He turned and led the way toward the doors. They opened into a wide oak-paneled hallway, where a butler took our coats. The hall was lined with portraits of ladies and gentlemen in the dress of periods dating back as far as Restoration times. In between the portraits were cases with antique firearms of various sorts, many very ornate, others distinctly unpretentious and workmanlike. A stairway at the end led up to a paneled second floor, but Sir Denis took us into a door to the left, and we found ourselves in a very comfortably appointed sitting room, with a large bookshelf at one end.
Under the window sat a tray with glasses, a liquor bottle, and a siphon. Sir Denis gestured and said, “I thought whisky would be the thing on a cold afternoon like today, but I’ve sherry if you’d rather. Or I can have Cook make something warm.”
“Whisky’s fine,” said Mr. Clemens, and (not wanting to make special trouble) I followed suit. Sir Denis poured, we saluted one another and took a sip, and then Mr. Clemens continued. “We don’t want to be like those fellows who make you want to kick ’em, so I’ll come right to the point. People tell me you know as much about guns as any man in England.”
“Oh, hardly,” said Sir Denis, but I could see that he was flattered. “I’m just an amateur, you know—I’ve put a bit of a collection together over the years, starting with some things my father left me, and his father before that. I’m rather proud to say that every single piece I own is in working condition—I’ve test-fired them all myself. But I won’t pretend to know half what some other chaps do, especially on the military side. Still, if there’s something I’ve found out that might be of use, it’d be my pleasure to share it with you. What’s the question?”
“You ought to be able to figure that out,” said Mr. Clemens. “In fact, I reckon you can give me a lot better answer than any of those other chaps you were talking about, because for this one you don’t have to rely on somebody else’s story to know what went on. What kind of gun doesn’t make any noise when you shoot it—and then vanishes into thin air?”
22
“A gun that doesn’t make a noise?” Sir Denis DeCoursey wrinkled his forehead, and stared at Mr, Clemens over his whisky glass, then suddenly exclaimed, “By Jove! I see what you’re after, Clemens. Of course, that dreadful business at the sitting.”
“Yes,” said my employer. “We all assumed that the noise of the séance covered up the bang of the gun. But there’s another explanation, which is that the gun didn’t make any bang.”
“I think you’re onto something,” said Sir Denis, “I was so caught up in the rush of events—seeing poor Dr. Parkhurst shot down, right there at the table—that I didn’t ask the question at the time.”
“Well, it’s not to late to ask it,” said Mr. Clemens. “If you can answer it, you may help us find the killer. I don’t think the police are likely to find it. They’re still barking up the wrong tree. But let’s assume it’s not a regular gun—what are the possibilities?”
“Well, those are two different points,” said Sir Denis, rubbing his chin. “As for the first, a gun needn’t use gunpowder, so there needn’t be any great bang. Gunpowder gives the most speed and distance, but it’s not essential. And for the second, there are probably as many ways to conceal a gun as there are guns. Let me show you what I mean.”
We followed him across the hallway to another room, full of gun racks and display cases. I’d never seen so many firearms in one room, with the possible exception of the armory in Boston, which one of my uncles had taken me to visit when I was a boy. Sir Denis took us to a wooden case in which were displayed several military-looking weapons—rifles, I assumed. He pointed to a large one in the middle of the case. “See that great ugly piece? As deadly as anything you’ll see here, but it barely makes enough sound to startle a sleeping baby.”
My employer leaned over to look at the weapon. “That thing? Jesus, it looks like a cannon. Tell me about it.”
“That’s an Austrian weapon from Wellington’s time. It was a sniper’s weapon—quite accurate for its time, practically inaudible even at short range, and smokeless, too, of course. The Frenchies used to execute any soldier they caught carrying one, on grounds that he must be an assassin.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Mr. Clemens. “But how’s it silent? Or smokeless, for that matter.”
“There’s no smoke and no report because it doesn’t use gunpowder,” said Sir Denis. “This is a compressed air rifle, about fifty caliber—they used a large bullet to make up for the slightly lower velocity.”
“Compressed air!” Mr. Clemens peered at the weapon more intently. “Sure, I should have thought of that myself. There was an air-rifle factory in Hartford until just a few years ago, when they switched from making rifles to making bicycles. It wouldn’t surprise me if the damned bicycles killed more people than the rifles.”
“I’ve seen those Hartford air guns,” said Sir Denis. He took a sip of his whisky, then continued. “Shouldn’t rightly call them rifles, since they’re smoothbores, but very respectable workmanship. Small-game weapons, though, not up to military standards. Now, here’s another air gun in this next case . . .”
He showed us two or three more compressed-air weapons, ranging in size from the Austrian sniper gun to very compact air pistols. “A lady could have one of these in her purse and nobody’d be the wiser,” he pointed out. “Of course, any kind of search would spot it in a flash. But let me show you some other items here . . .”
He went to a cabinet on the far side of the room, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drawer. “I keep these locked up, because they’re just the sort of thing I wouldn’t want to get into the wrong hands. A regular gun’s dangerous enough, but at least if you see somebody with a gun, you’re on your guard. Now I’m going to show you some real assassin’s weapons . . .”
He took out a leather-bound book, and I thought he intended to show us an engraving of some weapon until I saw the title: Ovid’s Metamorphoses Surely this could have nothing to do with firearms. Imagine my surprise when he opened the cover to reveal that the insides had been cut away to make room for a small pistol! “Clever, eh?” he said. “You could walk right up to anyone, carrying this. And if you press the center of the capital O on the spine, it drops the hammer.”
“I’ll be tarred and feathered,” said Mr. Clemens, laughing. “It’s Clara’s book! I’ll have to tell her she may have been right after all.”
Sir Denis looked at him with a perplexed expression, and Mr. Clemens went on to explain. “At dinner last night, we were speculating about the murder, and my daughter Clara suggested that the killer might have smuggled in a gun into the séance in a hollowed-out book. I threw cold water on the idea, and of course, now you shove one right into my hands! That’ll teach me.” He paused a second, then added, “Maybe I’d better be careful next time somebody comes up to me with a book to sign, too!”
“Oh, nobody would be such a philistine to hollow out the pages of anything you wrote,” said Sir Denis, smiling. “Now, if it were some socialist tract, it would be a blessing to humanity . . . but you can see what I mean. Now, have a look at this.” He took out what looked like a stout walking stick with several silver ferrules.
“Don’t tell me there’s a gun in that,” said Mr. Clemens.
“Yes indeed,” said Sir Denis, touching one of the ferrules. A small hatch popped open. “Here’s where you load it.” He touched another point, and a recognizable trigger dropped into view. He then reached up and unscrewed the end ferrule with a quick twist, and revealed the end of the barrel. He handed it to Mr. Clemens, who examined it, holding it to his shoulder as if sighting.
“This is the damnedest thing,” he said at last, shaking his head. “I notice it takes a little time to get it set up, though.” He handed it over to me, and I inspected it.
“Yes, good point,” said Sir Denis. “They call this a ‘poacher’s stick.’ A fellow can’t carry a gun into the woods without people taking notice, but a walking stick lo
oks harmless enough. Of course, any clever game warden knows to look for them, nowadays. But an assassin could bring this into a theater or a lecture hall and very few would blink an eye at him. Its main shortcoming is poor accuracy at any range much over twenty yards. He’d want a steady rest for the barrel to hit a target at any range beyond that. But if he had time to set up unwatched—say, in a private box—it’d serve the purpose. It’s absolutely illegal to have one of these, you know. Even I could get into a spot of trouble for owning this if I weren’t a recognized collector.”
While he was talking I had put the cane to my shoulder and sighted down the barrel. I touched the trigger, and there was a loud click. “Don’t do that!” Sir Denis snapped. His jovial expression vanished.
“Why not?” I said. “It isn’t loaded.”
He wagged a finger at me sternly. “You shouldn’t take my word for it,” he said. “Always inspect the weapon yourself before you touch the trigger, and never point it at anything you don’t wish to shoot. You shouldn’t pull the trigger indoors, in any case. I don’t know how many men have been killed, or badly hurt, by guns somebody thought weren’t loaded.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said contritely. “I really haven’t much experience with guns. I’ll know better, now.”
“I hope so,” said Sir Denis, somewhat mollified. “Just remember, never touch a trigger unless you want to shoot something—or someone.”
“I’m beginning to see the possibilities for our killer,” said Mr. Clemens, returning to our original subject. “If somebody disguised one of those air guns as something else . . .”
“There you have it,” said Sir Denis, nodding, “But there’s another way it could have been done.” He pointed to the table in the center of the room, where there were several leather-bound books held together by a set of heavy antique brass bookends, a pen and inkwell, and a pair of ornate silver candelabra. A tastefully carved wooden chair with a cushioned seat sat by the table. “See if you can find a gun there.”
Mr. Clemens went over to the table and picked up one of the books. “You showed us one book with a gun inside it, so that’d be my first guess,” he said. But when he opened the covers, it was an ordinary book, with engravings of various firearms accompanying the text.
“Never mind the books,” said Sir Denis, chuckling. “They’re part of my reference collection. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer—lift up the chair cushion.”
“Really?” said Mr. Clemens, picking it up. Under the cushion there was an inlaid wooden seat. “Now what?”
“Watch,” said Sir Denis, He pushed down on one side of the inlay, and it opened to reveal a small cut-out depression—in which a pistol rested. “It’s an exact copy of an Italian piece from the last century. The original is in Bologna, at the home of a minor nobleman.”
“What is the use of such a thing?” I asked. “Did the Italians make a custom of inviting their enemies to dinner and dispatching them there?”
“I believe this was a defensive weapon in the main,” said Sir Denis. “In those days it was wise to have a few hidden assets, and the local duce who commissioned this is supposed to have had weapons concealed all over his villa. The idea wasn’t original with him, I assure you—I’ve several pieces you can see later if we’ve time, some very clever. The joke is, the pistol did him no good in the end—the silly fellow fell into a lake and drowned himself.
“But there’s another point I wanted to make,” he said, pointing his forefinger at Mr. Clemens. “Your ordinary criminal wants his victim to know he’s armed, to intimidate him and discourage resistance. But your assassin needs to get close enough to the victim to take him off his guard, and that’s where hidden weapons like the ones you’ve seen here come into play.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “That makes sense. So whoever shot the doctor went to a hell of a lot of trouble. Which means somebody with a long-standing grudge.”
“I still find it hard to believe that any sort of gun could have been fired within a few feet of us without anyone hearing it,” I said. “Wouldn’t even one of these air guns make enough of a pop for us to hear it in a closed room?”
“Well, seeing’s believing,” said Sir Denis. “Or I suppose it’s hearing, in this case. I’ve got a bit of ammunition for that big Austrian air gun. Let’s take it out to my target range and shoot it off so you can judge for yourself.”
“Good idea,” said my employer. “Then all three of us can decide whether we heard anything like it the night of the murder.”
“We’ll do it straightaway,” said Sir Denis. “Tell you what, I’ll have Smollett fetch the coats while you go finish your drinks. Brace yourselves against the chill, you know? I’ll take a moment to run a cleaning rod through the air gun before we shoot it, just to be on the safe side. Then I’ll join you directly.”
“Fair enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen whisky go bad from sitting around, but who wants to take the chance?”
“There’s a man after my own heart,” said Sir Denis, with a laugh. He clapped Mr. Clemens heartily on the back, then led us back to the sitting room where he had poured us drinks. He took a moment to finish his own drink, then went out for a few minutes. When he returned, he was wearing a shooting jacket and carrying the big air rifle. “Ready when you are,” he said.
My employer and I put on our coats, which the butler had brought us during Sir Denis’s absence. Then we followed Sir Denis down a long hallway to the rear of the building. On the way, we got a more extended look at the building and its furnishings. I must say it was everything I expected of an English lord’s home. He gave us a bit of running commentary on some of what we saw, mainly the portraits of some of his ancestors. “That’s Sir Roger, who was at Charles Second’s court. Used to go out drinking and wenching with Rochester, they say—not that I consider that any great distinction.”
“No, since half the court apparently did it,” said Mr. Clemens. “But perhaps your ancestor at least had enough sense not to write poetry about it.”
“If he did, he was sensible enough to keep it out of print,” said Sir Denis, with a wink. “For all I know, there’s trunks full of it somewhere around the place. If any turned up, I expect I’d have it burned. Can’t always trust posterity to have good sense.”
“I reckon you can’t,” Mr. Clemens agreed. “It’s a rare enough commodity at present. No guarantee the next generation will have any more than we do now. Though I suppose I’m lucky; my girls seem to have more sense than their father.”
“Ah, I envy you,” said Sir Denis, shaking his head. “We lost poor little Emily quite a few years ago. Alice was heartbroken; she hasn’t really been the same since. That’s partly why she began to take an interest in spiritualism, to get in touch with the hereafter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Clemens quietly. “Livy and I lost a son, little Langdon, not long after our marriage. A terrible thing to lose a child.”
“Yes, so you can understand,” said Sir Denis. “Now, we’ll go down this stair—this was rebuilt in George Second’s time, after a fire. Luckily it was put out before it spread. The portrait up there is my great-great-grandmother, Lady Caroline, by Joshua Reynolds. She was quite a beauty in her day, as you can see . . .”
We went downstairs to a less ornately decorated part of the home, out into a sort of shed. It was full of dirty boots, riding gear, and other outdoor items. Despite its humble function, even this room showed a quality of craftsmanship and finish far superior to what one would expect in an American home. How many generations of DeCoursey baronets and their retainers had used this room to dress for riding or hunting? It was almost beyond my imagination.
Outside, we followed a gravel path through a perfectly groomed lawn. We passed a bit of garden, followed a path that led behind the stables, and found ourselves at last in a roughly rectangular area about fifty yards across, bordered on one side by an apple orchard and on the other by woodland. At the far end was a steep gravel
bank, and at various distances in front of that were wooden frames for tacking up targets. In the near corners were spring-loaded catapults for hurling clay pigeons into the air for target practice. Sir Denis’s shooting range, obviously.
“Here we are,” said Sir Denis. “This’ll be fun—I’ve not had the chance to fire this one for some years, now. Give me a minute, and let’s put up a target or two so I can check its sights, while we’re at it.” He pulled a few pieces of folded paper out of his pocket.
“I’ll put those up if you’ll tell me where,” I said.
“There’s a good lad,” said Sir Denis. “Why don’t you put one up at twenty-five yards—that’s the first stand, there—and another at fifty. That’ll be long enough to find out what I want to know today.”
I walked down the range, attached the targets to the stands (there were small metal pins there to hold them in place), and trotted back to join the two older men. Sir Denis nodded and said, “Perfect! Now I’ll ask you two to stand off a few feet, and I’ll try a shot or two.”
Mr. Clemens and I stepped back a pace or two, and watched Sir Denis pump a long lever that I assumed must compress the air the weapon used. After three or four pumps he was evidently satisfied; he said, “Heads up, ready on the firing line,” lifted the air gun to his shoulder, and pointed it at his target. There was a moment of anticipation while he sighted, then I heard a soft sound like a wine bottle being uncorked. The thwack! as the bullet hit the wooden frame, twenty-five yards away, was almost as loud as the report of the gun.
“That is quiet,” said Mr. Clemens, clearly impressed. “Still, I think I might have heard it if there weren’t some other noise to mask it. What do you think, Wentworth?”
“I probably could have heard it if I’d known what I was listening for,” I said. “Not expecting it, I can’t say for certain I’d have noticed it.”
The Guilty Abroad Page 24