Whistle Past the Graveyard [= Give the Girl a Gun]

Chapter Three

Barney Amhurst’s place was a four-room corner apartment on the first floor, its décor so overwhelmingly masculine it was obvious the effect had been striven for, possibly as compensation for our host’s curly hair and dimples. Heavy leather furniture dominated the big front room, leather-bound volumes filled three rows of built-in bookshelves each side of the wide fireplace, and a mounted deer head stared at us from over the mantel when we entered the room. A rack of pipes on the mantel and another on a square end table drove the point home, and the whole effect was topped by a gunrack on one wall containing a deer rifle and a pump shotgun.

Wide French doors opened from the front room onto the outside lawn, with a step down of about two feet. When Barney led us into an equally masculine bedroom, where the men left their hats and the women their evening capes, I noted similar French doors opened from there to a side lawn. A third room, presumably either another bedroom or a study, was off the front room, but its door was closed and our host didn’t offer to show it to anyone.

The fourth room was a full-sized kitchen, into which Amhurst herded the men to assist in drink mixing while the ladies repaired their make-up in the bathroom off the bedroom.

By the time we had gotten together eight highballs and transported them to the front room, Fausta, the red-haired Madeline Strong and the enameled brunette, Evelyn Karnes, had completed their repairs, but Bubbles was still in the bedroom.

“If we wait for Bubbles, the ice will melt,” Walter Ford said. “Put her in front of a mirror and she’s content for hours.” He raised his glass. “A final toast to the Huntsafe before we settle down to serious drinking.”

Instantly Evelyn Karnes’s glass was touching Ford’s and she was smiling brilliantly into his face. Deliberately Ed Friday moved between the two, touched his glass to theirs and stared down at his date without expression. Evelyn’s smile became mechanical as she hurriedly stepped back from Ford and made a point of standing close to Friday. The rest of us skipped touching glasses, signaling the toast merely by raising them slightly before drinking.

When we had drunk the toast, I said, “On the way over Mr. Ford explained to me what the Huntsafe was, but I didn’t quite grasp its commercial value. I’m not trying to be a wet blanket, but what makes all of you so sure anyone will buy the contraption?”

Apparently this touched off the pet subject of the Huntsafe’s inventor, for Barney Amhurst’s eyes lighted with enthusiasm. Almost bounding at me, he stuck his finger against my chest.

“Do you have any idea how much money American sportsmen spend on their hobbies every year, Mr. Moon?”

I had to admit I didn’t.

“Four billion dollars,” he said in an impressive tone, spacing each word to stand individually.

The figure surprised me, and my face must have shown it, for he looked smugly triumphant.

“Of course that covers fishing as well as hunting, including the fees paid for millions of licenses, but if you deduct everything except the amount spent on hunting equipment, you still have a billion-dollar potential market. Know how many deer licenses are issued each year?”

Madeline Strong said abruptly, “Does anyone want another drink?”

We all looked at her a little surprised, for no one, including Madeline herself, had consumed more than a third of the first drink.

Madeline reddened. In a low voice she said, “I’ll help myself, Barney, if you don’t mind,” and departed for the kitchen while we were all still staring at her.

There was a moment of puzzled silence before Barney Amhurst said rather vaguely, “I shouldn’t mention deer hunting in front of Madeline, I suppose.”

This meant nothing to me, but apparently both Ed Friday and Walter Ford knew what he was talking about, for both gave understanding nods. When no one undertook to amplify, I broke the ensuing silence by bringing Amhurst back to the subject.

“Well, how many deer hunters do hit the woods every year?”

Immediately the inventor was all enthusiasm again. “Deer licenses are issued in thirty-nine states plus Alaska,” he said. “The total figure runs into millions. As a starter we’re concentrating our sales approach on deer hunters, because most hunting accidents occur during deer season. But eventually we hope to educate all hunters into wearing Huntsafes.”

I was still puzzled. “But unless every guy carrying a gun had one, it would be kind of useless, wouldn’t it?”

Amhurst smiled at me delightedly. “You’ve hit the key point of the whole idea, Mr. Moon. But that’s Walt’s function, so I’ll let him explain it.”

He stepped back away from me and Walter Ford said simply, “We’re going to sell the idea to state legislatures.”

I thought this over, decided I got what he meant and said, “You mean get legislation enacted making the Huntsafe compulsory?”

Ford nodded. “Make license applicants buy one before they can get a license. The thing is a natural. The annual casualty rate during deer season is appalling. The past season there were three hundred deaths from gunshot wounds and over a thousand other hunters wounded. State and local governments have been seeking a solution for years. I think we can convince at least the majority of state legislatures that requiring such a safety device is as logical as requiring brakes on a car.”

I began to see that this device was likely to be just as hot as the members of the new corporation believed it was. Added to Amhurst’s and Ford’s logical arguments, the fact that Ed Friday was involved in the project practically cinched that it was a good bet, for from what little I knew of the ex-racketeer, I was fairly certain wildcat speculation was out of his line, and that he wouldn’t have come within miles of the new company unless he was satisfied it was going to be a roaring success.

It was not hard to figure what Friday’s function in the corporation was either, now that I knew Barney Amhurst was the inventor and Walter Ford the man responsible for getting the product sold. Obviously Friday was putting up the money for manufacturing.

It was a little more difficult to place Madeline Strong in the scheme of things. I was still considering her without coming to any conclusions when she came back into the room. Her drink was at the same level as when she had left, which led me to believe she hadn’t fixed herself another after all. Noticing me looking at her, Barney Amhurst gave his head a slight shake, as though warning me to let the subject we had been discussing drop in front of her.

I failed to understand it, but if for some reason deer hunting was a taboo subject in front of Madeline, I had no intention of violating the taboo. I stopped thinking about it in order to divide my attention between my drink and Fausta.

“Bubbles is still missing,” I remarked between sips. “You strangle her while you had her alone in there?”

“Rubbing your leg so hard under the table probably exhausted her,” Fausta said. “Probably she is taking a nap.”

I had not been aware Fausta had observed the blonde’s strenuous caresses, and I thought it expedient to let the subject drop. Turning my attention to the room in general, I heard our host suggesting to Ford that they demonstrate the Gimmick for the benefit of Fausta and me.

A moment later Amhurst announced, “Hold everything, folks. We’ll be right back.”

Together he and Ford entered the one room we had not seen, leaving the door ajar.

Distinctly we could hear Barney Amhurst say, “You take that set, Walt, and go back in the front room. I’ll stay here and...”

He was interrupted by a tinkle of glass followed by the roar of a shot.

In the front room everyone froze to immobility. Probably in a movie scene one or all of us would have rushed into the next room to investigate, but people don’t react that way when a real shot sounds. I don’t know what the others’ mental processes were, but my first thought was that I wasn’t carrying a gun. My second was hope that Barney Amhurst, or Walter Ford, or both of them would step to the door and explain the explosion. My third thought, when nothing resulted from the hope, was a reluctant decision to push open the door and see what went on.

Probably less than thirty seconds elapsed between the shot and this decision, but these seemed like minutes because they elapsed in dead silence from both the front room and the room into which the two men had disappeared. I pushed the door wider, cautiously, ready to drop in case whoever had fired the shot decided to discourage curiosity by firing again.

The caution proved unnecessary.

The room into which I peered was a combination study and workshop containing a desk, a couple of leather chairs similar to those in the front room, and an electrical workbench running the length of one wall. Directly across from me were the inevitable French doors leading outside, in this case to the side lawn. They were closed, and on the floor in front of them lay a small pile of broken glass. A shattered pane near the center handle still contained a few thin shards of glass which had not fallen loose.

Sprawled on the floor to one side of the desk lay Walter Ford, his head queerly shortened and flattened because the top of it was missing. A good deal of blood had spattered over the desk, the floor and even over one wall.

Next to the workbench across the room from the body stood Barney Amhurst, a flat, boxlike object with a couple of wires protruding from it in his hands. His mouth was opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish kissing the side of a bowl, and he was staring glassy-eyed at the dead man.

“Amhurst!” I said sharply, but he didn’t even turn his head.

When he continued merely to stare fixedly at the corpse and talk without making any sound, I did the only thing you can do to snap someone out of shock quickly. I rocked his head to the right with a stinging slap across his cheek, then rocked it back the other way with the palm of my left hand.

His eyes focused on me, he gulped and said, “My God! He shot him dead in his tracks!”

“Who?” I asked.

“The guy outside. Through the window. He knocked out the window and— My God, he shot him dead!”

His eyes strayed from me back to the corpse, he gulped, then suddenly clapped his free hand to his mouth and started for the bathroom at an unsteady run. I followed right behind him.

Everyone in the front room stared as we loped past them into the bedroom. Barney continued on into the bathroom, but I crashed headlong into Bubbles Duval, who picked that moment to come out of the bedroom finally.

“Whoops!” Bubbles said, grabbing me around the neck to retain her balance. She continued to hang on long after all danger of her falling over was past.

Reaching around behind my neck, I grasped her wrists, spread them outward and gently pushed her away.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hurt any?”

The blonde shook her head and giggled. “What blew up?” she inquired.

“The celebration,” I told her. “We have a murder on our hands.”

Through the closed bathroom door I could hear Barney Amhurst retching over the bowl. Deciding he would keep for the moment, I shooed Bubbles into the front room. None of the occupants there had moved, but since Amhurst had thrown the door into the study wide in his headlong flight, two people were in a position to see the body on the floor. Ed Friday was gazing at it with a thoughtful expression on his face, and Evelyn Karnes was carefully avoiding looking at it at all.

Fausta asked, “What happened, Manny?”

“Murder,” I said. “Somebody outside knocked out a window and fired through it. Who and why we’ll let the police figure out. I suggest everyone sit down and relax while I call them.”

Evelyn started toward the bedroom. “Where are you going?” I asked.

The enameled brunette showed her teeth in a meaningless smile. “I have to get up early. I’d better go home.”

Ed Friday’s rubbery voice said, “Sit down like the man said, you goddamned moron.”

His brutal tone startled everyone in the room except Evelyn, who seemingly was used to such talk from Friday. Without appearing in the least perturbed or resentful, she shrugged and obediently sat. Bubbles Duval broke the silence created by Friday’s words.

“You said murder, Manny. Who?”

Everyone looked at her, but it was Ed Friday who answered. “There were eight of us, Bubbles. Subtract the six here plus Barney in the bathroom, and you got it.” His tone was nearly as savage as when he had spoken to his own date, and I began to get the impression that for some reason he was furious over Walter Ford’s murder.

The blonde’s eyes swept over us one by one. Then she squealed, “Walter! My date!” She looked at me with widening eyes and asked, “Now, how am I going to get home?”

“For Pete’s sake!” Friday remarked, and headed for the kitchen with a highball glass in his hand.

I phoned headquarters and reported the killing to Night Desk Sergeant Danny Blake.