Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The guy already had the tip when Fred called. Guy’s got a source, you see. Inside track.”

Steve grinned. “No shit.”

“None. The guy got the tip, was just fixin’ to leave when my man caught him. Anyway, he promised to call back.”

“Who is this guy?

“Reporter named Harold Coleman.”

“You know him?”

“Never met him, but my man says he’s all right.” Taylor leaned back in the chair and stretched. “So what you wanna do now?”

At that moment the door was flung open by a uniformed officer. The officer was young, aggressive and not taking any chances. He had his gun out. “All right,” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?”

“Unarmed civilians,” Steve said. “At least I think we are.” He turned to Tracy. “You aren’t carrying a gun tonight, are you, dear?”

The officer flushed slightly, but was not about to be put off. “What are you people doing here?”

“Making a phone call,” Steve said. “There’s no phone in the dining room.”

“You’re not supposed to be making phone calls.”

“Is that right?” Steve said. He smiled. “We’re sorry. We didn’t know that.”

“You were told not to leave the dining room. Now come on. Let’s go.”

“Certainly,” Steve said. “Mark. Tracy. Come on. Let’s not argue with the man. After all, he has a gun.”

They went out the door and walked down the long hallway to the dining room. Steve tried to lead Mark and Tracy inside, but the young officer wasn’t falling for it. He stopped them at the door.

“Wait here,” he said. To the officer at the door he said, “Keep an eye on these three.”

He turned and walked off down the hallway in the direction of the gun-examining rooms. A few minutes later he was back with Lieutenant Sanders.

Sanders raised his eyebrows. “So,” he said. “These are the people making the phone calls? What a surprise.”

“You have no reason to hold us,” Steve said.

“Material witnesses to a murder? I beg to differ.” Sanders’s eyes fixed on Mark Taylor. “And who, might I ask, are you?”

“Mark Taylor,” Steve said. “Mark, let me introduce Lieutenant Sanders.”

“This is hardly a social situation,” Sanders said. “I wasn’t asking for an introduction. I want an explanation. I haven’t seen you before. Who are you? Are you one of the guests?”

“Mark Taylor happens to be my detective,” Steve said.

“Your detective? You brought a detective along for the weekend?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so. You just arrived, didn’t you, Mr. Taylor?”

Taylor frowned. “That depends what you mean by just.”

“Yeah. Right,” Sanders said. “Fulton,” he barked.

The officer at the dining room door looked up. “Sir?”

“I don’t mean to comment on the job you’re doing,” Sanders said sarcastically. “But we’ve got people arriving, people leaving, people making phone calls, people slipping out and having rendezvous-are you keeping track of all this?”

Fulton looked uncomfortable. “Sir,” he said.

“How about the rest of the guests? You having any trouble keeping them in here?”

“As a matter of fact,” Fulton said, “I believe the staff is about to serve dinner.”

“Excellent idea,” Sanders said. “You see these three people? I want you to notice them particularly. Remember their faces. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, these three people-you know what I think? I think they look hungry. Do me a favor and see that they have some dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sanders turned on his heel and stalked off.

Fulton glowered at them.

Steve smiled and shrugged. “Well, gang. Let’s eat.”

Mark Taylor threaded his way through the tables across the dining room to the far corner where Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin stood. Steve had given him the high sign, otherwise Mark would have been perfectly happy to remain at his table and have dessert. Unable to resist, he had scooped up the rich wedge of chocolate layer cake, and was munching on it as he went.

Taylor walked up to them, chewed twice, swallowed and said, “What’s up?”

“I hate to interrupt your dinner,” Steve said, “but we have this murder on our hands.”

“Don’t be a grouse,” Taylor said. “If we’re stuck here, we should eat. Didn’t you eat?”

“We’ve been interviewing witnesses,” Tracy said.

“No excuse for not eating. I bet I interviewed more than both of you combined.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve said.

Taylor shrugged. “Hey, you said I could tell ’em who I am. I sat down at a crowded table, told ’em I was a private detective, and people fell all over themselves wanting to talk to me. I not only got those people, I had them runnin’ around grabbin’ people and bringin’ ’em over. Didn’t you see me?”

“I saw you stuffing your face.”

“Hey, if you didn’t eat, you got no one to blame but yourself.”

Taylor shoved the last bit of cake in his mouth, licked his fingers, then reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook. “I got names, addresses, stories, what have you. I had dinner and I still talked to more people than you.”

“So what’d you learn?”

“The prime rib is fabulous. Timberlaine may be a murderer, but the man sets a hell of a table.”

“Mark.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” Taylor flipped open his notebook. “I got two kinds of people here. People with the check are people who have already been interrogated by the police. People without the check haven’t.”

“What have you got?”

“Nothing helpful. At least, nothing I know that’s helpful. When I get it all typed up you can go over it. For right now, there’s nothing that jumps out and grabs you. I got everybody’s alibi and they’re all pretty much the same. After the auction, they either went out on the patio where there was a bar set up, or they went up to their room, or they just hung out in the grand ballroom. Usually a combination of the three.

“Now, as far as Timberlaine’s concerned, practically everyone recalls seein’ him stalk out of the auction. No one remembers seein’ him between that time and the time you guys found the body.” Taylor winced. “Gee, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Maybe I should just say, the time the body was found.”

“Let’s not get hung up on semantics, Mark.”

“Right. Or legalities, technicalities, or whatever. Anyway, no one remembers seein’ him.

“Now, Potter, it’s a different story. Most people can’t remember seein’ him at the auction at all. Those that do remember, aren’t that sure about it. And none of ’em saw him leave. So the bottom line is, I can’t prove he was even there.”

Steve frowned.

“What about you?” Taylor said. “You got a definite eyewitness?”

Tracy smiled. “We were just talking about it. We were hoping you would.”

“Oh?”

“That’s why we called you over,” Steve said. “We can’t find anyone either.”

“Well, neither can I. Can I go back now? They’re serving coffee.”

“Jesus, Mark.”

“Well, it’s probably good coffee, not the lousy shit you get on the corner.”

“You mind giving me the rest of your report first?”

“That’s basically it. Everyone saw Timberlaine, no one saw Potter and no one went near the gun room at any time after the auction.”

“How about before the auction?”

“Huh?”

“Well, if no one saw Potter at the auction, he could have been shot before it.”

Taylor’s face fell. “Shit, Steve. Give me a break. Besides, I got people thought they saw him at the auction.”