Лиза Марклунд - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011

“Somebody’s killing us off for those guns,” he said, “all four of us, one by one. And I’m next.”

Paddy ordered up some coffee for Wilfong and sweetened it with the bottle of Irish whiskey he kept in his desk.

Wilfong sipped for a long ten-count and said, “One of my buddies from the old unit, one of the four who’d taken home a Browning, called me a couple of weeks ago. He said he’d come across a magazine article about four pistols that disappeared from Salzburg in nineteen forty-five. The article told all about the assassination and even gave the serial numbers of the missing guns. My buddy had already found his gun on the list.”

“The buddy’s name?” asked Paddy, who liked to collect the odd fact.

“Pat Skidmore. Pat said he was going to get in touch with the guy who’d written the article, some professor from a college out his way. Pat lives in Frankfort, Kentucky, if he’s still living.”

Paddy and I exchanged a glance. The speaker drank again and continued.

“I told Pat to hold off. I didn’t see any percentage in it for us. The Austrians aren’t going to pay to get those guns back. They’re just going to take them. And not say thank you when they leave. I wanted time to think of a way to make a buck out of the deal, a finder’s fee, if nothing better. Pat wouldn’t wait. Something about holding on to his gun was giving him the creeps.

“Pat had already called the other two guys who took Brownings from that museum. One of them, Bob Wilson, was okay with giving his back, but the other one, Joe Reid, said all the current Austrian bigshots used to be Nazi bigshots and they could go hang themselves.

“I waited for a couple of weeks, but I didn’t hear back from Pat. And every day of that wait, I thought about my Browning more and more. I started to wonder if all the bad breaks I’ve had since the war could be tied to that gun.”

“So it’s also unlucky?” Paddy asked.

“With all the people killed and maimed by it,” Wilfong said, “how couldn’t it be? It even maimed us, Elliott,” he added, turning my way.

“How do you figure?” I asked. I was surprised to find that my mouth was dry.

“There wouldn’t have been a Second World War if there hadn’t been a first one. You and me would never have been snatched out of Paramount. I could be head of production today, and you might be Audrey Hepburn.”

“Scotty’s eyebrows are too thin,” Paddy said. “Let’s get back to you not hearing from this Skidmore.”

“I finally got so antsy, I called him long distance. Got his wife. She said Pat was missing. Got all hysterical on the phone. All I could make out from what she was saying was that some stranger had come to see Pat. A guy with a German accent.”

“So you think this buddy of yours is dead?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to reach Wilson and Reid. I haven’t been able to. When I talked to Pat, he mentioned where they live — Bob’s in Texas and Joe’s over in Jersey — but neither one answers his phone. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” Paddy said. “Let’s talk about what you suspect. Stop me if I wander too far from the path. You think this Skidmore got in touch with the author of the magazine article and told him what had happened to the Brownings. Then, either the professor or Skidmore himself got the word out to the wrong party. That party is now collecting the guns by whatever means necessary. We can assume it isn’t anyone official, since Skidmore wanted to give the Austrians his gun. So they wouldn’t have had to kidnap him to get it.”

I said, “Whoever snatched Skidmore got more than his gun. He got Wilson and Reid’s names and addresses.”

“And my address,” Wilfong said. “I know that for a certainty.”

Paddy sat up. “You’ve been visited by a man with a German accent?”

“Almost. A kraut came by my place yesterday. I’ve been staying away from home for... business reasons, so I missed him. But a neighbor passed the word. Now I’ve got the willies like I haven’t had them since I handed in my uniform.”

I pointed in the general direction of the pocket that held the gun. “So leave that out on your front step tonight with the empty milk bottles. When Herr X gets his mitts on it, he’ll leave you alone.”

“Maybe,” Wilfong said, “if he isn’t punishing us for stealing them in the first place. But it isn’t as simple as that.”

“It never is when money’s involved,” Paddy observed.

I hadn’t heard much talk of money, so I thought the great man was straying from that path he’d just spoken of. Turned out, I was lagging behind.

“You guessed it,” Wilfong said. “I’m hard up right now and no prospects on the horizon. Worse than that, I owe some serious money to an unpleasant guy.”

“Name of?” Paddy asked.

“Tip Fasano.”

“We know the gentleman, don’t we, Scotty.”

Did we ever. Fasano was middle management in the local gambling syndicate and an all-around tough egg.

I said, “Fasano’s the business that’s keeping you away from home?”

“Yes. He’s got somebody watching my place. If there’s any money to be made from this gun, I’ve got to make it and quick. Otherwise, it’ll be a tossup who punches my ticket, the mystery man or Fasano. If I can set up a deal, I want Elliott here to tag along when I make the exchange. He can carry my gun and two or three of his own.”

“You spoke of percentages earlier,” Paddy said. “What’s ours?”

“Ten percent of my take.”

Paddy haggled it up to twelve, and they shook on it.

Wilfong vetoed Paddy’s suggestion that we hold on to the Browning for him — and did it emphatically.

“Hell no. If this collector guy gets the drop on me, I want the dingus where I can hand it over before he asks twice. If it’s a choice between my neck and paying off Fasano, I’ll take my neck. Besides, the thing still shoots. That’s an argument that works with mystery men and bookies.”

He also turned down — less emphatically — my offer to watch his back until he worked out his deal.

“No offense, Elliott, but you were in the field artillery. You’re fine for a showdown, but not for moving quiet and quick, which is what I have to do now.”

I could have pointed out that Skidmore, Wilson, and Reid had all been infantrymen, for all the good that had done them. But I didn’t. Our new client looked wrung-out already.

Paddy asked, “How do you intend to make contact?”

“I dunno yet. Maybe I’ll stick a note in one of my empty milk bottles.” He stood up.

Paddy said, “While you’re giving my wife a number where you can be reached, I’ll have a word with Scotty. Then he’ll see you to your car.”

As soon as Wilfong cleared the office, Paddy went back to what he’d been doing when Peggy ushered us in, which was cleaning a spot on his necktie. His taste in ties was flamboyant, to put it politely. Today’s, which featured a peacock feather design in orange and blue, was slightly gaudier than the Alcoa fir tree in the lobby.

“What did you think of Wally’s story?” he asked as he worked.

“It held my interest.”

“But then, you’re a sucker for the movies. Still, it could be a nice Christmas bonus for us. Which makes me wonder how we can improve our chances of collecting, short of following Wally around. I think we need to get a line on this Austrian gun collector, whoever he is. Invisible men give me the heebie-jeebies. Any thoughts on that?”

“Pat Skidmore of Frankfort, Kentucky, would be the guy to ask, if he hadn’t gotten so invisible himself. That leaves the author of the magazine article about the guns, I guess. Like you told Wally, this professor might have tipped the wrong party. Or he could have helped Skidmore do it himself.”