Owls Don't Blink

Chapter Twenty-One

The plane came roaring down out of the sky, to soar along for a few feet, skimming the ground; then the wheels touched the cement runway, and the big transcontinental express glided slowly to a landing, then snarled into speed as it came up the runway and swung gracefully around in a wide pivot, stopping almost directly in front of the exit gate.

Emory G. Hale was the second one off. He was talking with a rather distinguished-looking individual who wore a close-cropped, gray mustache, half spectacles, and looked altogether too much like a banker to be a banker.

Hale seemed in a rare good humor as though he had had a wonderful trip. When he saw us he came toward us with outstretched hand, his face wreathed in his characteristic set smile.

His greeting for Bertha was hurried. Most of his attention was for me.

“Lam, I’m certainly glad to see you! I was hoping that you’d get down here to meet the plane. That’s splendid of you. Lam, I want you to meet — but pardon, me, I’m forgetting my manners. Mrs. Cool, may I present Lieutenant Pellingham of the New Orleans police force? And this is Donald Lam, Lieutenant.”

We all shook hands.

Hale seemed to be enjoying his role of master of ceremonies. “Lieutenant Pellingham is an expert on ballistics. He does most of the technical work for the New Orleans Police Department. He’s brought that gun with him, Lam. I told him that you were with me when we first discovered the weapon, that we debated whether we should call in the police at once, or wait until you had made an investigation in Los Angeles to get the exact status of the Craig murder case.”

Hale glanced significantly at me as though trying to impress upon me that this preliminary speech was my cue to follow along, and not make any contradictory statements.

I nodded at Lieutenant Pellingham, said, “I’ve already been in touch with Sergeant Rondler here in headquarters.”

“You didn’t tell him about the gun?” Hale asked.

I seemed surprised. “The gun! Why, no I understood I was simply to investigate the murder, and then if it appeared the crime had been committed with a thirty-eight caliber revolver which had never been found, I was to get in touch with you, and you were to notify the police.”

“That’s right,” Hale said, positively beaming at me. “That’s exactly the way I understood it. But,” he went on, “you were with me when I first discovered the gun there in the desk. That’s the point that Lieutenant Pellingham was interested in. He wants some corroborating evidence.”

I turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Hale was looking through the desk. There were some papers which had evidently dropped down in a partition behind a desk drawer. When we started to get them out, we discovered a revolver.”

“You can identify that revolver, of course?” Lieutenant Pellingham asked.

I said, “It was a thirty-eight, blued-steel. I’m not certain of the make of the gun. It—”

Pellingham said, “That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that you can identify the gun which you saw there.”

I looked at him blankly. “Why, I can tell you the general kind of a gun it was.”

“But you can’t tell me whether the gun I have is the same gun?”

“Of course it’s the same,” Hale said.

I hesitated; then after a moment I said, “Of course, neither one of us jotted down the serial numbers or any thing of that sort. We simply saw this gun there in the desk, but we put it back where we found it, and if Hale says it’s the same gun, that’s good enough for me.”

“Of course it’s the same gun,” Hale said. “I can assure you on that point.”

Pellingham said, “What we need is someone who can assure a jury.”

“Oh, we can do that all right,” Hale said confidently.

I said to Pellingham, “If you have this gun with you, perhaps I can identify it. If I can, it might be a good idea for me to scratch my initials on it.”

Pellingham said, “That’s an excellent idea. And when you get on the witness stand, you won’t need to tell anyone when those initials were scratched on it. Do you get me?”

“I’m not certain that I do.”

“The district attorney will simply say, ‘Mr. Lam, I show you a gun which has scratched on it the initials D.L. I’ll ask you who scratched those initials on there, if you know.’ Then you’ll say, ‘I did.’ Then the district attorney will say, ‘Why?’ and you’ll say, ‘So I could identify it.’ Then the district attorney will ask you, ‘Is this the revolver which you first saw in a desk in an apartment in New Orleans?’ and so on, and so on.”

I said “I see.”

“That’s splendid,” Hale said. “We’ll both scratch our initials on there.”

Pellingham took us over to a comer of the waiting-room. “We’ll do it right here,” he said, “because I’m going to rush right up to police headquarters, fire some test bullets, and compare them with the fatal bullet which killed young Craig.”

We watched him while he placed a light Gladstone bag on his lap, opened it, took out a small wooden box. He slid the cover back on this wooden box. Tied to the bottom by strings which went through holes bored in the wood was the .38 caliber revolver the agency had furnished me months earlier.

Hale pounced on it. “That’s the one,” he said emphatically. “That’s the one that was in there. And I’m betting ten to one it was the gun that killed this man Craig.”

“Scratch your initials on it,” Pellingham said and handed him a knife.

Hale scratched his initials on the rubber butt plate of the revolver.

Pellingham handed the gun to me.

I looked at it carefully. “I think it’s the same gun. Of course, I didn’t take down the serial number. But as nearly as I can tell—”

Hale said, “Why, Lam! Of course it’s the gun. You know that.”

“I think — well, it looks—”

Pellingham said, “Here, put your initials on it.” He handed me his knife.

Bertha was looking from the gun to me. Her face was a study. Hale was beaming.

Pellingham said, “Now you’ve identified that gun. Don’t go back on that identification, and don’t let any shyster lawyer mix you up when he comes to the cross-examination.”

The loud-speaker blared, “Telegram for Lieutenant Pellingham of New Orleans police force. Inquire at the ticket office. Lieutenant, please.”

Pellingham said, “Excuse me,” and closed the Gladstone. He went to the ticket window.

Hale said, “I’m glad you identified that gun. Lam. We should have taken the serial number when we first found it.”

Bertha said, “I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Donald.”

Hale laughed. “He’s a wise owl all right, Mrs. Cool, but even an owl blinks once in a while. This is the one slip he’s made, and—”

Bertha interrupted, looking hard at me, “Owls don’t blink.”

Pellingham came hurrying toward us, a telegram in his hand, his lips tight. “Lam, did you take a plane from Fort Worth Saturday night?”

“Why?” I asked,

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Lam. I’m going to ask you to go to headquarters with me — at once.”

I said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got other things to do. They’re important.”

“I don’t give a damn what you’ve got to do. You’re coming with me.”

“Got any authority for that?”

Pellingham’s hand dropped down to his side trousers pocket. I thought he was going to come out with a star. Instead he brought out a nickel.

“See that?” he asked. “That’s my authority.”

“Five cents’ worth?”

“No. When I drop that nickel into the coin box of a pay telephone and call police headquarters, I’ll have all the authority I need to back up anything I want to do.”

I felt Hale’s eyes burning into mine, saw Bertha’s glittering stare of intense concentration, and the fixed, cold-blooded determination of Pellingham’s gray eyes.

“Are you going to come with me now?” Pellingham asked.

I said, “Go ahead and drop your nickel,” and started for the door.

Bertha Cool and Emory Hale stood completely petrified, looking at me as though I’d dropped a mask and turned out to be a stranger.

Pellingham took it all as a matter of course. He might have been expecting that particular development in that particular way, from the minute he had opened the interview. He marched calmly and without hurry toward a telephone booth.

The agency car was outside. I jumped in it and made time. I had to make a detour to be safe, up through Burbank to Van Nuys, then down to Ventura Boulevard, then through Sepulveda to Wilshire Boulevard, and into Los Angeles that way. I knew that Pellingham would have the other roads blocked by officers and a description of the agency car out.