by Неизвестный
People stood up and began chatting excitedly, gathering their personal items, making ready to leave, but they didn’t leave. Most remained poised in front of their seats, spectators staring up at the stage, as if waiting for someone to tell them what they had seen had not really happened, but no one came out to explain or to tell them what they needed to do next.
A few moments later, Ivanovich stepped around the curtain and stopped at the edge of the apron. “Is there a doctor in the house?” he asked. “Please, we need a doctor to the stage right away.”
The audience quieted down completely, while some in attendance repeated the request, passing it up the aisles, which only now began to fill with patrons getting ready to leave.
“I’m a doctor,” a gentleman on the main floor called out, now standing next to his seated wife and another couple. People in the aisle nearby him stepped aside, making room for him to reach the stage.
Ben leaned close to Vera and Alan. “I’ll call this in, order up an ambulance, and then I’d like to examine those rifles before anyone walks off and wants to clean them. We’ll also need to interview everyone who touched them. Don’t let the Army sergeant and captain wander away, would you, please?”
16
Working through the crowd, now heading towards the exits, took a concerted effort from Alan and Vera. When they reached the stage they found Sergeant Oliver in the spot they had last seen him, squatting down on a knee to comfort his pensive wife, standing in front, below the stage.
Alan took out his badge, showed it to the Sergeant and his wife and made the introductions. “We work with the police,” he said. “Detective Ben Kearney will be here in a moment, as soon as he calls this in to headquarters.”
Oliver nodded his understanding.
“Where’s Captain Black?” asked Vera.
“He went to check on the magician,” said Oliver. “He said he’d dressed battlefield wounds during the war. Told me to hold the fort for him, and then he went through the side there, behind the curtain.”
“I’ll see how they’re doing,” said Vera to Alan. “I know a thing or two about battlefield wounds.”
“I’ve got the stitches to prove it,” said Alan.
“You be our anchor and wait with the sergeant here,” said Vera, “otherwise we’re going to end up scattered all over the theater.” She stepped behind the curtain, following the path Captain Black had taken.
“Do you think it’s something the captain or I did wrong?” asked Sgt. Oliver.
Alan shook his head. “We have no way of knowing until we examine the muskets,” he said.
“Those barrels have rifling,” said Oliver, “so in the Army we’d call them rifles.”
“The words aren’t interchangeable?” asked Alan.
Oliver shook his head, lost in thought. “Not necessarily. Muskets were primitive and terribly inaccurate, but then they came up with rifling in the last century. The best shooters got to use those and stand farther away, firing at single targets instead of closely packed groups, and of course the rifling made them better shots. There’s no longer a need to stand fifty feet apart and see who could reload the fastest. Everything’s got rifling now.”
“I didn’t know that,” Alan said, giving Ben a courtesy wave as he came down the left center aisle. “Would these rifles be accurate then?”
“Probably so,” said Oliver, “at least on the first volley, but after that there’s too much flash and smoke with black powder.”
“Do you know much about these and how they work?” asked Alan, “like how to load them and break them down?”
“I worked in the armory as a private for a few years. I can probably figure them out.”
Ben climbed the steps to the stage. “Chief Ketchum’s on his way from home. Should be here in half an hour.”
“Does he think we have a murderous crime wave brewing?” asked Alan.
“He’s more interested in seeing Vera than anything else, but he’d like a briefing on what we’ve got.”
“Of course he wants to see Vera,” said Alan, and then he introduced Ben to Sergeant Oliver and his wife. “The sergeant has worked in the armory and thinks he could break down the weapons for us.”
“Excellent,” said Ben. “We can do that right after we gather up the participants and key witnesses.”
“Vera went backstage to check on Captain Black. He told Sergeant Oliver he knew a thing or two about battlefield injuries.”
Behind them, the newsreel showing on the screen came to a stop. An electric whirring noise followed a loud clicking sound, and the movie screen began rising to the top of the stage.
“That’s good,” said Ben. “As more people leave I’ll want that curtain opened again for easier access.”
Just as he said that, Vera pulled the curtain open in the middle and stepped through, the smile gone from her face, carrying the two rifles in her arms. “Black didn’t show up here,” she said, “or if he did he kept right on going.”
“How’s our magician doing?” Ben asked.
Vera shook her head and glanced toward Sergeant Oliver, as if to apologize. “It’s not official yet, but if the bullet didn’t hit his heart, it passed right next to it. Everything inside there is a vital organ.”
“Did you say ‘bullet,’ as in singular?” asked Ben.
“That’s right,” said Vera. “He has only one wound, but it’s severe.”
“Any indication where the other bullet went?” asked Ben.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” said Sergeant Oliver, “but we’ve had occasions on the range during competition where some of the soldiers will dump a round into the brush, on purpose, rather than risking a poor shot.”
“Both rifles looked on target from where we sat,” said Ben, “but if needs be, we’ll search around the backdrop for a bullet hole.”
“So did they just let you walk off with their rifles?” Alan asked Vera.
Vera nodded. “Nobody wanted anything to do with them. The shooters are quite upset, and you can imagine everyone else is worried too. One of the men has black soot on his face. I’d say he held the rifle that bucked heavily. Maybe it had a double charge.”
“Do we know which rifle he held?” asked Ben.
“He doesn’t speak English,” said Vera, resting the butts of the guns on the floor, “and the muskets pretty much look the same to me.”
“How’s Liu Yang doing?” asked Ben.
“Not well,” said Vera. “She’ll probably ride to the hospital in the ambulance with Wang Tao, so we won’t be able to interview her until after the pronouncement’s been made and she’s had a good cry.”
“It’s that serious?” asked the sergeant’s wife, chewing on her lower lip.
“I’m afraid so,” said Vera. “I think the doctor’s giving it his best, but there’s not much he can do here, and the blood loss is great.”
“The sergeant here has worked in the armory and thinks he can break these down so we can see what happened,” said Alan.
“I’ve not worked on muskets before,” said Oliver, “but I can give you my seat of the pants opinion.”
“I’d greatly appreciate that,” said Ben. “We don’t know if this is some kind of accident or a strange coincidence, but it could be murder we’re looking at here. I’d like a better feel which way we’re leaning when the Chief of Detectives gets here.”
“Am I a suspect?” asked Oliver.
“Not at this time,” said Ben shaking his head, “but you raise a good point. We probably shouldn’t let you handle the firearms until that’s determined for certain, but we can have you supervise us, look over our shoulders and suggest how we would take these apart to clean and inspect them.”
“I can do that,” said Oliver.
“Just what we need,” said
Ben. “Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll round up the stage manager, the shooters, get these curtains opened, and line up all the people we’ll need to interview. Vera, if you don’t mind, would you handle the interviews, while the Champ and I see how much gun oil we can get on our good clothes?”
* * *
Ben had ordered up a wooden table and a table cloth as a work surface. The house handyman brought them and set them up, after the ambulance crew left with Wang Tao and Liu Yang for the hospital. The show manager, who went by the name Li Yong, brought a cleaning kit along with him, but his English skills were marginal at best. The two shooters stood behind him, heads hung low. Alan set the rifles on top of the table, with the barrels pointed toward a sidewall. Ben stood over one musket and Alan the other.
“First thing I recommend,” said Sergeant Oliver, “is to inspect the weapons for obvious signs of wear on the exterior. These have hammers that strike extended pins that hold firing caps. There should be a small amount of black residue around the head of the hammer.”
“Check,” said Ben.
“Check,” said Alan.
“Now without touching the firing mechanisms or looking down the barrels, inspect the exterior surface, noting where you see residue or wear.”
“The ramrod chamber on this one has a large amount of burnt residue and wear to it,” said Ben.
Alan looked at the rifle Ben held and compared it to his. “Mine also shows wear and residue.”
“May I?” asked Sergeant Oliver as he leaned in close and glanced at the muzzles. “I think there’s something wrong with both of these weapons. The one you’re holding,” he said to Ben, “doesn’t appear to have discharged its round. There’s not enough residue around the barrel tip for that to have happened, and yours,” he said to Alan, “might have fired its round, because it has residue where it should, but I wouldn’t bank on it. So to be sure, I recommend we probe the barrels with a bullet puller. Probably should do that to both weapons to be sure.”
Ben addressed Li Yong, a Chinese man in his mid-forties wearing a Boxer’s uniform. He had been the one who dropped the sword, signaling the two shooters to fire at Wang Tao. “Who cleans the guns after the show?” he asked.
Lee thought for a long moment and then finally said, “Liu Yang is only one who handles those.”
“Nobody else, ever?” asked Ben.
The manager shook his head.
“What’s going on with the ramrod sleeves?” asked Ben.
The manager frowned, as if unsure, and then he retrieved the ramrods from the back on the stage and brought them to the table.
Ben picked them up one at a time and examined them, while Alan and Sergeant Oliver looked on. “This is curious,” said Ben. “Given the amount of residue around the sleeves, you’d think that the ramrods would have some of that on them too.”
“Unless they’re always left out of the rifles during the execution...” said Alan.
“And why would they do that, Champ?—I know where you’re going with this, by the way.”
“I’ll know more when we find out what’s down those barrels. Right now, I’m suspecting one of them still has a full charge, and that will explain why Wang Tao has but the one wound.”
“You gentlemen are brilliant,” said Oliver. “You suspect the weapons have been altered, and you would like me to show you how that might be done.”
“Exactly,” said Ben.
“First we unload,” said Oliver, “following a proper procedure just to be sure. Do either of you have much experience with guns?”
“Not all that much,” said Ben.
“My dad taught me how to use and care for them,” said Alan, “but I’ve never handled one like this before.”
“Alright then,” said Oliver. “You can serve as our trainee.”
“I’m good with that,” said Alan.
“Pick up the round wooden bullet starter,” Oliver said, pointing to an object on the table, “and attach the wooden rods with the brass fittings, one at a time. Of the two end tips there, first use the one with the wire loop. Insert it into the barrel of the rifle.”
Alan picked up the rifle in front of him and did as the sergeant instructed.
“The device you’re using is known as the patch puller,” said Oliver. “The cotton patch is the first thing we should encounter—if the barrel is still loaded.”
Alan slowed the combined rods and spun the patch retriever around gently deep in the barrel. “I’m not feeling any resistance here,” he said. “I think this one’s shot its load.”
Alan set the musket down and picked up the one Ben had worked on.
“While I’m thinking of it,” Oliver said, “we can speed up the process if the houseman will fetch us four or five feet of very thin wire. The thinner the better.”
“I’ve got a lamp cord I can strip and unthread for you,” said the houseman.
“That should work,” said the sergeant.
Alan sent the probe down the barrel of the second musket, comparing the length of the rod to how far down he’d gone in the first barrel. He slowed and began twisting the probe. “I’ve got something here.”
Like a fishermen pulling in a trophy fish on a light line, Alan worked the rod out of the barrel. At the end of the brass tip a small swatch of gray and white cotton formed a knot.
“Not a very clean barrel,” said Oliver. “I’d say that it’s a bit dirty—but hasn’t been fired. It’s more likely the result of sloppy maintenance. So unscrew the end of the rod and replace the tip with the one that has the self-tapping screw on the end.”
Alan did as instructed, and then he slid the rod down the barrel.
“Now spank the end of the round ball on the end sharply,” said Oliver.
Alan did so and tamped the rod a few extra pats to make sure the screw would dig deep into the lead ball. Then he twisted the ball clockwise, shoving his weight into it. After a moment he exhaled and withdrew the rod, steadying the barrel and keeping the force even. He pulled the tip clear of the barrel, and it had a lead ball attached to the screw.
“We have a Bingo!” said Alan.
“Indeed we do,” said Ben. “Are there initials on the ball?”
Alan left the screw impaled into the lead ball, but unscrewed the extractor tip from the rod. He held the ball close to his eye and spun it around slowly. “No marks at all.”
“Let me see that,” said Ben, reaching for the lead ball and extractor. He held it close to his eye and spun it around several times. “You’re right. So what did she do with the marked ball?”
“Wait a second,” said Alan, “I have an idea.”
Alan stood up and crossed the stage to where Wang Tao stood and fell. A large pool of blood covered the floor and enveloped the broken shards from the plate he held. Alan squatted down on his haunches and picked through the large pieces of the china and nodded. He took a white handkerchief from his pocket, reached down and picked up two shiny lumps and wrapped them up. He returned to the work table, and wiped off the lead bullets.
“Here they are,” said Alan, “and you’ll see they have initials on them but no rifling marks—which means they were never fired through a gun. Liu Yang palmed these and passed them to another assistant on stage, who delivered them to Wang Tao before the shots were fired—probably when they blindfolded him. That way he could pretend to catch the bullets, and then later the soldiers would identify those as the bullets they had marked. So that means that since we all thought we saw both muskets being fired at Wang Tao—we were tricked by the illusion. And because this musket still had its charge with a near duplicate lead ball—there must have been separate charges already inside the ramrod sleeves to give the impression the weapons were fired.”
Ben nodded.
“I agree,” said Oliver. “The weapons ha
ve been altered.”
“Is that what you want the wire for?” asked Ben.
While waiting for the houseman, the three Chinese dressed as Boxers passed out cigarettes between them, lit them with matches, and squatted down on their haunches, as if they were taking a smoke break in a rice paddy, while speaking in their language.
“I’m not happy with the way the interviewing is going,” said Vera. “Nobody here speaks English except for the manager, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to let him control the information.”
“We’ve got contacts in Chinatown,” said Ben. “We can enlist their help tomorrow.”
The houseman returned with a length of copper wire and a pair of pliers. He started to hand them to Sergeant Oliver, but Alan reached out and intercepted them.
“What next?” Alan asked the sergeant.
“Pull the hammer back to half-cocked,” said Oliver, “and thread the wire into the nipple of the receiver connected to the barrel.”
“Through the piece where the firing cap goes?” asked Alan.
“Exactly,” said Oliver. “Probe gently. Don’t force it. If it goes where I think it will, we’ll have our answer.”
Alan did as instructed and the thin wire bent easily and fed into the internal mechanism, first a foot, then two, then three, and then it poked out of the ramrod’s metal sleeve.
“Voila!” said Ben.
“So what’s happened,” said Oliver, “is that a gunsmith or hack has rerouted the channel for the spark. It’s supposed to ignite the barrel, but they’ve got it going to the ramrod sleeve, so they could fire a preloaded puff of black powder without a ball.”
“The act is all an illusion,” said Alan.
“That would mean that whoever handles the muskets has to unload the charges in the main barrels later at night,” said Ben.