The American Gun Mystery (Death At the Rodeo)

26: The Fact

The three men walked silently into Grant’s room, and after a moment of hesitation Grant closed the door behind them.

Staring at them from two chairs were Curly Grant and Kit Horne, both of them white-faced.

“Well?” growled Grant. “What’s it this time?”

There was a black bottle on the table, and three moist glasses.

“Having a bit of a night-cap, I note,” said Ellery pleasantly. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing, to tell the truth. But the Inspector had a notion, you see, and I couldn’t dissuade him.” He grinned shamelessly, and the Inspector scowled so hard he added a new wrinkle to his forehead. “Because, you see, the Inspector wants to search your room.”

The Inspector reddened. Sergeant Velie edged nearer the bulky figure of the showman.

“Search my room?” repeated Grant hoarsely, with a puzzled look. “What th’ devil for?”

“Go ahead, Thomas,” said the Inspector in a weary voice; and without emotion the Sergeant went to work. Grant doubled his big brown fists and for an instant seemed inclined to protest physically against the intrusion; then he shrugged and stood still.

“I shan’t, forget this, Inspect’r,” he said slowly.

Curly sprang to his feet and shoved Velie roughly aside before that worthy could open the top drawer of the bureau. “Lay off that!” he snapped, and strode forward to scowl into the Inspector’s face. “What the hell is this — Russia or somethin’? Where’s yore warrant? What right’ve ya got to come into a man’s room—?”

Wild Bill took his arm gently and propelled him half-way across the room. “Keep yore shirt on, Curly,” he said. “Go on, you. Search yore head off an’ be damned to you.”

Sergeant Velie blinked in an interested way at Curly, caught the Inspector’s nod, and went back to the bureau.

Curly flung himself down by Kit’s side like a rebuked child. Kit said nothing at all, merely stared at Ellery in a shocked way.

Ellery polished his pince-nez with rather more vigor than usual.

Sergeant Velie was thorough, if disrespectful. He went through’ the bureau like an impatient thief. Drawer after drawer which, opened, lay virginly neat before his eyes, was slammed shut in a state of chaos. Then he turned his attention to a wardrobe trunk. The devastation traveled. He attacked the bed. He left it a shambles.

And meanwhile the Grants, and Kit, and the Queens were silent spectators.

The closet... The Sergeant pulled open the door, rasped his horny palms together, and sprang forward at the clothing. Suit after suit turned shapeless under his pressing, squeezing, slapping hands. Nothing... He squatted and tackled the shoes.

When he rose, there was something pained about his expression; and he glanced at Ellery once with the faintest perturbation. That gentleman continued to polish his glasses, but his eyes were noticeably sharper and he edged the slightest bit closer to Grant.

Sergeant Velie groped about the shelf. His hand encountered a large round white box. He pulled it down and ripped off the lid. A wide-brimmed, dun-colored Stetson, apparently brand-new, lay majestically revealed. He picked up the Stetson... and started.

Then he came slowly out of the closet, carrying the box, and laid it on the table before the Inspector. He glanced briefly and queerly at Ellery.

Lying peacefully in the box, on the bottom beneath where the Stetson had rested, there was a flat, dull, tiny weapon — a .25 calibre automatic pistol.

Grant’s body quivered, and the color drained from his rocky face, leaving it the hue and consistency of earth-stained marble. Kit uttered a choking little cry, and then pressed her hand quickly to her mouth, her eyes fixed with horror on the old Westerner. Curly sat turned to stone, unbelieving, stupefied.

The Inspector stared at the weapon for a split-second, then snatched it out of the box, dropped it into his pocket, and with remarkable swiftness reached into his hip-pocket and brought out a .38 Colt police revolver. This he permitted to droop negligently from his fingers.

“Well,” he said calmly. “What have you got to say for yourself, Grant?”

Grant stared unseeing at the revolver. “What— My God, man, I—” He braced himself and drew a deep unsteady breath. His eyes were the eyes of a dead man.

“Didn’t you tell me,” said the Inspector softly, “that you don’t own a .25 automatic, Grant?”

“I don’t,” said Grant in a slow, confused way.

“Oh, you deny that this little feller,” the Inspector tapped his pocket, “is yours?”

“Ain’t mine,” said Grant lifelessly. “I never saw it before.”

Curly got uncertainly to his feet, eyes fixed on his father; and he swayed a little from side to side. Sergeant Velie quietly pushed him back into his chair, and stood over him.

Before any of them realized what was happening, Kit uttered a strangled cry, as appalling as the snarl of a tigress, and sprang from her chair directly at Grant. Her fingers clawed for his throat. He did not move, made no effort to defend himself. Ellery leaped between them and cried: “Miss Horne! For heaven’s sake, none of that!”

She retreated, drawn up stiffly, a look of unspeakable loathing on her brown face.

And she said: “I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do, you two-faced Judas,” very quietly.

Grant quivered again.

“Thomas,” said the Inspector with a little crackle in his tone, “I’ll take care of these people. Take that bean-shooter out of my pocket and beat it down to h.q. Get Knowles. Have him test it. We’re waiting here... None of you,” he said sharply, as Sergeant Velie obeyed, “make one funny move. Grant, sit down. Miss Horne, you too. And you, young feller, stay where you are.” The muzzle of the police revolver described a tiny arc.

Ellery sighed.

After a century the telephone bell rang in the room. Both Grants and Kit started convulsively.

“Sit still, all of you,” said the Inspector gently. “Ellery, take that call. Must be from Knowles, or Thomas.”

Ellery went to the telephone. He listened blankly for several moments, and then hung up.

“Well?” demanded the Inspector without taking his eyes from Grant’s hands.’

Grant did not move a muscle. Almost in agony his eyes were fixed on Ellery’s lips. It was quite like the scene in a courtroom, when the jury has filed in and the prisoner sits staring at the lips of the foreman for the verdict which will mean life or death.

Ellery muttered: “The Sergeant reports it’s the same automatic that killed Horne and Woody.”

Kit shuddered. Her eyes were wild with a feral emotion, and confused too, like the eyes of an animal blinded by sudden light and taut with the consciousness of danger.

“Put out your hands, Grant,” said the Inspector sharply. “I arrest you for the murder of Buck Horne and One-Arm Woody. And it’s my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used against you...”