Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

“Yeah, but-”

“Plus, you got a third joker in the deck. This fiance. Did you know Timberlaine’s daughter had a fiance?”

“I didn’t know Timberlaine had a daughter.”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless. Timberlaine’s a widower, he has one daughter. Apparently she has a fiance. So what about him?”

“What about him?”

“Suppose he’s murdered?”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, it fits just fine. He’s staying in Burdett’s room. Suppose he’s killed. Then the cops can figure Timberlaine did it, thinking he was Burdett.”

“Give me a break.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Come on. The fiance’s been there for some time. Timberlaine would know where he’s staying.”

“Why should he? What’s he got to do with room arrangements? This guy Martin seems to be in charge of it. So there’s no reason he’d have to know, and the cops can figure he did it.”

Steve sighed. “Oh, dear.”

“Plus, there’s the other way around.”

“What other way around?”

“The fiance gets killed and the cops figure it’s because he was sleeping in Burdett’s room. But actually he gets killed for himself.”

“What?”

“I mean, he’s the guy the killer meant to kill.”

“What killer?”

“Timberlaine. Who killed him to keep him from marrying his daughter.”

“Oh, good lord.”

“What’s wrong with that motive?”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“Murder is extreme.”

Steve took a breath. “Tracy.”

“What?”

“If Timberlaine did it, who substituted guns?”

“Timberlaine did it himself.”

“Why?”

“As a smoke screen. To divert suspicion from himself.”

“Good lord.”

“No,” Tracy said, excitedly. “It’s perfect. He goes to you. He gives you the substituted gun. He gets you to compare the bullets. Puts you in a position to establish he doesn’t have the original gun. So when the murder’s committed with the original gun-as he intended all along-you can show that he didn’t have it in his possession.” Tracy nodded in agreement with herself. “That would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“The retainer. He’s got ten thousand dollars invested in you. What do you think it’s for? A retainer? Hell no. It’s an alibi.”

Steve frowned.

“Well,” Tracy said. “What do you think of that?”

Steve took a breath. “Tracy,” he said. “I think you’ve got a vivid imagination.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Steve held up his hand. “I’m not putting it down. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying what you’re giving me is a scenario straight out of a detective book. There’s nothing wrong with detective books, but they’re usually a lot more interesting than real life. Otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten published. That doesn’t mean you’re wrong and it doesn’t mean nothing’s going to happen this weekend. All I’m saying is, the odds are the disappearance of the gun is nothing more than that-a disappearance-and has nothing to do with the people staying here. And even if it did, absolutely nothing is going to happen to them on this particular weekend.”

Steve smiled. “See what I mean?”

There came the sound of a gunshot.

Tracy Garvin came pelting down the circular staircase and found Martin standing in the front hallway calmly consulting his clipboard. In her agitation, Tracy couldn’t remember his name. So she clattered down the stairs crying out simply, “Gunshot!”

Martin looked up, saw her, smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That would be Mr. Timberlaine and I believe Mr. Nigouri at the pistol range. I know he had a gun Mr. Timberlaine wanted to check out.”

Tracy blinked. “Pistol range?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Martin pointed. “From the patio take the path off to the left.”

Steve Winslow came walking calmly down the circular stair in time to hear the last exchange. Tracy looked up, caught his eye and he smiled.

Tracy flushed slightly, then turning back to Martin and mustering what dignity she could, said, “And how do we get to the patio?”

Martin pointed again. “Right through there.”

“I suppose you knew it all along,” Tracy said, as she and Steve followed Martin’s directions and stepped out onto a marble terrace running the length of the back of the building.

“Not at all,” Steve said. “That gunshot could just as well have been the murderer firing Pistol Pete Robbins’s Colt.45 into the heart of Russ Timberlaine’s archrival, Melvin Burdett. And I think the fact that it wasn’t in no way diminishes any theories you’ve advanced so far.”

“Fuck you,” Tracy said. “How did you know it was nothing?”

“I didn’t.”

“You walked calmly down the stairs as if nothing had happened.”

“I walked calmly down the stairs because running wouldn’t have helped.”

“Why not?”

“Because unfortunately killers don’t stand over their victims holding the murder weapon, they flee the scene. Once they do, they leave a tableau that basically does not change. The matter of a few seconds in viewing it is not going to make any difference whatsoever.”

“We might have seen something.”

“What?”

“Someone fleeing the scene.”

“If there had been, I’m sure you would have seen them and told me.”

“Yes, of course, but-”

“And,” Steve said. “If I’d gone racing down those front steps, I’d be feeling as foolish as you’re feeling now.”

“Exactly,” Tracy said. “That’s what pisses me off. You’re developing into a conservative old fogy. You’re so concerned about what people might think of you that you’d risk missing a murder scene so as not to appear foolish.”

Steve frowned. “Not a very charitable interpretation of my actions.”

There came the sound of a gunshot up ahead and to the left.

Steve looked at Tracy. “What do you think? Should we run, or stroll along like old fogies?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Tracy said.

Steve nodded. “Right. Yet another hostile sexual reference. Tell me, are you upset because I’m so cool to your theories, or because they gave us separate rooms?”

Whatever crushing comeback Tracy may have had was forever lost, for at that moment they rounded a bend in the path and emerged at the pistol range.

The range was simply a small clearing in the wood. Two men stood in the clearing, Russ Timberlaine and a Japanese gentleman. They were looking down what appeared to be a path off to the left. As Steve and Tracy approached, Russ Timberlaine raised a gun, sighted and fired down the path. He lowered the gun, turned to the Japanese gentleman and said something.

Steve and Tracy came walking up.

Timberlaine saw them, turned, smiled, “Ah, Mr. Winslow. Miss Garvin. Glad you could make it.” He turned to the Japanese gentleman. “Mr. Nigouri, Mr. Winslow.”

As they shook hands, Mr. Nigouri said in perfect English, “Are you a collector, Mr. Winslow?”

“Afraid not,” Steve said. “And you?”

Nigouri smiled. “I’m selling, not buying. I’m here to auction off several weapons. Including that one,” he said, pointing to the one Timberlaine was holding. “So you won’t be bidding on it?”

“Afraid not,” Steve said.

“Then, perhaps you, Miss …?”

“Garvin,” Tracy said, taking his hand. “I’m afraid Steve and I are just looking.”

“Do you know anything about guns?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Ah, then let me show you,” Nigouri said.

He led Tracy off to one side of the clearing where there was a circular marble alcove and bench, obviously part of the original estate. On the bench was an open leather box. Nigouri began opening drawers, removing guns and showing them to Tracy.