Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

“I know. Depending on when they fix the time of death, those people may or may not be important.”

Melvin Burdett pushed his way past the officer at the door, looked around the dining room, spotted them and bustled over.

“They just interrogated me,” Burdett said. “That lieutenant-what’s his name?”

“Sanders.”

“That’s the one. I don’t like him. The man is obnoxious.”

Steve kept a straight face. “Oh?” he said.

“His manner’s insulting. As if he didn’t believe you.”

“What did he ask you?”

“If I saw Potter, and if Potter tipped me off.”

“Tipped you off?”

“To the gun. To the damn stupid gun. To the cavalry piece.”

“He wanted to know if Potter tipped you off about the gun?”

“Yeah. To the fact Russ was going to bid.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What do you think I told him? I said no way. Potter’s a professional. No pro would do a thing like that.”

“Potter didn’t tip you off?”

“I just said he didn’t.”

“Then how’d you know Timberlaine was going to bid on the gun?”

Burdett made a face. “Give me a break. A child of four knew Russ was going to bid on the gun.”

“Is that what you told Sanders?”

“Sure I did. And the son of a bitch doesn’t believe me.”

“What else did he ask you?”

“Did I see Potter at the auction.”

“Did you?”

“No. And he doesn’t believe that either. He says if I bought rare guns, I’d want Potter to check ’em out.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The man’s a moron. You don’t check out guns after you bid on ’em. You check ’em out before. I mean, the guy may not know anything about guns, but he’s a cop, he should know how to think. What, he thinks I buy a gun and then have someone check it out to see what I bought?”

“So you didn’t see Potter at the auction?”

“No.”

“You didn’t notice if he was there?”

“Why should I? It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Did he ask you if you saw Timberlaine leave the auction?”

“Of course he did.”

“And did you?”

“Of course I did. I just bought the gun, of course I’m going to look to see how he took it.”

“You surprised when he stormed out?”

“Not at all. Russ has a temper. He hates to lose.”

“What about you?”

“What?”

“Do you hate to lose?”

Burdett smiled. “Are you kidding? Everyone hates to lose. Now look, you gotta do something.”

“What?” Steve said.

“You’re Timberlaine’s lawyer, right? Well, this cop, this lieutenant’s all screwed up, thinks Russ did it. Ridiculous. Russ wouldn’t hurt a fly. Now, I hate to say this about our host, but the man’s a little naive, you know? Like thinking I wouldn’t know he wanted that gun. Anyway, this cop’s talking like he thinks Russ did it, and Russ isn’t going to believe that could happen to him, and he’s apt to walk into something, you know?”

“I sure do.”

“So you gotta shut him up before he hurts himself.”

“You like to suggest how?”

Burdett grinned. “That’s a problem, isn’t it? Russ doesn’t take kindly to suggestions. So how the hell you gonna protect him?”

“Do you think Timberlaine killed Potter?”

“Of course not.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “Then someone else did. All I gotta do is find out who.”

“How you gonna do that?”

“By asking questions. Tell me, what did you do from the time the auction was over to the time the body was found.”

Burdett grinned. “Right, right. You mean I’m a suspect. O.K., let’s see. I went up on stage, verified my purchases and wrote checks.”

“You take possession of the guns you bought?”

Burdett shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Russ’s rules. Dealers retain possession of the guns sold at auction until such time as the purchasers leave.”

“Why is that?”

“Security reasons. Russ doesn’t want to be liable for a guest having a gun stolen from his room. Dealers retain possession and the collections are locked in the safe.”

“What safe?”

“This huge safe in Timberlaine’s office. My guns are there now.”

“O.K.,” Steve said. “So you went up on stage, wrote checks for the guns and then what?”

“Went out on the patio and had a drink. They had a bar set up on one end, you know. So I had a drink. I looked around for Russ, didn’t see him. So I stayed on the patio for a while, talking to people about the auction. Then I went to my room to freshen up and change for dinner. I was still there when I heard the commotion and the police cars arrived.”

“I see,” Steve said. “And you hadn’t seen Timberlaine or Potter since the end of the auction?”

“That’s right.”

“And Potter never tipped you off about the gun?”

“That’s right.”

“And last night, when you came by Timberlaine’s table, you told Potter you wanted to talk to him after dinner?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you?”

“Sure.”

“What about?”

“What do you think? I had him check out some guns.”

“Including the cavalry piece?”

“Of course.”

“Was that the only gun you had him check out?”

“No, I had him do a whole bunch.”

“But you did ask him about the cavalry piece?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You asked him specifically to check out that gun?”

“Yes, I did.”

“The lieutenant ask you that?”

“What?”

“About talking to Potter last night? Asking about the gun?”

“Yeah, he did. Why?”

“He bring it up, or you did?”

“He did, of course. I wasn’t volunteering anything. Why?”

“If he asked about it, it means he heard it from someone else.”

“Of course.” Burdett said, impatiently. “That’s obvious. All right, look. I’ve answered your questions. Now you answer mine. What are you going to do for Russ?”

Steve looked at Burdett, pursed his lips. “You want an honest answer?”

Burdett frowned. “What, are you nuts? Of course I do.”

Steve shook his head. “Then, frankly, Mr. Burdett, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Mark Taylor slammed down the phone and stood up. It rang again. He cursed, sat down, snatched it up.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Yeah, Frank, just a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece, looked up at Steve Winslow who was standing near the door. “Another operative. I’ll send him out.”

Steve nodded, walked into the next room where Tracy Garvin was also on the phone.

It was Sunday morning. They were in a small motel just off the Long Island Expressway. They’d been held in the dining room Saturday night until just after midnight when the cops had finished their interrogation and finally allowed everyone to leave. Of course, most of the guests were staying over anyway. Steve and Tracy had stuck around looking for Timberlaine. Mark Taylor, desperate for phones, had gone out and found the motel. Unable to get what he wanted, a unit with two phones, he had settled for two adjoining units, and spent the night running back and forth between the two phones. It had been quite a relief when Steve and Tracy had showed up the next morning with coffee and doughnuts.

Tracy hung up the phone, shook her head, and said, “Nothing.”

“Oh?” Steve said.

“That reporter again. Harold Coleman. He may be chummy with a cop, but the cop don’t know shit. He’s got nothing you can’t read in the morning papers.”

“And no sign of Timberlaine?”