The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

8: A Matter of Ballistics

The taxicab roared downtown. The bag nestled comfortably at Ellery’s feet, and he nudged it every once in a while with his toe as if to reassure himself that it was there. What his thoughts were was masked by the darkness of the cab and punctuated by the orange period made by the tip of his cigaret; but the Major’s thoughts were shining clear, despite the darkness.

For not long after the machine swung into Eighth Avenue, headed downtown, he said in a light tone: “I’m pretty lucky tonight, come to think of it.”

Ellery made a polite noise.

The Major’s little laugh put froth on the thunder of the exhaust. “I usually carry an automatic — habit I haven’t been able to shake off since the War.”

“But tonight you didn’t.”

“But tonight I didn’t. That’s right.” Kirby was silent for a moment. “Don’t know what made me leave it home. Premonition?”

“You recall what Emerson had to say about intuition in his Persian Poetry!”

“Eh? No, I’m afraid not.”

Ellery sighed. “It doesn’t matter, really.”

Neither man spoke again until the cab pulled up before the dark fortress on Centre Street which was Police Headquarters.

With admirable foresight, Ellery had preceded their journey with a telephone call, so that they found a tall gangling gentleman of professorish mould, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, awaiting them in the lobby downstairs. He was dressed in rusty brown, he wore a silly-looking hat two sizes too large for his cranium, and he had the lined dry face and the lantern-jaw of Father Prohibition.

This amazing creature nodded benevolently to Ellery and uncoiled his length from a bench like a snake. “Well, sir,” he said in a cavernous roar, “what are you doing here at this time of night? I thought the Queen clan retired early.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“We’ve had a little murder at the Colosseum tonight. That’s why I called you. Sorry to get you out of bed at one in the morning, Lieutenant, but—”

“Poker game,” said the tall man dryly.

“Then there’s no harm done. Lieutenant, I want you to meet a brother-ballisticker — Major Kirby. Lieutenant Kenneth Knowles, Major, ballistics expert of the Department.”

The two experts eyed each other and shook hands.

“Let’s amble over to your office,” said Ellery impatiently. “God, this bag weighs tons! There’s work to be done.”

They repaired to Room 114, on the door of which was printed the words: Bureau of Ballistics. Lieutenant Knowles ushered them through a neat office lined with filing cabinets into a laboratory.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Ellery briskly, setting the bag down and opening it, “the problem is simple enough. I’ve asked Major Kirby, Lieutenant, to sit in on this because he’s something of a ballistics fiend himself, and two authoritative noodles are always better than one.”

The Lieutenant’s spectacles gleamed with professional interest as he saw the tumbled heap of short arms in the bag. “Glad to have the Major, of course. But what—”

“Now I,” said Ellery, “know absolutely nothing about firearms. I don’t know a — a Luger from a howitzer. I want scientific information. First take a look at this bullet.” He produced the red-coated pellet which Dr. Prouty had dug out of the dead man’s torso. “The Inspector says it’s from a .25. I want to be sure.”

The little Major and the tall Lieutenant bent over the tiny slug. “He’s right,” said Knowles instantly. “That’s from a .25 automatic pistol. Eh, Major?”

“No doubt about it. Looks like the Remington cartridge,” murmured Major Kirby. “Hmm! So this is what killed Horne, eh?”’

“I presume so. At least, that’s what the Assistant Medical Examiner excavated from his heart.” Ellery frowned. “What can you gentlemen tell me about this bullet?”

Both men laughed. “Here!” chuckled Lieutenant Knowles. “We’re not magicians. Can’t tell much from a slug without putting it under the ’scope. Lucky at that, Mr. Queen — what do you say, Major? Ever see a discharged bullet in such prime condition for microscopic examination?”

“It’s not much banged up, I’ll admit,” muttered Kirby, turning it over carefully in his fingers.

“You see,” began the police expert in his best classroom bass, “it’s not always true that an expert can ‘fingerprint’ a discharged bullet, as they say. By that I mean it isn’t always possible, due to the condition of the bullet, to get a satisfactory picture of the marks. I’ve had bullets so damn smashed and battered—”

“Yes, yes,” said Ellery quickly, “but give me a picture of this thing — a virgin picture, I mean. What’s it look like, undischarged?”

“Can’t see that that will help you,” said the Lieutenant, surprised.

“Perhaps Mr. Queen doesn’t know whether it will help or not,” suggested Major Kirby with a smile. “Why, the .25 automatic with the proper ammunition — this bullet, for instance — is loaded with fifty grains, and is metal-incased. It’s lead inside, of course, and it’s contained in a jacket of cupro-nickel. Velocity at, say, twenty-five feet would be — let’s see — seven hundred and fifty foot-seconds; energy is sixty-two footpounds...”

“Enough,” said Ellery weakly. “I can see that’s not the right tack. Let’s try it another way. Will this bullet — this .25 calibre bullet, mind you — fit anything but a .25 automatic pistol?”

“No,” said both men at once.

“Well — how about the .22 revolver?” said Ellery feebly. “That’s an even smaller arm, of course. Wouldn’t the .25—”

Lieutenant Knowles went away. When he returned he was carrying three cartridges. “Better clear this up right now,” he said. “There are very small .22’s, of course, and they use .22 ammunition, which in that case is the so-called ‘ .22 short.’ Here’s one of ’em.” He displayed a cartridge “incredibly tiny — it seemed little more than a half-inch long, and was very slender. “You couldn’t fire this baby out of a .25 automatic. Now take a look at this one.” He held up a cartridge which, while its circumference was identical with that of the tiny bullet, seemed twice as long. “This is what’s called the ‘ .22 long rifle,’” explained Lieutenant Knowles. “It’s a .22, all right, but it’s made to fit much bigger weapons. The reason for that is that lots of people who want .22 bullet results also want .38 gun ‘feel.’ The weapons in which this .22 long rifle ammunition fits are big fellows — big as .38’s, and bigger. But now take a look at this.” He exhibited the third cartridge. It was thicker than the .22 short, and shorter than the .22 long. “This is the brother of this little bullet Doc probed out of the stiff. It’s a .25 calibre automatic. It’s the only bullet, far as I know, which will fit a .25 automatic pistol. Right, Major?”

“I think so.”

“All of which means,” groaned Ellery, “that I’ve lugged my arm off for nothing.” He kicked the police bag full of weapons with viciousness. “In other words, the Horne bullet must have been shot from a .25 automatic — is that right? Couldn’t have been shot from any other type or size of arm?”

“Now you’ve got it,” said the Lieutenant with a grin, and he dug his right hand inside his coat. It whipped out with a blue-shining little pistol, flat as Tommy Black’s hips, and so small that it nestled quite comfortably in the palm of Knowles’s large hand. “Only four and a half inches long,” he said with a smacking of his lips, “two-inch barrel, weighs thirteen ounces, magazine holds six husky little cartridges — slide lock safety, grip safety — why, this little Colt’s a beauty! Always carry one. Want a look at it? Your murderer carried one just like it, Mr. Queen!”

Ellery reached for it eagerly. “Uuuump!” said the Lieutenant with a grin. “Wait ’til I pull the teeth out of my pet. Fellow like you’s liable to plug me in the kishkes.” He pulled out the magazine, dumped the six cartridges into his hand, and removed the seventh cartridge from the firing chamber. Then he replaced the magazine and handed the weapon to Ellery.

“Ah,” said Ellery, and hefted the pistol cautiously. It felt a little heavier than he had expected it to, but it was still feather-light in comparison with the official revolvers he had been accustomed to seeing and, on occasion, handling. It snuggled in his palm very cosily. “I wonder why,” he muttered half to himself, “our man used this in preference to a bigger and more effective weapon?”

Unexpectedly, the Major chuckled. “More effective? I say, Mr. Queen, you don’t realize what that little jigger you’re holding is capable of. You could shoot right through a two-inch board with this thing at a very respectable distance!”

“Let alone soft human flesh,” muttered Ellery. “So that’s it. Not effectiveness. Then convenience. Small...” He returned the pistol to the police expert and gazed raptly at his pince-nez. “Well!” He returned the glasses to his nose. “One question more before we dig into this bag. How long would it take to empty the magazine, firing at top speed?”

“I’ve done it in two and a half seconds, and it was a rusty old stop-watch at that,” boomed Lieutenant Knowles.

“Two and a half seconds!” Ellery whistled, and momentarily grew thoughtful again. “Then we find the trail of our old friend the expert marksman again. One shot sufficed, eh... Very well, gentlemen. Let’s see what Santa Claus has brought us.”

He squatted on the floor and began tossing revolvers out of the bag. The Lieutenant and the Major watched him in silence. And when the bag was empty Ellery looked up at them, and they looked down at him, and none of the three said a word for some minutes.

Then simultaneously they looked at the floor. Ellery had separated automatics from revolvers. And in the pile of revolvers there were forty-four long-barreled weapons, and in the “pile” of automatics there was no pile at all, for only one weapon lay there — a lonely little exhibit. Ellery scanned the tag attached to the trigger-guard. It read: Ted Lyons.

Still in silence he scrabbled through the pile of cartridges. And he found no .25 calibre automatic bullets at all.

“Well, well,” he said softly as he rose. “Not much grist in the mill. Apparently our friend the mongering newspaperman was the only occupant of the arena proper who carried a weapon capable of having fired the bullet which killed Horne. I suppose there’s nothing to do but test Lyon’s automatic.”

Ellery strolled about, humming a mournful tune, as Lieutenant Knowles, assisted by Major Kirby, prepared to test the single suspect weapon. The Lieutenant busied himself setting up a peculiar-looking target of unknown substance on the firing-range; then he and the Major retired to a far corner of the room, conferring earnestly as Knowles examined the seven cartridges in Ted Lyons’s pistol.

“Not blanks.” Then the Lieutenant said: “I’m a rotten shot, Major. Want to pot that target?”

“Don’t mind,” replied Kirby, and taking up a position some twenty feet from the target pointed the small weapon and almost negligently squeezed the trigger. A continuous, deafening report raised by the echoes in the little laboratory made Ellery jump. By the time Ellery came to his senses the little man was smiling, some acrid-smelling smoke was drifting off, and the target looked like Swiss cheese.

“Nice work, Major,” said Knowles admiringly. “Sprayed ’em in a circle, eh? That will give us a number of specimens. Let’s get busy.”

He strode back from the target, juggling half a dozen spent bullets which were swathed in black greasy coats. He looked at them keenly when he got to the table. “Let’s test these babies.”

He removed his coat, waved Ellery into a chair, and then occupied himself with a very simple business. There was a familiar instrument on the work-table which had some curiously unfamiliar features. It seemed to be an unusual type of microscope.

“Companion ’scope,” he explained. “Got a double comparison eye-piece, as you can see. You know this dingus, Major?”

Kirby nodded. “Quite well. I used one for some time in the army, and I’ve one at home for my own amusement.”

Ellery watched the two men anxiously. The blood-coated bullet Lieutenant Knowles bathed in a solution, and then rubbed gently dry. It emerged quite clean; it was leaden in color. He studied it under the microscope for some time; and then he raised his head and motioned Major Kirby to the eye-piece.

“Beautiful markings!” exclaimed the Major, looking up. “It certainly won’t be any trouble matching those marks to a comparison specimen, Lieutenant!”

“Maybe not. Now let’s see how these bullets you just fired stack up,” said Knowles briskly; and he busied himself again with the microscope. The fatal bullet remained where it was; but the six shot into the target a few moments before succeeded each other in slow order. There was much to-do with screws and careful turnings of the new specimens; both men conferred frequently, and the Major checked each of the Lieutenant’s findings. And at the end they nodded with solemn certainty, and Knowles turned to Ellery with an air of finality.

“There’s nothing certain but death and taxes, they say! Well, here’s one thing sure, Mr. Queen — the bullet that killed your man didn’t come from this fellow Lyons’s automatic. Don’t even have to use the universal molecular. The marks haven’t anything in common.”

Ellery digested this for a moment, then got to his feet and began to pace the floor. “Hmm. Nice to find one example of fixation in a wavering world. By the way, I suppose you’re both absolutely sure?”

“No question about it, Mr. Queen,” said Major Kirby earnestly. “When we can arrive at a conclusion at all, you may be sure it’s the right one. This matter of checking fired bullets is now pretty much of an exact science. You see, all modern arms are rifled — I suppose you know what that means. The inside of the barrel is — well, you might almost describe it as etched spirally. The .25 automatic’s barrel has six grooves and six lands in a left-hand twist — it sounds complicated, but it’s really very simple. There’s a spiral, or twist, which runs from end to end of the barrel inside, cut into the metal; the depressions made by the cutting are called the grooves, the raised spirals of metal left by the cutting are called the lands. Six of each, as I say. Now there are always minute differences in lands which are visible under the microscope. Naturally, when the bullet on firing passes through the barrel, it spins through the grooves, and the marks of the lands are left on the bullet...”

“I see. And by putting two bullets under the microscope you can see if the markings are similar or dissimilar?”

“That’s right,” said the Lieutenant. “You focus the two specimens until they merge into one — or seem to; you see the left side of each slap against the other; then it’s easy to see if all the markings match, or if they don’t.”

“And these don’t?”

“And these don’t.”

Whatever Ellery in the helplessness of the moment was about to say was choked back by an unexpected interruption. A tall, burly individual hurried into the laboratory, carrying a small bag.

“Ah, Ritter!” said Ellery eagerly. “More guns?”

The detective dumped the bag on the work-table. “From the Inspector, Mr. Queen. Sent ’em down with me — on the run. Found ’em, he said to tell you, on people from the audience.”

And he disappeared.

Ellery opened the bag with shaking fingers. “Jerusalem, a ten-strike!” he cried, taking out the weapons. “Look at these — at least a dozen automatics!”

There were, to be exact, fourteen automatics. Of the fourteen — each was tagged with its bearer’s name and address — four were of .25 calibre, the small four-and-a-half-inch weapons with which they were concerned. There were three revolvers in the batch as well; but to these they paid no attention.

Major Kirby and Lieutenant Knowles retired to the firing-range again, and for some time the resonant reports thundered through the office as they shot bullets into the target. They returned with four tagged bullets, each from one of the .25 automatics in the batch Ritter had brought from the Colosseum. These went under the lens of the comparison microscope one by one, and for some time there were no sounds but the intakes of breath in the laboratory.

And at the conclusion of the tests Ellery did not even have to ask the verdict. It was clear from the two experts’ scowls that not one of the four bullets examined matched the bullet which had killed Buck Horne.

There was a note at the bottom of the bag. It said:

“El: Some popguns found on the mob. Sending ’em all along, though it’s a cinch we want only .25’s. Not half-through with this crowd. Would you believe so many birds here tonight came heeled? More later — if I find them.”

It was signed by Inspector Queen.

“Lieutenant, will you stick around?” asked Ellery with desperate calm as he regarded the litter of weapons.

“You mean there’ll be more? All right; I guess I can scare up a poker game with some of the boys. Good night, Major; it’s been a pleasure. Give me a ring one of these days; I’ve got a private collection of firearms I’d like to show you some time.”

“You have?” cried Kirby. “I’ve got a little collection of my own, you know! What’s your oldest arm?”

“An 1840—”

Ellery grasped the Major’s elbow. “Come along, now, Major,” he said soothingly. “You may play with the nice Lieutenant some other time. At the moment urgent business calls us back to the Colosseum.”