The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

10: The Second Gun

Johnson, the detective Inspector Queen had detailed to guard Buck Horne’s room at the Hotel Barclay — a small, drab-looking, grizzled man with the air of the bona-fide shopkeeper and the eyes of a ferret — opened the door very wide and abruptly at Ellery’s knock. He lost his tense expression at sight of Ellery, grinned, and fell back. They trooped in, and Sergeant Velie closed the door.

“Anything doin’, Johnson?” rumbled the Sergeant.

“Nope. I was just thinking of taking off my shoes and havin’ a nap when Mr. Queen broke up my beauty-sleep.”

Kit went mechanically to a chintz-covered chair and sat down. She did not take off her gloves or coat. Curly, an overcoat over his Western clothes, dropped heavily on the bed. Neither spoke.

It was a large room, characterless in the typical hotel fashion, with a bed and two chairs and a dresser and a wardrobe and a night-table.

Ellery smiled at Sergeant Velie, said: “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Horne,” stripped off his light overcoat, pitched his hat on the bed, and went to work.

Johnson and Velie watched him in a sort of boredom.

It was a matter of moments, so swiftly did he search. The wardrobe with Horne’s clothes hanging neatly inside — city suits, an extra coat, two Stetson hats; the drawers of the dresser, which contained few and innocent articles; the drawer of the night-table. He straightened up thoughtfully; then regarded Kit with an apologetic grin.

“Mind if I go through your room, Miss Horne?”

Curly made a warlike movement. “Say, you, I don’t like—”

“Curly,” said Kit. “Not at all, Mr. Queen. Go right ahead. If I knew what you’re looking for—”

“It’s really not important,” said Ellery quickly, going to the door of the communicating bathroom and opening it. Whatever he was mumbling was drowned in the closing of the door as he stepped through the bathroom into Kit’s bedroom. He was back in three minutes, wearing a puzzled frown.

“It certainly should be... Ah, the bed of course!” and he dropped to his knees beside Curly’s startled legs and peered underneath the bed. Then he reached far under and pulled; emerging after a moment, flushed but triumphant, with a small flat theatrical-type trunk at the end of his arm.

This he dragged to the center of the floor and opened without ceremony. A moment’s rummaging, and he straightened up with a savage gleam in his eye. He was holding in his right hand a revolver.

“Oh, that!” exclaimed Kit. “Why didn’t you tell me you were looking for the other gun, Mr. Queen? I would have known—”

“So you didn’t know,” said Ellery slowly, looking at the weapon.

A faint wrinkle appeared between her candid brows. “Why, no, I didn’t. I didn’t really notice in — in all the excitement. I took it for granted that he had both guns on him. But—”

“Was it his custom always to carry the two guns, Miss Horne?” Ellery asked dreamily.

“He didn’t have a hard and fast rule about it,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “He was notoriously careless, Buck, was. Sometimes he took both, and sometimes he took one. I remember seeing both in that drawer of the trunk just two or three days ago. He must have taken only one with him tonight — last night. Oh, I’m so confused, so tired...”

“Reasonable enough,” agreed Ellery. “Relax, Miss Horne; it’s been a hard few hours... Doesn’t it strike you as strange that while he took only one revolver of the pair with him, he still retained both holsters?”

She looked at him, startled; and then to his amazement began to laugh. “Mr. Queen!” she gasped; her laughter was tinged with hysteria. “I can see you don’t know much about Western doodads. And you didn’t examine the belt very carefully. Many, if not most, pistol belts have detachable holsters; but this one of — of Buck’s was specially made. You can’t help taking the two holsters along, you see; unless you leave the belt behind, too.”

“Oh,” said Ellery, flushing a little; and he bent his head to examine the revolver he had found.

It was an ivory-handled .45 single-action Colt, obviously and beyond question the twin of the revolver found clutched in the dead man’s hand. Its long barrel was as delicately chased, and its cylinder, as the mate; and the cunning little patches of ivory inlaid on the sides of the butt were carved in a similar steer’s-head design, sporting in the center of each an oval monogrammed H. The ivory inlays were worn and yellow, showing the same great age as those of the twin, except for one small patch on the left side of the butt; as Ellery held the revolver in his right hand, this portion of lighter ivory came between the tips of his curled fingers and the heel of his hand. The tip of the barrel and the upper edge of the sight were both rubbed smooth, as in the case of the first revolver.

“Seems as well-used and old as the other,” muttered Ellery absently, and there was a glint in his eyes which was drowned out when he saw Sergeant Velie pounce forward and Curly’s coiled figure spring from the bed.

Then he heard a wild sobbing. It was Kit — that Peerless Cowgirl of the Plains, Heroine of Countless Action Melodramas, Dauntless Daredevil of the West... She was weeping with unashamed abandon, and her back heaved convulsively as she sobbed into her tear-dampened hands.

“Here, here, we can’t have any of that,” cried Ellery, tossing the revolver on the bed and darting forward. He was held back by a long hard arm attached to Curly’s muscular shoulder; and even the Sergeant submitted to superior wisdom and stepped back. Curly took the little wet brown hands from the little wet brown face and whispered what must have been magical words in Kit’s ears; for in a remarkably short time the heavings became less frequent, the sobs came more gently, and finally ceased altogether. Curly, frowning to conceal his pleasure, returned to his perch on the bed.

She sniffled three times and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m — I’m so sorry. Wasn’t that s-s-silly of me? Crying like a baby! I didn’t realize how much I—” She tucked the handkerchief away and looked into Ellery’s concerned eyes. “I’m quite all right now, Mr. Queen. I beg your pardon for making a scene.”

“I... uh—” said Ellery fluently, and blushed. Then he picked up the revolver. “There’s no doubt,” he said with severity, “of the fact that this was Buck Horne’s gun?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not the slightest.”

“And it is, of course, the mate of the one we found in the arena?”

She looked unhappy. “I... I didn’t notice which one he had, but I suppose it was — was the other.”

“He had more than two revolvers?” snapped Ellery.

“Oh, no. I mean—”

“You’re confused,” said Ellery gently. “Do you know, Mr. Grant?”

“Shore do,” growled Curly. “Why don’t you leave the poor kid alone? That’s one of Buck’s two prize shooters. Had ’em twenty years or more. Pop’s often tole me they were given to Buck by some ole Injun fighter — made up special for Buck, initials an’ all. Some irons!” Enthusiasm leaped into his voice; he took the revolver from Ellery and hefted it appreciatively. “Feel the weight of that, Queen. Perfect, huh? No wonder Buck wouldn’t part with ’em — used ’em all the time. He was a crack shot — you’ve heard that — an’ he was finicky as Annie Oakley ’bout the hang of ’em. That’s why he liked these so; they were plumb perfect in balance for ’is hands.”

Johnson, from his corner, rolled his eyes eloquently and turned away with a faint groan. Sergeant Velie shuffled his primeval feet. Even Kit looked askance at the orator. But Ellery seemed extraordinarily interested.

“Go on,” he murmured. “That’s very curious.”

“Go on?” Curly was surprised. “Ain’t nothin’ else to—”

“Isn’t,” said Kit mechanically; and they both colored. Ellery turned a humorous back upon them as he bent again over the revolver.

Employing a device which had served him in the past — a pencil wrapped in a silk handkerchief — he swabbed the interior of the eight-inch barrel thoroughly. The handkerchief emerged with nothing more suspicious than dust-specks, and remarkably few of these. But there was a generous oil-stain.

“Recently cleaned,” he observed to no one in particular.

Kit nodded soberly. “That’s not at all remarkable, Mr. Queen. Buck prized those weapons as if they were relics of his sainted mother. Cleaned them both nearly every day.”

Ellery broke open the cylinder and peered into the cartridge chambers. The gun was not loaded. He rummaged in the trunk drawer again and found a box of cartridges. They were .45 calibre bullets — wicked-looking things almost two inches long. He hesitated, then returned the box of shells to the drawer; but the weapon he pocketed.

“Nothing else here, I think,” he observed cheerfully. “Sergeant, you might go over the ground again to make sure I’ve missed no significant papers or things. But there is one thing more I’m going to do before I leave here, by Joe, and I intend doing that at once.”

He smiled and went to the telephone on the night-table. “Is this the hotel operator? Connect me with the desk, please... Night-clerk? Were you on duty yesterday evening?... Fine. Please come up to 841. This is — well, police business.”

Sergeant Velie had just reported no luck in his ransacking of the room when there was a knock on the door, and Johnson opened it to reveal a badly frightened young man who wore the inevitable badge of servitude in his lapel, a carnation.

“Come in,” said Ellery heartily. “You say you were on duty yesterday evening. At what time do you come on?”

“Uh — at seven, sir!”

“Ah, at seven! How very fortunate. You’ve heard the news, I take it?”

The young man visibly shrank. “Y-yes, sir. About Mr. ... Mr. Horne. Frightful.” He glanced fearfully at Kit out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, now,” said Ellery expansively, “naturally we’re interested in possible visitors to Mr. Horne’s room during the past few days. Might give us a lead, you know. Were there any?”

Vanity being appealed to, the gentleman responded in the customary manner. He assumed a frowning air, scratched his forehead delicately with the tip of a womanish fingernail, and then the sun rose in his cheeks.

He exclaimed: “Yes, sir! Yes, I think... There was someone night before last, sir!”

“At what time?” asked Ellery quietly. Kit was very still, hands folded in her lap, and Curly did not stir on the bed.

“Oh, about half-past ten, sir. I—”

“Please. One moment.” Ellery turned to Kit. “What time did you say you returned to the Barclay night before last, Miss Horne?”

“Did I say? I don’t think — I said I got in late and found Buck already asleep. That’s true, Mr. Queen. I got in past midnight. I’d been out with Mr. Grant.”

“Mr. Curly Grant?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Curly Grant, who seemed to have something wrong with his throat, growled again.

“Go on, please,” said Ellery to the clerk. “There was a visitor at ten-thirty. And?”

“Mr. Horne entered the lobby about nine o’clock, sir, got his key at the desk — that’s how I know — and, I suppose, went upstairs. At ten-thirty a man stopped at the desk and asked for the number of Mr. Horne’s room. A man — I think it was a man, sir.”

“What d’ye mean — you think it was a man?” growled Sergeant Velie in his first oral contribution in some time. “Don’t you know the facts of life yet? Can’t you tell a man from a woman, or was there somethin’ queer about the guy?”

The clerk exhibited terror again. “N-no, sir, I don’t recollect anything but the — well, the vaguest kind of picture. You see, I was busy...”

“Can’t you recall anything of his appearance?” snapped Ellery.

“Oh, sir, he was sort of tall, I think, and big, and—”

“And?”

The clerk fell back against the door. “I can’t remember, sir,” he said feebly.

“Oh, botheration!” murmured Ellery. “Well! I suppose it can’t be helped.” Then hope glittered again in his eye. “Wasn’t one of your colleagues at the desk with you who might have noticed this man?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not. I was alone at the time behind the desk.”

Sergeant Velie grumbled his disgust, and Ellery shrugged. “What else?”

“Why, I told him: ‘Mr. Horne’s in 841,’ and he picked up the house phone and talked. I heard him mention Mr. Horne’s first name in addressing him, and then I think he said: ‘I’ll be right up, Buck,’ and he went away.”

“First name? Hmm. That’s interesting. Went upstairs? To this room?” Ellery gnawed his upper lip. “But of course you wouldn’t know. Thank you. And please don’t mention this to a soul, man. That’s a command.”

The clerk backed out precipitately.

Ellery nodded to Sergeant Velie and to Johnson. “Ah... Miss Horne, we’ll leave you alone now. I hope I haven’t given you too bad a time. But it’s really been most helpful. Come along, boys.”

“I’m stayin’,” announced Curly defiantly.

“Please do, Curly,” whispered Kit. “I...I don’t feel like being alone. I don’t want to sleep...”

“I know, kid,” he muttered, and patted her hand.

Ellery and the two detectives silently left the room.

“Now, Johnson,” said Ellery with a snap, “don’t disturb those love-birds in there, and mind you keep an eye on both doors. You’ll have to park in the corridor all the rest of the night, I’m afraid. If there’s any irregularity call the Inspector at the Colosseum. He’ll send a relief soon.”

And Ellery tucked his arm between the Sergeant’s steer-like side and the Sergeant’s bludgeon-like arm, and the two men marched off like half of the four Musketeers.