Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

“And after you and I talked on the phone, you told her her husband had been killed?”

“Actually, I told Ginny Caruso, and she took Patty aside and broke the news to her.”

“I’d like to trace that phone call Mulreedy got just before he hit the road yesterday. Have you checked on that?”

“I don’t really know how to check on it.”

“I thought maybe you had a phone that records the source of incoming calls.”

“I’ve got five phones, not counting this cell phone. But they’re all just your generic squawk boxes.”

“You should be able to get the number by calling the phone company from the phone it came in on. But not on a Saturday. I think your counter man said Mulreedy picked up the phone himself.”

“I think he did too, but let’s ask him. He’s right out there.”

Wamblitt repeated his story of the previous evening, to the effect that he had been working in the storage area behind the salesroom when Roger Mulreedy came in to make a long-distance call to a manufacturer. When the phone rang at the counter, Mulreedy had picked it up, spoken briefly, hung up, and left the premises without a word to Wamblitt. Wamblitt wasn’t even sure which of three phones he’d been talking on.

As Auburn left Welbeck’s, the big white sign at the end of the parking lot caught his eye again. It appeared to have been decorated with graffiti in red, yellow, and green. Only when he got up close, he could see it wasn’t graffiti but blotches of paint.

By the time he returned to Welbeck’s shop late that afternoon, accompanied by Patrolman Bystrom, Auburn had put in three hours of intensive investigation. After an illuminating session with a State Highway Patrol officer, he had tracked down Lieutenant Howell Dunbar, Chief of the Robbery Division, who had the weekend off. He had also applied for and obtained search and arrest warrants.

Welbeck and Wamblitt were both still at the shop. This time Welbeck came out of his office to meet Auburn. “This looks ominous,” he said when he saw Bystrom’s uniform.

“I’d like to verify some times,” said Auburn without preamble. “Can you tell me when Mrs. Mulreedy arrived at the cookout last night?”

“She was there when I got there,” said Welbeck.

“And what time was that?”

“Well, let me think. I cleaned out the cash register about three-thirty and took some cash and checks to the bank. I probably got to the farm about four-thirty or a quarter to five.”

“Can you confirm that, Mr. Wamblitt?”

Wamblitt looked up from a tray of parts he was sorting at the counter. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Mr. Welbeck,” said Auburn, “when I was at the farm last night you said you couldn’t figure out what Mulreedy was doing on the Interstate at that hour.” He turned to address Wamblitt. “And that was when you told us about the phone call Mulreedy got just before he left. You hadn’t told your boss about that earlier because you weren’t at the cookout when I called, were you?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Welbeck. Auburn had noticed during their prior interviews that Welbeck was one of those dangerous people who smile when they’re at a loss — when they’re stumped, cornered, or about to explode with rage. But he wasn’t smiling now. “Greg?” he said.

“Gregory Wamblitt,” said Auburn, “I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of first-degree murder.” He recited the canonical warnings.

Wamblitt, pale and sweating, came to attention and put his back against a steel cabinet. “Wait a minute here,” he said, stuttering slightly. “You’re making a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake, sir, and you know it. The commanding officer of your National Guard unit, Colonel Dunbar, also happens to be a division chief with the Department of Public Safety. He and I had a long talk this afternoon about the field exercises you run for the troops, where two teams try to capture each other’s flags without getting shot. Shot with paint balls, that is.

“I found out a whole lot about paint guns today. They’re powered by compressed air or carbon dioxide and they shoot soft gelatin balls filled with oil-based paint — fifty-caliber balls. A fully automatic paint gun can get off a burst of ten or more balls a second. The guns used in league play are limited to a muzzle velocity that won’t do any harm to unprotected skin even at fairly short range. But you were playing for keeps, weren’t you? And your gun was loaded with half-inch steel balls.”

Wamblitt took a deep breath and let it out slowly while he tried to gauge how much of Auburn’s accusation was guesswork and how much of it might be based on hard evidence. “I own some paint guns,” he admitted, “but I’ve never used one to shoot anything but paint balls. And I wasn’t anywhere near the Interstate yesterday afternoon.”

“Let’s see if I can boost your memory a bit,” said Auburn. “When I left here around noontime today, I got on the Interstate to retrace Mulreedy’s route from here to the spot where he got killed. But I never made it.

“Just before the highway enters the city limits, there’s a truck weighing station. When it’s open, all trucks over a certain size have to leave the highway and get on the scales to make sure their axle and cargo weights aren’t over the limits. The inspectors also do a safety check and verify the driver’s ID. The driver or owner gets fined for weight or safety violations, or if the truck shoots past the station without turning in.

“In order to catch the ones who sneak past, there’s a TV camera mounted over the highway just beyond the access ramp to the weigh station. The inspectors take turns watching the monitor and alerting the troopers patrolling the highway when a trucker guns on by. The whole thing goes on videotape so they have evidence to prove violations. And at five after four yesterday afternoon, you were taped driving west on the Interstate with Roger Mulreedy following right behind you on his motorcycle.”

Wamblitt seemed about to speak, looked from Welbeck to Bystrom, and remained silent.

“The paint gun mounted on your luggage rack shows up on the videotape as plain as a lizard on a rock. We could even see the trip wire running to the window on the driver’s side. You took a few practice shots at the sign outside here first, didn’t you, to get your range — sighting through the rearview mirror?”

Seeing all hope of a successful defense crushed, Wamblitt nodded dispiritedly. “There wasn’t any phone call,” he admitted. “I told Roger that Patty had been in an accident and that I was supposed to lead him to the place. When we got to the construction zone on the Interstate, I slowed down so Roger crowded up on me, and the semi in back of him crowded up on him. As soon as I got him in range, I let him have it.”

“What was your particular beef with Mulreedy,” asked Auburn, “if you don’t mind my asking?”

Wamblitt was still standing at attention but his military snap and most of his vitality seemed to have disappeared. “I’ve been in love with Patty ever since we were kids,” he said. “She made a horrible mistake when she married Roger, and she knew it, but she wouldn’t divorce him. So I figured it was up to me to help her work things out.”

“You tried it once before, didn’t you? Up at the rink, when you sneaked in and unlocked that circuit breaker. You seem to be sort of the quartermaster around here. You probably issued him that combination lock yourself—”

“Have you got that on videotape, too?” asked Wamblitt, with a half-hearted show of defiance.

Auburn produced a search warrant. “Let’s go out and take a look in your car, Mr. Wamblitt.”

One of the automatic paint-ball guns in Wamblitt’s trunk was still partially loaded with half-inch steel balls.