The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

22: The Vanishing American

“Where are we going?” gasped the Inspector as Ellery hustled him across Broadway, westbound.

“The Colosseum... No. by Jove, it’s like a fairytale... Now I know!”

But the Inspector was too occupied matching his little hopping steps to Ellery’s hungry stride to ask what his son knew.

The Colosseum, closed on two counts — Sunday and the police ban — seemed lively enough despite the handicaps. Guarded by detectives who were under strict orders, there was nevertheless no ukase against accessibility; the Queens learned at once that most of the troupe were in the building somewhere, and that Grant himself had come in not an hour before. Ellery steered the Inspector toward the nether regions.

Then they visited the great amphitheatre. It was empty.

They made a round of the dressing rooms. Members in good standing were present and accounted for, for the most part dawdling, smoking, and making conversation.

Ellery Queen found Mr. Hank (Dan’l) Boone in a dressing room cloudy with smoke and redolent of whisky.

“Boone!” cried Ellery from the doorway. “Want to see you.”

“Huh?” croaked the little cowboy; and Wearily swung about. “Oh. Th’— th’ sheriff, b’jinks. C-come on in, sheriff. Have li’l snifter?”

“Go on along, Dan’l,” growled one of the cowboys. “An’ don’t be drunker’n ya have to.”

So Boone tottered obediently to his feet and waddled to the door. “Sheriff, I’m yore man,” he said with gravity. “’Portant?”

“Might be,” smiled Ellery. “Come along, Boone. I’ve a number of nice bright questions to ask you.”

Boone wagged his head and staggered along by Ellery’s side. The Inspector stood waiting for them at a turn of the corridor.

“How well,” asked Ellery quietly, “do you recall the night Buck Horne was shot?”

“My Gawd!” exclaimed Boone. “You startin’ that all over ag’in? Mister, I’ll never forget it long’s I live!”

“Oh, one month suits me perfectly. Now you remember Inspector Queen ordered you to take care of the horses after Horne was shot — in the arena, I mean?”

“Shore do.” Boone was wary now, and his little blood-flecked eyes flickered from Ellery to the Inspector and back again. He seemed strangely uneasy.

“Do you recall exactly what happened?”

Boone wiped his unsteady chin with vague fingers. “Seems like I do,” he muttered. “Took the horses to water, an’— an’—”

“And what?”

“Why, jes’ took the hosses to water.”

“Oh, no,” smiled Ellery. “There was something more than that.”

“Was there?” Boone scraped his jaw. “Now ain’t that a — Saaay! Shore, shore! One o’ the hosses — piebald stallion, ’twas — got ornery, the critter! Wouldn’t dip ’is muzzle. I had to whack him one acrost th’ flanks.”

“Ah. And what happened then?”

“One o’ the waddies, he run up an’ took the whup away from me.”

“Why?”

“Musta been a mite pie-eyed,” mumbled Boone. “Never oughten to whup a hoss, Mister. An’ that was a danged fine animal — Injun, ’twas. Buck Horne’s ole trick movie hoss. Miller, he—”

“Oh, Miller was the cowboy who took the quirt away from you?”

“Yeah, Benjy Miller. New hand — feller with the gosh-awful burn on ’is whiskers. He was ridin’ Injun that night. Buck was up on Kit Horne’s Rawhide. Felt sorrier’n a cock-eyed cow in pasture with two crops o’ clover to nibble at an’ not a way o’ tellin’ which was the sweeter-lookin’. Mister,” mourned Boone, “I never done that before, whuppin’ a good hoss...”

“Yes, yes,” said Ellery absently. “You were upset. Be kind to animals, and all that. Are the rodeo horses always kept in the stables in this building?”

“Hey? Naw. Stables here ’re fer the show. Keep the hosses in th’ buildin’ jest b’fore, durin’, an’ after the show fer shoein’, rabbin’ down, an’ so on,” said Boone. “After th’ shows we take ’em over to that big liv’ry stable on Tenth Avenoo for beddin’ down.”

“I see. By the way, where’s Miller? Have you seen him today?”

“He’s aroun’ some’eres. See’m on’y a couple hours ago. I—”

“Fine, old timer. Thanks a lot. Come along, dad,” and Ellery hastened off with the Inspector, leaving Dan’l Boone staring wordlessly after them.

A number of members of the troupe had seen and spoken to Miller that day, it turned out, but the man was not to be found. He had actually come into the Colosseum with a group of the others, but after a time had dropped out of sight.

The Queens repaired to Wild Bill Grant’s office above, and found the showman in scowling contemplation of his feet on the desk. He looked at them sourly when they came in.

“Well,” he growled, “what the hell’s eatin’ you now?”

“The hunger for a little information, Mr. Grant,” said Ellery affably. “Have you seen that man Miller in the last few minutes?”

Grant started, then sank back and sucked at a cigar. “Who?”

“Miller. Benjy Miller. Chap with the scarred face.”

“Oh, him.” Grant stretched his thick arms slowly. “Saw him aroun’ t’day,” he said with indifference. “Why?”

“Have you any idea where he is now?” asked Ellery.

Grant lost his air of indifference. He swung his feet to the floor, and frowned heavily. “What’s the big idea? Why all this sudden int’rest in my troupe, Mr. Queen?”

“Only in Miller, I assure you,” smiled Ellery. “Well, well, sir, where is he?”

Grant hesitated. His eyes shifted. “Don’t know,” he said finally.

Ellery glanced at his father, who began to show signs of interest. “Do you know,” murmured Ellery, settling back comfortably in a chair and crossing his legs, “I’ve been intending to ask you something for a long time now. But it slipped my mind until a few minutes ago. Mr. Grant, how well did Miller know Buck Horne?”

“Well? Well?” growled Grant. “How the tin-horn devil should I know? Never saw the critter b’fore in my whole life. Buck recommended him, an’ that’s all I c’n tellya.”

“How do you know Buck recommended him? On Miller’s say-so?”

Grant broke into a savage chuckle. “Hell, no. I’m no pilgrim, man. He give me a note from Buck, that’s how I know.”

The Inspector started. “A note from Horne!” he shrieked. “Why in the name of a merciful God didn’t you tell us that a month ago? Why, you said—”

“Tell you?” Grant bunched his chaparral brows. “Ya didn’t ask. I said he come from Buck, an’ I tole no lie. Didn’t ask for no note, did ya? I—”

“Well, well,” murmured Ellery hastily, “let’s not wrangle over it. Have you that note about anywhere, Mr. Grant?”

“In m’duds somewhere,” said Grant, beginning to poke about in his pockets. “I know I — Here ’tis! There, read that,” he growled, tossing a crumpled sheet of paper across his desk, an’ see if I put anythin’ over on you.”

They read the note. It was written in blotty ink on a piece of Hotel Barclay stationery, in a wide windy scrawl. It ran:

“That Horne’s fist, Grant?” demanded the Inspector suspiciously.

“Sure is.”

“You’d swear to it?”

“I’ll let you swear to it,” said Grant coldly; and, rising, he went to a filing cabinet and returned with a legal document. It proved to be a contract between Grant and Horne. At the bottom of the last sheet were the signatures of the parties. The Inspector compared the scrawled “Buck Horne” of the contract with the handwriting of the note.

He returned the contract without speaking.

“On the level?” asked Ellery.

The Inspector nodded.

“So you don’t know where Miller is now, eh, Mr. Grant?” said Ellery pleasantly.

Grant rose and kicked his chair. “Hell’s fire!” he shouted. “What d’ye think I am to my employees — a wet-nurse? How th’ hell should I know where he is?”

“Tut, tut,” murmured Ellery. “Such temper.” And he rose and strolled from the room. The Inspector remained for a moment to converse with Mr. Wild Bill Grant. Whatever it was he said, it must have given him satisfaction, for when he came Out he was actually — for the first time in days — grinning; and from the room Ellery could hear Mr. Wild Bill Grant engaged in kicking Tony Mars’s furniture.

They questioned the detectives on duty. Had any of them seen a cowboy with a badly burned face leaving the Colosseum? One man, it seemed, had. Two hours or so before, Miller had quit the building. The detective had not noticed which way he had gone.

The Queens departed post-haste for the Hotel Barclay, the troupe’s headquarters.

Miller was not there. No one could be found who had seen him enter the hotel that afternoon.

By this time the Inspector was alarmed, and Ellery too showed signs of uneasiness.

“It begins to look,” muttered the Inspector as they stood helplessly in the lobby, “as if—”

Ellery was whistling nervously to himself. “Yes, yes, I know. As if Miller’s slipped through our fingers. Strange, very strange. I’m afraid — Tell you what! What are you going to do now, dad?”

“I’m going back to h.q.,” said the Inspector grimly, “and start the ball rolling. I’ll find Miller and sweat him if it’s the last thing I do. Why the deuce should he take it on the lam if he’s just one of the boys?”

“Not so fast. Because a man drops out of sight for three hours isn’t justification for calling the hounds out. He may have dropped into a speakeasy, or a movie. Well, do what you think best, dad. I think I’ll stay here... No, I’m going back to the Colosseum.”

At six o’clock, in the fading light, the Queens met again at the Colosseum.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” exclaimed Ellery.

“Same thing you’re doing.”

“But I’m fiddling around... Have any luck?”

“Well,” said the Inspector cautiously, “it looks as if we’ve struck something.”

“No!”

“Miller’s gone.”

“Definitely?”

“Looks that way right now. I’ve had the detail cover all his known hangouts since he hit the city — aren’t many. The whole troupe’s accounted for, except Miller. And none of ’em knows where he is. Last seen around two or three o’clock, leaving the building. Then he dropped out of sight.”

“Did he take anything with him?”

“Didn’t have much to take except the clothes on his back. It’s on the teletype now. Being watched for. We’ve spread the alarm. Oh, we’ll get him.”

Ellery opened his mouth, and closed it again without saying anything.

“I’ve been digging into Mr. Miller’s history a little,” said the Inspector. “And d’ye know what I found?”

“What?” asked Ellery, startled.

“Nothing, that’s what. A blind trail. Can’t find out a darned thing about the guy. He’s a mystery. Well, he won’t be much longer. I think we’re on the right track now.” He chuckled. “Miller! And Grant’s tied up in it somewhere, mark my words.”

“I’ve got all I can do to mark my own,” said Ellery. Then he grinned quizzically. “How about the downward direction of the bullets that killed your two dead men?”

The Inspector’s chuckle died, and again he looked unhappy. “Oh, that,” he said. “That sticks in my craw, I’ll admit...” He threw his hands up in despair. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m going back to Centre Street.”