The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

9: Nothing

It was past three when Ellery and the Major returned to the Colosseum — past three of one of the darkest nights Ellery could recall.

“There’s no moon, so we can’t yodel that ancient rallying call: ‘There’s blood on the moon!’” Ellery remarked as they pushed by a detective he knew. “Give me good old darkness every time as the proper setting for a murder.”

“It’s light enough in here,” said Major Kirby dryly.

It was light enough, to be sure, to illuminate a very odd scene. The spectacle of unrestrained mass anger can be terrible; but there is nothing quite so depressing as the spectacle of mass resentment held in check by authority. The auditorium of the Colosseum was thunderous with silent rage. Few faces did not glare sullenly; and those that were meek were horribly tired. If this was the most stupendous reconnaissance in the history of modern policing, it was also the most disagreeable. If looks could kill, there would have been two hundred officers and plainclothesmen stretched out stark and cold on the floors.

As it was, the search of the twenty thousand proceeded quietly, rapidly — and fruitlessly.

Ellery and Major Kirby found Inspector Queen — fatigued but imperturbable — presiding like Napoleon over the forces of investigation from a small table which had been set throne-like in the center of the arena. Reports came to him in an unending stream. At the innumerable exits detectives passed members of the audience from hand to hand until the exhausted and harried citizen found himself, somewhat dazed, on the sidewalk outside the building. Matrons summoned hastily from nearby precincts pawed over the women. Occasionally a man would be singled out of line, searched more thoroughly, and finally turned back to the arena under escort. Once the object of this special attention was a woman. These ephemeral celebrities were promptly brought up before the Inspector, who questioned them and had them more thoroughly searched. It was from this small but select group that the artillery which Detective Ritter had brought downtown to Headquarters had come; they were “suspicious characters,” members of the underworld in good standing, with whose face every detective and officer of the police force was thoroughly familiar.

“Amazing,” remarked the Major as they waited for the Inspector to conclude his interrogation of a brawny creature with sleepy eyes, “how many kinds of people a representative crowd like this will turn up.”

“How many kinds of crooks,” murmured Ellery, “and heaven alone knows how many kinds of murderers... ’Lo, dad! We’re back.”

The Inspector rose quickly. “Well,” he said with soft eagerness, “did you find anything?”

“Did you?”

The old man shrugged. “Nothing. Plenty of rodmen here tonight. Whole town’s here, by damn. But—” He waved his hands helplessly. “There’s another pile of guns waiting for examination. Is Knowles waiting downtown?”

“Yes. Any .25 automatics in the bunch?”

“One or two.”

“Send them down to Knowles; he has the bullet and he’s prepared to work all night if necessary.”

“I’ll wait until we’ve cleaned out this crew. Well, son, well! I asked you if you found anything!”

“Will you excuse me, Major?” murmured Ellery, turning to the silent companion.

“Certainly.”

“You might be good enough to stand by,” said Ellery. “It’s possible we may need you—”

“Glad to help.” Kirby turned on his heel and walked off.

“Nothing doing, dad,” said Ellery in a rapid undertone. “Knowles and Kirby made it clear that only a .25 automatic could have fired the bullet. But not one of these cowboys had a .25; forty-four of the forty-five weapons were .44’s, 45’s, and .38’s. The forty-fifth was the automatic Velie took from Ted Lyons. But comparison tests showed that it hadn’t fired the fatal shot.”

“So,” grunted the old man.

“Another interesting fact Knowles dug out for me before I left h.q. With the exception of Wild Bill’s revolver and the three guns Lyons had on him, all the guns taken from the rodeo crowd had been fired just once a piece — presumably therefore during that single fusillade at the moment Horne toppled from the saddle.”

“All loaded with blanks?”

“Yes. Of course, there’s the theoretical possibility that the single cartridge missing in each instance might have been a lethal bullet rather than a blank, but that doesn’t help us because none of them is a .25. Grant’s revolver has three cartridges missing; that corresponds with the number of signal-shots he fired from the center of the arena before the murder, as I remember it; and here, too, there’s no possibility that his gun fired the fatal shot, because his is a .45. As for Lyons, neither his own automatic nor the two large-calibre guns he swiped from the armory had been fired at all — Have you examined the armory?”

“Yep,” said the Inspector gloomily. “Nothing doing.”

“Not a single .25 automatic?”

“Not one.”

“Well, but good Lord!” cried Ellery in an exasperated tone, “this is ridiculous. That automatic must be here somewhere. It can’t have got away. The place has been kept tighter than a drum-head since the instant of the murder.”

“Maybe we’ll turn it up in the crowd before we’re through.”

Ellery sucked a fingernail; then he rubbed his forehead wearily. “No. I don’t believe that will happen. Too easy. There’s something remarkably queer — and, yes, remarkably clever, too — about this, dad. I have the distinct feeling...” He blinked suddenly, and then began to polish the lenses of his pince-nez. “Hmm. There’s a thought... You’re staying on here, of course?” he said abruptly.

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I’m not! I’ve just remembered. There’s something I must do.”

“Must do?”

“Yes. Must have a peep at Buck Horne’s room in the Barclay.”

“Oh.” The old man seemed disappointed. “I’ve been leaving that. Have to do it, of course. I’ve sent Johnson up to watch the place. But there’s nothing special—”

“Indeed, there’s something very special up there,” replied Ellery grimly, “and I intend to see it before the hour’s up.”

The Inspector studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. “All right. But make it snappy. Maybe I’ll be through with the mob by the time you get back. Want Thomas to go alone?”

“No— Yes, come to think of it! And... before I go. Dad, I want Kit Horne with me, too.”

“The girl? She hasn’t been searched yet.”

“Then attend to it.”

“And the rest of ’em in the Mars box, too. Including Mars,” said the Inspector; and they quickly crossed to the southeastern part of the oval. The brave gaiety of hours before was quite washed out of them; the occupants of the Mars box for the most part sat in a rubbled silence, in attitudes of tired dejection. The only calm person there was the irrepressible Djuna; and he was calm because he was fast asleep in his chair.

The Inspector said: “I’m sorry, folks, but you can’t go yet. Miss Horne—”

There were welts under her eyes. “Yes?” she said dully.

“Would you mind coming down here?”

They roused themselves at that; and in Mara Gay’s eyes there seemed to be a kindling fire.

“And Mr. Grant, too — you, Curly,” said Ellery pleasantly.

Wild Bill and his son, both in the box, stared and regarded Ellery hopefully. Then Curly sprang to his feet, vaulted the rail, and held up his arms for Kit. She followed him without effort, her skirts describing a graceful parabola as she dropped to the tanbark; she landed with a little thump in Curly’s arms, and remained there for the fraction of a second. Young Lochinvar seemed loath to relinquish his fragrant armful; her hair tickled his nostrils and made them oscillate like tendrils in a breeze. But Kit disengaged herself gently and said to the Inspector: “Whatever it is — I’m ready.”

“It’s nothing much, Miss Horne. I’m just sending you back to your hotel. But before you go — to keep the records straight, y’know; somebody might have slipped it to you without your knowing — you’ll have to be searched like the rest.”

She flared up suddenly. “You think I...” Then she smiled and shook her head. “Of course. Anything.”

They moved in a group toward one of the small exits. At a signal from the Inspector Sergeant Velie fell into step behind them, and an Amazonian matron who, from her physique, might have mothered every 200-pound policeman on the force.

In one of the small rooms below, the matron — duly admonished to be gentle if thorough — searched Kit; in an adjoining room Sergeant Velie performed a similar service for Curly. The young couple were out in a matter of minutes; form had been “satisfied”; nothing at all incriminating — let alone the .25 automatic pistol which persisted in remaining elusive — had been found on them.

The Inspector escorted them to the main entrance. There they paused, and Ellery whispered: “You’re shipping the others off soon?”

“Yep. I’ll have them frisked right away.”

“Be very careful, dad, please! And — Really, you ought to send Djuna home. The poor tyke’s had enough excitement for one evening. He’ll be ill tomorrow.”

“I’ll send him home with Piggott or somebody.”

“And — keep Grant here until I return.”

“Grant, eh?” The Inspector nodded. “All right.”

Their eyes met. “Well — good huntin’,” said the Inspector.

“It’s bound to be good,” murmured Ellery. “Ah — by the way, you might release Major Kirby after another search. Just to be on the safe side, you know. I don’t think we’ll need him any more tonight, with Knowles holding down the fort at h.q.”

“Sure, sure,” muttered the old man absently. He took snuff with a marked degree of weariness in the gesture. “Y’know, there’s been somethin’ bothering me all night, son. What the dickens did you mean earlier tonight when you told Grant there was somethin’ missing from Horne’s body?”

Ellery threw back his head and gave an exhibition of silent mirth. “Lord, what an eternally surprising old coot you are, dad! Leave it to you to ask the right question at the right time.”

“Quit stallin’,” growled the Inspector. “What was it?”

Ellery stopped laughing and descended into a vast earthy calm. He tapped a cigaret slowly on his thumbnail. “It’s really very clear. Did you notice the pistol belt Horne was wearing?”

“Yes?”

“How many holsters hung from the belt?”

“Why, one... No, bedad, two!”

“Correct. Yet there was only one revolver on him; one holster then had no revolver. Query: Why does a man wear an old and treasured belt equipped with two holsters and still carry only one revolver? And that revolver also an old and treasured specimen?”

“There must be another one,” said the Inspector with an expression of surprise. “That’s right, by jiminy! Wouldn’t be surprised if it was a mate to that fancy ivory-handled rod we found in his hand.”

“I know it’s a mate,” murmured Ellery, and stepped abruptly out upon the sidewalk to rejoin Kit, Curly and Sergeant Velie.

The night air chilled the marrow. The Inspector watched them step to the curb. He watched a hawking taxicab dart up, and the four get in. He watched Ellery’s lips, and watched the cab shoot down Eighth Avenue. He stood there watching, in fact, long after there was anything left to see.