by Parnell Hall
“Hold up on that.” Steve said. “You might get picked up looking for one.”
“Get picked up for what?”
“You’ll get mistaken for a witness and confined to the dining room.”
“Fuck that,” Taylor said. “In the meantime, what do you want me to do?”
“We’ll get you a phone as soon as we can,” Steve said. “In the meanwhile we’re all kind of on hold. What we do depends on what the cops do. So far they haven’t charged anyone. If they do, it only concerns us if it’s Timberlaine.”
“Will it be?”
“Sure looks like it. It was his gun. He can tell all the fancy stories he wants about it being stolen, the cops are only gonna half care. Right now the cops are down the hall listening to fifty witnesses telling their stories. All of ’em are going to testify Timberlaine came to the auction this afternoon wearing a cowboy suit and a gun. At least half of ’em will testify Timberlaine stalked out of the auction in a huff. Some of ’em will testify later they heard a shot—that was nothing, that was down on the pistol range, but still it was Timberlaine firing off the gun.”
Steve held up his hand. “Now, Mark, that is not the murder weapon. It’s the substitute gun. The one you bought.”
“Oh, shit.”
“But it is not the murder weapon. Now, the cops may try to claim it’s the murder weapon.”
“How can they do that? Ballistics will prove it wasn’t.”
“Right,” Steve said. “That’s not what I mean. They won’t claim the gun you bought was the murder weapon. They’ll claim the gun Timberlaine was wearing at the auction was the murder weapon. See what I mean?”
“Right. Will they do that?”
“I don’t know. But if they did, who could disprove it?” Steve waved it away. “Anyway, that’s a side issue. The problem is a lot of people will be able to testify that Timberlaine was angry about the auction.”
“Why?”
Steve gave Taylor a rundown of Timberlaine’s attempt to fool Burdett by having Crumbly bid on the cavalry piece. “That’s the motive,” he said. “The cops will claim Timberlaine figured Potter was the one who tipped Burdett off, confronted him, made him confess and shot him.”
Taylor frowned. “Is that sufficient motive for murder?”
“Not at all. It’s thin as all hell. But if the cops can’t come up with any other obvious suspect, what do you bet they go for it?”
“No takers.”
“What makes the whole thing really stupid is the odds are no one tipped Burdett off at all.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“I mean Burdett may be obnoxious, but the man is no dope. And Timberlaine’s plan of having Crumbly bid for him was transparent as glass. In the second half of the auction, there was only one gun of any import, Timberlaine’s a sucker for a gun with a history and this gun had one, and yet he sits on his hands and doesn’t make a bid, but his buddy Crumbly does. Even without a tipoff, it wouldn’t take a genius to see through that one.”
“Which blows the cops’ motive?”
“No, because Timberlaine was angry. Which means he was acting like he believed there was a tipoff. I can show it’s stupid, but in the end it’s really my client I’m showing who’s stupid.”
“Right,” Taylor said. “So that’s the worst case scenario? The cops grab Timberlaine and make a case he shot this guy out of spite?”
“Oh,” Steve said.
Taylor looked at him sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well,” Steve said. “Actually, there’s a slightly worse scenario, Mark.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Well, Timberlaine’s been shooting off his mouth a lot.”
“Yeah. So?
“And he’s claiming the gun found next to the body was stolen from him a week ago.”
“I don’t think I wanna hear this,” Taylor said.
“Probably not. Anyway, to back up his claim, Timberlaine whips out the test bullets you had your expert compare. The one he gave us matches the murder weapon just fine. But the one fired from the gun he gave us doesn’t happen to match the gun he’s got now, and the cops want to know why not.”
Taylor thought that over. He nodded glumly. “I was right. I didn’t wanna hear that.”
16.
MARK TAYLOR CONSULTED HIS notebook, punched in a number. “Never seen such a big house with so few phones,” he said.
His claim was justified. There were no phones in any of the guests rooms, hallways, or public rooms of the mansion. They were using the one Tracy had used to call him, which was located in a small office alcove on the first floor.
“Hello, it’s me,” Taylor said. “You got anything?” He listened a moment. “When’d you talk to him? ... Uh-huh. Give me the number ... O.K., good work.” He broke the connection, punched in another number. “Got a lead,” he said.
“Oh?” Steve said.
“Yeah. It’s indirect. Operative who knows a reporter.” Into the phone Taylor said, “Fred, it’s me. What you got?” He listened a moment, said, “Aces, where’s he now? ... He gonna call you back? ... How soon? ... Fine, hang in there, I’ll get back to you.” Taylor hung up the phone, said, “That’s a break.”
“Oh?”
“We got a crime reporter for the Daily News, covers this county. Fred tipped him off to the murder. TV crews haven’t got here yet, so it’s still a hot tip, the guy’s gotta be grateful. Even though he didn’t need it.”
Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The guy already had the tip when Fred called. Guy’s got a source, you see. Inside track.”
Steve grinned. “No shit.”
“None. The guy got the tip, was just fixin’ to leave when my man caught him. Anyway, he promised to call back.”
“Who is this guy?
“Reporter named Harold Coleman.”
“You know him?”
“Never met him, but my man says he’s all right.” Taylor leaned back in the chair and stretched. “So what you wanna do now?”
At that moment the door was flung open by a uniformed officer. The officer was young, aggressive and not taking any chances. He had his gun out. “All right,” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?”
“Unarmed civilians,” Steve said. “At least I think we are.” He turned to Tracy. “You aren’t carrying a gun tonight, are you, dear?”
The officer flushed slightly, but was not about to be put off. “What are you people doing here?”
“Making a phone call,” Steve said. “There’s no phone in the dining room.”
“You’re not supposed to be making phone calls.”
“Is that right?” Steve said. He smiled. “We’re sorry. We didn’t know that.”
“You were told not to leave the dining room. Now come on. Let’s go.”
“Certainly,” Steve said. “Mark. Tracy. Come on. Let’s not argue with the man. After all, he has a gun.”
They went out the door and walked down the long hallway to the dining room. Steve tried to lead Mark and Tracy inside, but the young officer wasn’t falling for it. He stopped them at the door.
“Wait here,” he said. To the officer at the door he said, “Keep an eye on these three.”
He turned and walked off down the hallway in the direction of the gun-examining rooms. A few minutes later he was back with Lieutenant Sanders.
Sanders raised his eyebrows. “So,” he said. “These are the people making the phone calls? What a surprise.”
“You have no reason to hold us,” Steve said.
“Material witnesses to a murder? I beg to differ.” Sanders’s eyes fixed on Mark Taylor. “And who, might I ask, are you?”
“Mark Taylor,” Steve said. “Mark, let me introduce Lieutenant Sanders.”
“This is hardly a social situation,” Sanders said. “I wasn’t asking for an introduction. I want an explanation. I haven’t seen you before. Who are you? Are you one of the guests?”
&
nbsp; “Mark Taylor happens to be my detective,” Steve said.
“Your detective? You brought a detective along for the weekend?”
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t think so. You just arrived, didn’t you, Mr. Taylor?”
Taylor frowned. “That depends what you mean by just.”
“Yeah. Right,” Sanders said. “Fulton,” he barked.
The officer at the dining room door looked up. “Sir?”
“I don’t mean to comment on the job you’re doing,” Sanders said sarcastically. “But we’ve got people arriving, people leaving, people making phone calls, people slipping out and having rendezvous—are you keeping track of all this?”
Fulton looked uncomfortable. “Sir,” he said.
“How about the rest of the guests? You having any trouble keeping them in here?”
“As a matter of fact,” Fulton said, “I believe the staff is about to serve dinner.”
“Excellent idea,” Sanders said. “You see these three people? I want you to notice them particularly. Remember their faces. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, these three people—you know what I think? I think they look hungry. Do me a favor and see that they have some dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sanders turned on his heel and stalked off.
Fulton glowered at them.
Steve smiled and shrugged. “Well, gang. Let’s eat.”
17.
MARK TAYLOR THREADED HIS way through the tables across the dining room to the far corner where Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin stood. Steve had given him the high sign, otherwise Mark would have been perfectly happy to remain at his table and have dessert. Unable to resist, he had scooped up the rich wedge of chocolate layer cake, and was munching on it as he went.
Taylor walked up to them, chewed twice, swallowed and said, “What’s up?”
“I hate to interrupt your dinner,” Steve said, “but we have this murder on our hands.”
“Don’t be a grouse,” Taylor said. “If we’re stuck here, we should eat. Didn’t you eat?”
“We’ve been interviewing witnesses,” Tracy said.
“No excuse for not eating. I bet I interviewed more than both of you combined.”
“Oh, yeah?” Steve said.
Taylor shrugged. “Hey, you said I could tell ’em who I am. I sat down at a crowded table, told ’em I was a private detective, and people fell all over themselves wanting to talk to me. I not only got those people, I had them runnin’ around grabbin’ people and bringin’ ’em over. Didn’t you see me?”
“I saw you stuffing your face.”
“Hey, if you didn’t eat, you got no one to blame but yourself.”
Taylor shoved the last bit of cake in his mouth, licked his fingers, then reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook. “I got names, addresses, stories, what have you. I had dinner and I still talked to more people than you.”
“So what’d you learn?”
“The prime rib is fabulous. Timberlaine may be a murderer, but the man sets a hell of a table.”
“Mark.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” Taylor flipped open his notebook. “I got two kinds of people here. People with the check are people who have already been interrogated by the police. People without the check haven’t.”
“What have you got?”
“Nothing helpful. At least, nothing I know that’s helpful. When I get it all typed up you can go over it. For right now, there’s nothing that jumps out and grabs you. I got everybody’s alibi and they’re all pretty much the same. After the auction, they either went out on the patio where there was a bar set up, or they went up to their room, or they just hung out in the grand ballroom. Usually a combination of the three.
“Now, as far as Timberlaine’s concerned, practically everyone recalls seein’ him stalk out of the auction. No one remembers seein’ him between that time and the time you guys found the body.” Taylor winced. “Gee, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Maybe I should just say, the time the body was found.”
“Let’s not get hung up on semantics, Mark.”
“Right. Or legalities, technicalities, or whatever. Anyway, no one remembers seein’ him.
“Now, Potter, it’s a different story. Most people can’t remember seein’ him at the auction at all. Those that do remember, aren’t that sure about it. And none of ’em saw him leave. So the bottom line is, I can’t prove he was even there.”
Steve frowned.
“What about you?” Taylor said. “You got a definite eyewitness?”
Tracy smiled. “We were just talking about it. We were hoping you would.”
“Oh?”
“That’s why we called you over,” Steve said. “We can’t find anyone either.”
“Well, neither can I. Can I go back now? They’re serving coffee.”
“Jesus, Mark.”
“Well, it’s probably good coffee, not the lousy shit you get on the corner.”
“You mind giving me the rest of your report first?”
“That’s basically it. Everyone saw Timberlaine, no one saw Potter and no one went near the gun room at any time after the auction.”
“How about before the auction?”
“Huh?”
“Well, if no one saw Potter at the auction, he could have been shot before it.”
Taylor’s face fell. “Shit, Steve. Give me a break. Besides, I got people thought they saw him at the auction.”
“I know. Depending on when they fix the time of death, those people may or may not be important.”
Melvin Burdett pushed his way past the officer at the door, looked around the dining room, spotted them and bustled over.
“They just interrogated me,” Burdett said. “That lieutenant—what’s his name?”
“Sanders.”
“That’s the one. I don’t like him. The man is obnoxious.”
Steve kept a straight face. “Oh?” he said.
“His manner’s insulting. As if he didn’t believe you.”
“What did he ask you?”
“If I saw Potter, and if Potter tipped me off.”
“Tipped you off?”
“To the gun. To the damn stupid gun. To the cavalry piece.”
“He wanted to know if Potter tipped you off about the gun?”
“Yeah. To the fact Russ was going to bid.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him? I said no way. Potter’s a professional. No pro would do a thing like that.”
“Potter didn’t tip you off?”
“I just said he didn’t.”
“Then how’d you know Timberlaine was going to bid on the gun?”
Burdett made a face. “Give me a break. A child of four knew Russ was going to bid on the gun.”
“Is that what you told Sanders?”
“Sure I did. And the son of a bitch doesn’t believe me.”
“What else did he ask you?”
“Did I see Potter at the auction.”
“Did you?”
“No. And he doesn’t believe that either. He says if I bought rare guns, I’d want Potter to check ’em out.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The man’s a moron. You don’t check out guns after you bid on ’em. You check ’em out before. I mean, the guy may not know anything about guns, but he’s a cop, he should know how to think. What, he thinks I buy a gun and then have someone check it out to see what I bought?”
“So you didn’t see Potter at the auction?”
“No.”
“You didn’t notice if he was there?”
“Why should I? It’s got nothing to do with me.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you if you saw Timberlaine leave the auction?”
“Of course he did.”
“And did you?”
“Of co
urse I did. I just bought the gun, of course I’m going to look to see how he took it.”
“You surprised when he stormed out?”
“Not at all. Russ has a temper. He hates to lose.”
“What about you?”
“What?”
“Do you hate to lose?”
Burdett smiled. “Are you kidding? Everyone hates to lose. Now look, you gotta do something.”
“What?” Steve said.
“You’re Timberlaine’s lawyer, right? Well, this cop, this lieutenant’s all screwed up, thinks Russ did it. Ridiculous. Russ wouldn’t hurt a fly. Now, I hate to say this about our host, but the man’s a little naive, you know? Like thinking I wouldn’t know he wanted that gun. Anyway, this cop’s talking like he thinks Russ did it, and Russ isn’t going to believe that could happen to him, and he’s apt to walk into something, you know?”
“I sure do.”
“So you gotta shut him up before he hurts himself.”
“You like to suggest how?”
Burdett grinned. “That’s a problem, isn’t it? Russ doesn’t take kindly to suggestions. So how the hell you gonna protect him?”
“Do you think Timberlaine killed Potter?”
“Of course not.”
“Fine,” Steve said. “Then someone else did. All I gotta do is find out who.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“By asking questions. Tell me, what did you do from the time the auction was over to the time the body was found.”
Burdett grinned. “Right, right. You mean I’m a suspect. O.K., let’s see. I went up on stage, verified my purchases and wrote checks.”
“You take possession of the guns you bought?”
Burdett shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Russ’s rules. Dealers retain possession of the guns sold at auction until such time as the purchasers leave.”
“Why is that?”
“Security reasons. Russ doesn’t want to be liable for a guest having a gun stolen from his room. Dealers retain possession and the collections are locked in the safe.”
“What safe?”
“This huge safe in Timberlaine’s office. My guns are there now.”
“O.K.,” Steve said. “So you went up on stage, wrote checks for the guns and then what?”