SW05 - The Wrong Gun

by Parnell Hall

  “Are you kidding me? Forty-eight rooms, the man’s going to have a library.”

  “Maybe so. Did we pass our exit?”

  Tracy consulted the directions in her lap. “This is it coming up.”

  Steve got off the highway, followed Tracy’s directions over a series of back roads, turned in at a marble gate.

  “Good lord, is this it?” Tracy said.

  “Damned if I know. I’m just following your directions.”

  “Then this is it.”

  It certainly was impressive. Timberlaine had three hundred acres, and his mansion was set a quarter of a mile back from the road. The driveway wound through spacious front lawns and an apple orchard, and ended in a circle in front of a sprawling, three-story marble mansion.

  About a dozen cars were already parked in the circle. Steve got a space as close to the front door as possible, and he and Tracy got out and retrieved their suitcases from the trunk.

  There was no one outside, but the front door was open. Steve and Tracy walked in and found themselves in an immense front hall, with marble floors, wood-paneled walls, and a wide circular staircase leading up to the second floor.

  A young man in a white suit with a clipboard came bustling up. “May I help you?” he said.

  “Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin,” Steve said.

  The man consulted his clipboard, made a check. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “You’re on the third floor. Just one moment, I’ll have you shown to your rooms.”

  He stepped to the side wall, pushed a button. “The boy will be here in a minute. I’m Martin Kessington. If there’s anything you need, just ask. You’ll find a house phone in your room. Just pick it up and ask for Martin.”

  As if on cue, a voice said, “Martin!” A strident, preemptory voice, obviously not pleased.

  Steve and Tracy looked up to find a plump, bald man waddling down the staircase from the second floor. A teenage boy in slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt trailed behind him, carrying a suitcase.

  “Martin,” the plump man said again. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Martin said.

  “Excuse me, hell,” the man said. He wheeled on the boy with the suitcase. “This boy refuses to take me to my room. He’s trying to take me to the third floor front.”

  Martin coughed discreetly. “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir. That is where I have you down.”

  “Nonsense,” the man said. “I have the second floor corner room overlooking the bay. I always have that room, now switch me there at once.”

  Martin coughed again. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said. “But there’s a problem. Miss Timberlaine’s fianc é has been staying in that room.”

  “He had no right to do that. You shouldn’t have given it to him. Get him out of there.”

  Martin, who seemed to have infinite patience, smiled and shook his head. “In the first place, I didn’t put him there, sir. I wasn’t consulted. And in the second place, I don’t have the authority to make him move. Unfortunately, that room is not available. If you are not happy with the one you have been assigned, perhaps you would care to choose another.”

  “I want the second floor corner.”

  “I understand, sir.” Martin flipped over a page on his clipboard. “Let me show you what’s available. Here’s a nice second floor room with a view over the back lawn to the bay.”

  “It’s not what I want.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Steve Winslow, who had been watching the scene with some amusement, smiled and nudged Tracy Garvin. “It appears we have been forgotten.”

  “Shhh,” Tracy said. “Pay attention. Don’t you see what’s happening here?”

  “What?”

  “Pay attention. This could be important.”

  Steve frowned. “Tracy,” he said. “What are you talking about? How could this possibly be important?”

  At that moment Martin snapped his finger and said, “Timothy. Please show Mr. Burdett to his new room.”

  7.

  TRACY GARVIN COULD HARDLY contain herself. “Don’t you see?” she insisted. “It all fits.”

  “What all fits?”

  They were in Steve’s room on the third floor front, a room theoretically less desirable in that it overlooked the driveway and the front lawn instead of the backyard and the bay. Unlike Burdett, Steve had not complained. As far as he was concerned, the view he had was magnificent. Not that he gave a damn about the view anyway.

  Nor had Tracy complained about her room, which was next door to his and commanded the same view. Instead, the minute she’d been installed in it she’d come banging on Steve’s door to advance her theories.

  “Are you kidding?” Tracy said. “It’s the last piece of the mystery. Here’s Burdett, Timberlaine’s hated rival. He’s here for the weekend and he’s just switched his room.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Tracy said. “Don’t be a dunce. What’s the next thing that happens? Either he gets murdered, or the person he switched rooms with gets murdered.”

  Steve looked at her. “Why?”

  “Why? Why do you think? Because it screws everything up.”

  Steve frowned. “You’ll pardon me, but that’s hardly an answer.”

  “Oh, come on. You know what I mean. Timberlaine hates Burdett. If Burdett gets killed, Timberlaine’s the main suspect. Timberlaine’s gun’s been stolen, and he thinks someone’s trying to frame him. If someone’s going to frame him, what better way than to kill Burdett? Can’t you see that?”

  “Of course.”

  “And now Burdett’s switched rooms. Which, in the vernacular, fucks everything up. If the murderer kills Burdett, Timberlaine would have an alibi if he didn’t know Burdett had switched rooms. On the other hand, if the killer kills the guy Burdett switched rooms with, then Timberlaine is dorked unless he can prove he knew Burdett switched rooms. See what I mean?”

  “Yeah, but—”

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

  “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 fiancé. 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 fiancé’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 fiancé 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.

  8.

  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.

  Timberlaine smiled at Steve. “You watch out. He’ll sell her two pistols before dinner.”

  “I don’t think she’s in the market,” Steve said.

  Timberlaine shrugged. “You’d be surprised who’s buying guns these days.”

  “What’s with you?” Steve said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Steve jerked his thumb. “Your outfit.”

  Timberlaine was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair was parted and pulled back in a ponytail. He grinned. “You mean what happened to the Wild West getup? Well, I have to admit that’s a complete affectation. I put it on when I’m carryin’ Pistol Pete’s gun. Or in this case, the substitute.” Timberlaine hefted the gun in his hand. “Now this baby’s a derringer. It’s French. Dates back to 1820. I’d look stupid firin’ it in cowboy boots. Plus, the other guns in the auction will be from all different countries, periods, what have you.”

  “You bidding on them?” Steve asked.

  “Oh, definitely,” Timberlaine said. “I always bid. I’ll be bidding on several.” He looked at the gun in his hand. “Though I think this baby’s the one I really want.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, there’s a story with it. I’m a sucker for stories. This gun was once owned by Marie LaBlanc, who was the victim of a tragic love affair. Her lover, Pierre LaTour, left her for a cafe singer. In despair she blew his brains out, then turned the gun on herself.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Timberlaine frowned. “Why should I kid about a thing like that?”

  “This gun here?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You’ll pardon me, but how do you know that?” Steve jerked his thumb at Nigouri, who was still pulling out guns and bending Tracy’s ear. “I mean, how do you know your friend there isn’t buying old guns wholesale, then coming out here
telling fancy stories and auctioning them off for record prices?”

  Timberlaine shook his head. “Couldn’t happen. The guns’ histories are authenticated. Everything’s double-checked. And we have our own independent expert on hand, hired specifically for these auctions. And of course any of the guests are free to bring their own experts. Believe me, the guns are genuine.”

  “I see,” Steve said.

  “Dad,” came a voice.

  Steve looked up as a young blonde bounced into the clearing. Steve smiled as he realized that’s how he’d describe it. The girl was young enough and lively enough that she gave the impression of bouncing. She had short, curly blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a turned-up nose. She was wearing a halter top and shorts and was barefoot.

  She ran up to Timberlaine and kissed him on the cheek. “There you are,” she said. To Steve she added, “Always know where to find Dad. Just follow the gunshots.” She turned back to her father. “Donald and I are going out. I need money.”

  “Money?” Timberlaine said. “So why don’t you stop at a cash machine?”

  “Oh, it always takes so long. Just give me some money, Dad.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shea Stadium. The Mets game.”

  “Oh,” Timberlaine said. He fished in his pocket for his wallet.

  The girl, having accomplished her purpose, now turned her attention to Steve. “Who’s this?”

  “Oh,” Timberlaine said. “Steve Winslow, this is my daughter, Carrie. Carrie, Steve Winslow.”

  Carrie Timberlaine extended her hand. “Are you a collector, Mr. Winslow?”

  Steve smiled. “Everyone asks me that. No, I’m not.”

  “Mr. Winslow is the attorney I told you about,” Timberlaine said.

  Carrie’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Winslow. You’ll pardon me, but you don’t look like a lawyer.”

  Steve smiled again. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  Tracy, who had observed this, managed to excuse herself from Mr. Nigouri and materialize at Steve’s side, prompting another round of introductions.

  Steve watched with some amusement. Tracy and Carrie, who were about the same age, did not exactly hit it off. Observing them, the phrase “shake hands and come out fighting” came to mind. They certainly eyed each other like adversaries, and without actually moving, still gave the impression of circling each other.