Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

Steve rubbed his head. “Great. O.K. We’ll leave it. But whatever happened, one way or another, had to have happened while you were in the shower. Let’s get back to that. Before I digressed, I was trying to jog your memory. You came upstairs, the door was unlocked, you opened the door, you closed the door, you walk over to the bed and you start getting undressed. You take off the gun belt first?”

“No, I take off the hat.”

“You take off the hat first?”

“Yeah.”

“Then how does it wind up on top of the gun belt?”

Timberlaine frowned. “Son of a bitch.”

“You didn’t put it there?”

“I’m trying to remember. Let’s see. I took off my hat, I threw it down on the bed. Then I took off the gun belt, put it on the end table. Then I sat down on the bed to take off my boots and-” He broke off.

“What?”

“When I sat down I moved the hat off the bed.”

“And set it on the end table over the gun?”

“Probably.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I know. But that’s what I did.”

“Do you remember putting it on the gun belt?”

“No, but that’s what I must have done.”

Steve took a breath, exhaled. “O.K. And when you came out of the shower-do you remember seeing the hat or the gun belt then?”

“Not particularly.”

“Think. Was there anything that you noticed-doesn’t have to be the gun belt, or the hat, or the cowboy outfit at all-but was there anything in the room you noticed different when you came out of the shower than when you went in?”

Timberlaine narrowed his eyes a few moments, then shook his head. “No, I can’t remember.”

“O.K. But if you think of anything, anything at all, no matter how trivial, let me know.”

“Of course. Of course.”

“You understand, if what you say is true, this is the only time someone could have taken the gun. The only time Potter could have been killed.”

“I see that.”

“That is a fact, though-from the time you went back to your room, you never left the room till the time you came down to find the cops-is that right?”

“Hey, I told you. I took a shower, watched the ball game.”

“You did that because you were pissed off about the auction and you didn’t want to see anybody.”

“Right.”

“Ordinarily, with a houseful of guests, and it being cocktail hour and all, you would have put in an appearance.”

“Ordinarily.”

“But you were pissed off, so you didn’t.”

“That’s right.”

“And the thing that pissed you off was Melvin Burdett buying that cavalry piece.”

“Of course.”

“And you still think he got a tip?”

“I know he got a tip.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“Fine. That’s what you thought then, and that’s what you think now. O.K. Say he got a tip-where did he get it from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you think?”

“I tell you, I don’t know.”

“You have no idea?”

“Not really.”

“Not really? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because Potter’s dead.”

“I see. You thought it was Potter, now that he’s dead you’re not so sure?”

Timberlaine shrugged. “Something like that.”

“At the time it happened, right after the auction-you’re telling me you thought it was Potter?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“You tell this to the cops?”

Timberlaine’s eyes shifted.

Steve sighed. “Oh, Christ.”

“Well, how the hell was I to know?”

“You weren’t,” Steve said. “There was no way to know. You couldn’t know, and I couldn’t know. That’s why I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut until we found out what the facts were. But you didn’t want to do that. You’re smarter than your attorney, why should you listen to him?”

Timberlaine set his jaw. “I don’t have to take this.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve said. “You can fire me and hire other lawyers. If you do, I suggest you play fair with them and tell ’em as much as you told the cops. Now what about the bullets?”

Timberlaine blinked. “Bullets?”

“Yeah. The bullets, the bullets. What bullets do you think? You came to me about bullets. I identified them for you, put them in glass tubes.”

“Oh, that,” Timberlaine said.

“Yeah, that.” Steve said. “Tell me, when you were shooting off your mouth, did you give the cops the bullets?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You mean in all the time you were talking about that’s not my gun, somebody stole my gun, I haven’t seen that gun in weeks, you didn’t say, I can prove it, I got bullets my attorney checked out for me?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Really? Why not?”

Timberlaine shrugged helplessly. “I guess I just didn’t think of it.”

“Well, thank goodness for small favors,” Steve said. “The cops have enough evidence to play with without that. All right, you didn’t mention the bullets, that’s fine. Now that I’ve reminded you, you’re not going to mention ’em now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not going to mention anything. From now on, the cops ask you something, you say, see my lawyer. Any question at all, you say, see my lawyer. And you don’t volunteer anything. You don’t get some bright idea, suddenly come up with something you think, gee, the cops ought to know, and you run and tell them. From here on in, you don’t give the cops the time of day.”

Timberlaine blinked.

“You got that?” Steve said.

Timberlaine took a breath. “Yeah.”

“Where are the bullets now?”

“In a safe-deposit box.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had all day. Just shut up about ’em and let ’em stay there.”

Steve stood up, turned to go.

Timberlaine said, “Hey, I want to get out of here.”

Steve turned back. He held up his finger. “Good thought.” He pointed at Timberlaine. “Bet you wish you had it before you shot your mouth off to the cops.”

Steve Winslow was on his way out the front door when a young cop stopped him.

“Mr. Winslow?”

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Vaulding wants to see you.”

“Who?”

The young cop flushed slightly. “District Attorney Robert Vaulding.”

“Oh, that Vaulding,” Steve said.

The young cop gave him a look.

Steve shrugged. “Hey, I’m from Manhattan. What do I know? So where’s Vaulding?”

The young cop led Steve to the D.A.’s outer office, parked him in the corner and conferred in low tones with the officer at the desk. The officer picked up the phone and spoke into it, and moments later the door to the inner office opened, and a tall thin man in a three-piece suit said, “Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes.”

“Robert Vaulding. Please come in.”

Steve sized the man up on his way in the door. Vaulding was young, probably no older than Steve himself. His jet black hair was cut short and carefully groomed. His appearance was impeccable if not fastidious. Even his nails looked manicured. The impression Steve got was that, having gotten elected to the position of district attorney, Robert Vaulding had attempted to make up for his lack of years by disguising himself as a conservative old fart.

His smile, however, was still young, almost boyish. He grinned at Steve Winslow, said, “Sit down.”

“I’ll stand,” Steve said. “You can skip the ceremony, Vaulding. Why am I here?”

Vaulding’s smile became lopsided. “I heard you were direct.”