Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

“That’s right, Mark.”

Taylor looked sideways at Tracy Garvin. “Is he shitting me?”

“Not at all, Mark. Tell him how he died, Steve.”

“How who died?” Taylor said.

“Pistol Pete,” Steve said. “The notorious gunslinger who shot down five men in his lifetime, and don’t you want to know how he died?”

Mark Taylor looked back and forth from Tracy to Steve. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Steve grinned. “You tell him, Tracy.”

“O.K.,” Tracy said. “Well, Mark, it seems the gentleman in question was gunned down by his boyhood companion, Sheriff Montana Pride.”

“What?”

“That’s right.”

“Sheriff Montana Pride?”

“You got it.”

“I don’t think I wanna know what he was named for.”

Steve grinned. “Pride is the family name, Mark. It’s the Montana that’s suspect.”

“This whole story’s suspect. Tracy said you had a case. You just havin’ fun with me, or is there a point to all this?”

“A little of both, Mark.” Steve took out the cigar tube with the bullet, had Tracy pass it over. “What do you make of that?”

Taylor took it, looked at it. Nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. This is obviously a forty-five-caliber bullet. I assume you’d like me to prove it came from this gun.”

“No, I’d like you to prove that it didn’t.”

“What?”

Steve gave Mark Taylor a rundown of his meeting with Russ Timberlaine.

“Well, what do you think?” Steve said.

Taylor shrugged. “It’s a tough call. The guy’s either paranoid or he’s right. Just who does he think stole this gun, by the way?”

“He didn’t say.”

“No?”

“No. When I asked, he looked at his watch and remembered an important business engagement.”

“Uh-oh,” Taylor said. “That’s a bad sign.”

“Yes, it is.”

“On the other hand, if he gave you a retainer, who gives a shit? You want me to check out the gun?”

“Yes, I do. And I want it done by five o’clock this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“That’s when he’ll be back in my office to pick it up. The gun has to be returned to its proper place so no one will notice he’s discovered the substitution.”

“Why does he care?”

“I don’t know, Mark. As I say, the gentleman had to run. So we have an interesting situation here. A client’s asked me to do something, he hasn’t told me the whole story, so basically we’re working in the dark.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So I want to protect myself. You say a Colt.45’s a pretty common gun, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I want you to find a dealer who has one that matches the one you have there. I want you to buy it, fire test bullets through it, file the serial number off it, carve an R in the handle and have it in my office by five o’clock this afternoon.”

Mark Taylor’s jaw dropped open. “Are you kidding me?”

“Not at all, Mark. I said I wanted to protect myself.”

“Great, but what about me? Filing a serial number off a gun happens to be a criminal offense.”

“I’m sure there’s a matter of intent involved.”

“Right. Your intent is not to commit a felony. Your intent is only to deceive and defraud your own client.” Taylor held up his hands. “You explain it to the cops. I am not filing any serial number off any gun.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “Forget the serial number. Just get the gun and fire the test bullets through it. You have no problem with that, do you?”

“Not at all. I have every right to own a gun.” Taylor held up the forty-five. “Does that mean you don’t want this one tested?”

“Not at all. Test them both. And you and the ballistics expert are very careful with the bullets. You get ’em labeled and you keep ’em straight.”

“How do you want ’em labeled?”

“Same as this one. Put ’em in a glass tube and label the tube.”

“This tube’s not labeled.”

“I know. Label it RT-ORIG for Russ Timberlaine original.” Steve pointed to the gun Taylor was holding. “Label the bullets from that RT-SUB for substitute. I want two bullets from the gun in separate tubes-RT-SUB and RT-SUB-2. Same thing with the gun you buy. A bullet in a separate tube, labeled SW.”

“For Steve Winslow?”

“Of course. Can you do that?”

“No problem,” Taylor said. “As long as there’s no serial number filing.”

“Don’t sweat it, Mark. If it’s illegal, I wouldn’t ask you to do it.”

“And you need all this by five o’clock?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Mark.”

“What’s that?”

“Now I need it by four o’clock.”

Tracy Garvin watched while Steve Winslow filed the serial number off the gun. Steve blew the metal scrapings away, held the gun up for her approval.

“What do you think?” he said.

She frowned, looked from one gun to the other. “Damned if I can tell the difference.”

“What about the R?”

She shrugged. “Your R looks like his R. Whether it looks like the original, I couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t have to. This gun doesn’t have to pass as the original, just as the substitute.”

“Think Timberlaine will notice?”

“There’s no reason why he should.”

“He’s an expert.”

“Yeah. He could tell a copy from the original. But to tell a copy from a copy? Unless there’s some particular flaw in the first copy that he’s noted-which I have no way of knowing-well, there’s no reason why he should.”

“You sure you can tell ’em apart?” Tracy said.

Steve grinned. “Good point, Tracy. This is where I mustn’t fumble.” He picked up the gun he’d been working on. “This is the substitute gun. I mean, this is the substitute substitute gun. The one Mark bought. This gun I set aside.”

Steve set the gun down on his desk. He picked up the other one. “This is the original substitute gun. The one Russ Timberlaine brought.” Steve gestured to the antique safe in the corner of his office. “This gun gets locked in the safe.”

Tracy frowned. “Are you sure? Last time you locked something in that safe it got stolen.”

“That was entirely different,” Steve said. “In this case, no one even knows we have the gun, and no one will know that it’s there. No, that wouldn’t be enough to stop me.”

“What would?”

“Not finding the combination.”

“No problem,” Tracy said. “After turning the office upside down to find it last time, you will pardon me, but I didn’t leave it with you. You want it, I got it.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “Get it, and let’s lock this sucker up before Timberlaine gets here.”

Tracy went to the outer office, copied down the combination and brought it back. Steve took it, spun the dials, opened the antique safe.

“O.K.,” he said. “The gun goes in here. So do our share of the bullets.”

He went back to his desk, got the gun and the glass tubes marked RT-SUB-2 and SW, put them all in the safe and locked it.

“There,” he said. “That leaves us with the substitute gun Mark bought, the original bullet Russ Timberlaine brought, and the bullet fired from the gun he brought us, RT-SUB.”

“Why isn’t it marked RT-SUB dash one?” Tracy asked. “Aren’t you telling him there’s a dash two?”

“He’s a busy man,” Steve said. “No need to bother him with too many details.”

“Like the fact you switched guns?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you switch guns, and why aren’t you telling him?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”