

“They were there less than an hour ago,” Wolff replied. “Dunning and I added that English Duckfoot which came from Bannerman & Kimball while we were in Miami last week. Both the missing pieces were in the case then. What’s so interesting about that glass? Fingerprints?”

Merlini leaned above the next case and examined its glass also, moving his head from side to side to catch the reflection of the light. He repeated this maneuver with the one beyond that before answering. Then he said, “Yes and no. There are a number of finger and palm prints on the glass of these two cases, but not so much as a smudge on the special-purpose case. We can, apparently, strike the family ghost off the list of suspects.”

Galt frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” Merlini said dryly, “if I were a bona fide astral visitant, lately returned from my grave, I wouldn’t worry too much about the fingerprints I might leave. I can imagine a ghost swiping those guns. I might even visualize him forcing the locks with a bayonet. There are tales in the history of apparitions of ghosts who have done things as strange. But I’m inclined to boggle at any haunt who lifts a corner of his shroud and carefully wipes away any possible fingerprints that he may have left behind. Aren’t you?”

Galt frowned. “I haven’t heard anyone say that the ghost is responsible for this.”

“No,” Merlini admitted. “Neither have I. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did.” He turned to Wolff. “There are two things I would suggest that you do at once.”

“What?”

“Gather up all the ammunition in this house and put it in the safe, if you’ve got one. And report your boatkeeper’s absence and the theft of these guns to the police.

Wolff scowled. “I’ll call the police when it becomes necessary. Those two guns haven’t gone far. They’re here in this house. They have to be. And I’m going to find them.”

“Here? What makes you so sure of that?”

“The burglar alarm has been operating all day. No one could possibly have got into or left this house except by Phillips’s permission. And he had orders—”

“The alarm system has a single central control?”

Wolff nodded. “Yes. In the hall below the stairs. Switch box. Locked. I have the key.”

Merlini wasn’t impressed. “These two locks were forced. Perhaps we’d better have a look at that one.”

He headed for the hall. Wolff blinked, and followed him out.

Then Kathryn turned to the secretary. “Dunning, Dad listens to you sometimes. Try to make him call the police.”

Dunning frowned uncertainly at the gun case. “If this sort of thing continues, he’ll have to.”

“If this sort of thing continues, it’ll be too late.” Kay moved with sudden decision toward the phone on the table. “I’m going to do it now.”

“Kay,” I said, “wait. There’s nothing they can do if he won’t—”

But Dunning had moved swiftly, cutting in ahead of her. He put his hand down over the phone. “No. He’ll be furious. And I have orders that—”

Kay tried to put Dunning in his place. “I’ll take the responsibility,” she said sharply. “Take your hand off that phone!”

But the secretary shook his head and stood firm. “No, I’m sorry.”

And from the doorway Wolff’s voice cut in, crisp and hard. “Stay where you are, Dunning. Who does she want to call?”

Kathryn turned. “The police. And, if I can’t phone them from here, I’ll do it from outside. This has gone far enough. Scotty—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Wolff said flatly. “I’ve told you that I don’t want the police. Your calling them will be useless if I won’t let them in. And I won’t. Dunning, go out to the switch box. Stand by to shut off the alarm when it rings.”

Wolff, followed by Merlini, crossed the room to the window. He unlocked it and pulled it open.

“The switch-box lock was all right?” Galt asked.

“Wolff nodded, then pointed to a round hole in the window frame. “An ultraviolet light in there sends a beam of black light diagonally across the window opening. It is reflected by a small countersunk mirror on the opposite side and recrosses to center on a photoelectric cell.” He indicated another, lower hole in the frame near the sill. “Even an intruder who knew where the beam was wouldn’t be able to edge in past it. There’s not enough free space. And the moment his body interrupts the beam—”

He put out his hand and brought it down within the window opening like a conjurer commanding a miracle. The loud strident clamor of an alarm bell came instantly. Then, as a door slammed and footsteps raced toward us from the rear of the hall outside, Dunning threw a switch and the ringing stopped. We heard his voice reassuring Phillips.

Wolff called, “Dunning, Phillips. Both of you come in here.”

Merlini said, “I still don’t see that the alarm proves those guns are still in the house. It may keep outsiders out, but it won’t keep insiders in. Since the front door has a separate, easily accessible switch of its own, anyone could have taken the guns out and left the door ajar so as to get back.”

Wolff shook his head. “After what happened here this morning, I told Phillips to keep the door locked.” He turned to the butler who waited in the doorway. “Have you let anyone in or out of this house since nine o’clock?”

Phillips indicated Merlini and myself. “These two gentlemen came in. That’s all.”

“You’re quite sure? What about Leonard?”

“Not since nine o’clock. He came in just before dinner when you sent for him, but went out again immediately. There hasn’t been anyone else.”

“All right. Until further notice, no one goes in or out under any circumstances until you ask me. There are two guns missing from this room. If no one has left in the last hour the guns are still in the house somewhere. The cook is new today. I want you to search her room. At once.”

Phillips blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s all. Report to me.”

The butler turned and went out.

Wolff waited a moment, then said, “And Dunning, while he’s doing that, you search his room!”

Dunning’s blink was even more pronounced, but he too merely nodded and went quickly out. If Wolff had told him to go jump in the lake I believe he would have done it just as promptly.

Francis Galt seemed amused. There was a twinkle in his eyes behind the thick-lensed glasses. “This looks like a game of musical chairs. Who searches Dunning’s room?”

Wolff had that answer ready. “You do. And don’t argue. Get going. You’ll have to get clear before he comes back.”

“But—” Galt started to protest. “I’m no—”

Wolff glared at him. “I said don’t argue.”

I thought for a moment that Galt was going to refuse flatly, but then he shrugged, turned, and started out. He stopped for a moment in the doorway.

“My bag of photographic equipment is here in the hall by the camera,” he said. “It’s unlocked and open for inspection.”

Wolff didn’t beat around the bush. I doubt if he knew how. “Thanks,” he said flatly. “I’ll look at it.”

Galt was not amused now. He said stiffly, “I’d prefer that you did. I’d rather not have this elimination process leave me out on a limb. But don’t move that camera. It’s all set and carefully focused on the stairs.”

“In hopes,” Merlini put in, trying to case the tension, “that Old Nick will soon be here?”

Galt nodded. “Yes. But you may not joke about it afterward. If you think you can prove that this ghost is made of cheesecloth, I warn you, you’ve got a job on your hands.”

“Galt,” Wolff commanded. “Get on with it and stop—”

Galt turned on his heel and vanished into the hall.

Wolff closed and locked the window, then crossed to the hall door and took a key ring from his pocket.

“I’m locking this room up,” he said.

As we filed out past him, Merlini asked, “Does Dunning have a key?”

Wolff nodded. “Yes. But I’ll collect it.”

“Any others?”

“No.” Wolff quickly locked the door and crossed to where the suitcase Galt had mentioned lay on the floor beside the camera tripod. He knelt, pulled it open, and began examining its contents.

I took a look at the camera. It was a Speed Graphic with synchronized flash. It was tilted back, set at f.4.5 and focused at twenty feet. Above the stair’s top step the second-floor hallway was dark.

I saw Merlini point at a row of light switches on the wall beside the gun-room door. “Will one of these give us some light in the hall up there?”

Kay nodded. “The one on the right. But Galt thinks that if it’s left dark, there’s a better chance—”

Merlini flipped the switch. Nothing happened. The darkness beyond the stairs remained as black as ever.

“Did he unscrew the bulb just to make sure?” Merlini asked.

Wolff looked up, surprised. “No. On the contrary, he put in a photoflood bulb so that he’d have plenty of light when we wanted it. It worked all right before. Someone—” Wolff started to get to his feet nervously. “Someone, Merlini finished, doesn’t like light. It looks promising. It may mean that the ghost’s appearance is guaranteed.” He turned to me. “Ross, check that camera. See if it’s ready for business. It would be too bad if, when our astral visitor appears—”

I saw the package of photographic film drop from Dudley Wolff’s fingers toward the floor, heard the quick intake of his breath, and, for a brief split second, glimpsed the terror that was on his face. My gaze jerked upward.

If speaking of the devil makes him appear, Merlini had done it. The ghost was there on the second floor beyond the balcony rail — a white blur of face and two hands floating in the dark. It was the same face Kathryn had described, thin, sharp-featured, its full lips surrounded by the thin mustache and close-cropped beard. Black eyes, like the cutout holes in a mask, stared down, fixed on Wolff. And, slowly, one hand moved, its forefinger pointing.

For a brief moment we stared soundlessly and without motion. Then, as though some invisible dam had burst, both sound and motion spilled over, rushing down upon us.

Merlini’s voice struck out at me, a thin knife-edged whisper.

“Camera, Ross! Quick!”

I brought my eyes down long enough to locate the cable release. I grabbed for it, pressed it, and then jumped. The sharp brilliant flare of the flash bulb was accompanied by a completely unexpected reverberating roar!

Then I saw the gun in Wolff’s hand kick back and saw him steady it to fire again. But, in the same instant, his target, the phantom whatever-it-was, moved, swiftly sideways to the right and vanished.

I suddenly found myself going up the stairs three steps at a time. Mr. Ghost didn’t appear to be such a healthy specimen, and my ghost-laying strategy, what I had of one, was based on the principle of the direct frontal attack.

But, when I reached the top, my next move wasn’t so obvious. The hallway to the right down which the ghost had gone was as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta. I hesitated, remembering those missing guns.

I looked back over my shoulder and saw Merlini straighten up from above Galt’s suitcase, a large electric torch in his hand. Then, as he started up the stairs toward me, from somewhere beyond the darkness that filled the second-floor corridor my ears caught the faint sound of a door closing.

A second later all hell broke loose.

It sounded as though a major power had declared war. The first shot was followed by a woman’s high shrill scream. A second report cut across that, and then after a short interval three more followed in rapid smashing succession.

I ducked instinctively, not at all sure who was being fired at and feeling very much like a clay pigeon. Merlini, at my side now, leveled his light. There was a small click as he pushed the button.

But no answering beam of light shot forth. The flash was dead.

“Somebody,” I heard him growl, “has thought of every th—”

Somewhere in the darkness ahead a doorknob rattled, a door slammed, and a faint ghostly glimmer of white moved. The crash of the gun came once again, louder this time, streaking the dark with flame.

And then at last we got light. Behind us, from the opposite end of the corridor, footsteps pounded up the back stairs and then rushed toward us behind the round bobbing eye of a pocket flash.

Galt’s voice cried, “What the hell—”

But we had no attention for him. Merlini and I were racing in the direction the ghost had gone toward the white night-robed figure that faced an open bedroom door at the hall’s end.

It was Mrs. Wolff, and the gun in her hand pointed in at the open door and spurted noise and name once again as we plunged toward her.

I grabbed her arm, twisted the gun from her grasp, and faced the doorway.

Galt’s flash sent a hesitant beam of light in through the dark.