“Blanks?” he asked his father.
The Inspector extracted one of the bullets and examined it. Then he removed the others. “Yep.”
Ellery carefully returned them to their chambers and snapped the cylinder back into place.
“This revolver was Horne’s, I suppose,” he asked Grant, “and not your property? I mean, it isn’t one of the rodeo weapons?”
“Buck’s,” growled Grant. “Prime fav’rite with him. Had it — an’ the pistol belt — fer twenty-odd years.”
“Hmmm,” said Ellery absently; he was absorbed in a study of the barrel. That the gun had been used a great deal was evident; it barrel was rubbed smooth at the tip, as was the peak of the sight. He transferred his attention to the butt. It was the most curious feature of the weapon. Both sides were inlaid with ivory — single pieces which had been carved in a steer’s-head design, the center of which in each case was an oval, elaborately monogrammed H. The ivory inlays were worn and yellow with age, except for a narrow portion on the right sight of the butt; as Ellery held the revolver in his left hand, this patch of lighter ivory came between the tips of his curled fingers and the heel of his hand. He stared long and hard at it. Then he twirled the revolver thoughtfully and handed the gun to his father.
“You might include this piece of artillery with the other suspected weapons, dad,” he said. “Just as a matter of precaution. You can never tell what these ballistic johnnies will dig up.”
The Inspector grunted, took the revolver, gazed at it gloomily for a moment, and then turned it over to a detective with a nod. It was at this moment that there was movement at the eastern gate, and the detectives now on guard opened the big doors to admit a number of men.
Heading the little procession was a gigantic individual in plainclothes, with a face that seemed composed of overlapping plates of steel, and a thunderous step that outraged the tanbark. This Goliath was Sergeant Velie, Inspector Queen’s favorite assistant; a man of few words and mighty, if mentally uninspired, deeds.
He bestowed a professional glance at the corpse, eyed the vast amphitheatre above his head with its thousands of buzzing, weary occupants, and rubbed his mastadonic jaw.
“Hot stuff, Chief.” His voice was the voice of a bull-fiddle. “Exits?”
“Ah, Thomas,” said the Inspector with a relieved smile. “Another one of these rush-hour murders. Relieve the police at the exits and station our own men. Send the officers back to their regular posts or duties.”
“Nobody out?”
“Not a living soul ’til I give the word.”
Sergeant Velie barged awesomely away.
“Hagstrom. Flint. Ritter. Johnson, Piggott. Stand by.”
Five men of his own squad, who had accompanied Velie, nodded. There was professional joy in their eyes as they saw the magnitude of the task before them.
“Where’s that rodeo doctor?” said the Inspector crisply.
The shabby rugged old man with the earnest eyes stepped forward. “I’m the rodeo medic,” he said slowly. “Hancock is my name.”
“Good! Come here, Doc.”
The physician moved nearer the body.
“Now tell me all you know about this business.”
“All I know?” Dr. Hancock seemed slightly alarmed.
“I mean — you examined him a few seconds after he fell, didn’t you? What’s the verdict?”
Dr. Hancock stared soberly at the crumpled figure on the floor. “There’s not much to tell. When I ran over here, he was already dead... Dead! Only today I examined him and found him in perfectly good condition.”
“Died instantly?”
“I should say so.”
“Dead before he hit the ground, hey?”
“Why... yes, I believe so.”
“Then he didn’t feel those horses steppin’ all over him,” said the Inspector, groping for his snuff-box. “That’s a consolation! How many bullet wounds?”
Dr. Hancock blinked. “You must remember that mine was a cursory examination... One wound. Directly through the heart in a leftward direction.”
“Hmm. You familiar with gunshot wounds?”
“Ought to be,” said the rodeo doctor grimly. “I’m an old Western myself.”
“Well, what’s the calibre of the bullet in his pumper, Doc?”
Dr. Hancock did not reply for a moment. He looked directly into the Inspector’s eyes. “Now, that’s a curious thing, sir. Very curious. I haven’t probed — I know you’ll want your Medical Examiner’s physician to do that — but I’d swear from the size of the hole that he was shot with a .22 or .25 calibre!”
“A .22—” began Wild Bill Grant harshly, and stopped.
The Inspector’s bright little eyes swept from physician to showman. “Well,” he said suspiciously. “And what’s so remarkable about that?”
“The .22 and .25, Inspector,” replied Dr. Hancock with a little quiver of his lips, “are not Western weapons. Surely you know that?”
“Really?” said Ellery unexpectedly.
Grant’s eyes were glowing with a joyful light. “I tell you,” he cried, “there ain’t a pea-shooter in my armory, Inspector! An’ not a boy or girl in my show totes one!”
“Pea-shooters, hey?” said the Inspector genially.
“That’s what they are — pea-shooters!”
“But,” continued the Inspector in a dry voice, “because your people don’t carry .22’s, Mr. Grant, as a usual thing, doesn’t say that one of ’em didn’t carry a .22 tonight. Wasn’t usual at all, tonight’s business. No, sir. Besides, you know as well as I do that there are a number of big models that use .22 ammunition.” He shook his head sadly. “And then the Lord knows how easy it is to buy a rod these days. No, Mr. Grant, I’m afraid we can’t clear the slate of your bunch just on that account... That’s all, Dr. Hancock?”
“That’s all,” replied the physician in a small voice.
“Thanks. My own man, Doc Prouty, will be here soon. I don’t think we’ll need you any more, Dr. Hancock. Suppose you join that crew of... of... Geronimo, is this New York or isn’t it? — of cowboys over there!”
Dr. Hancock humbly retreated, clutching his little bag, the earnest light still in his eyes.
The body, being cold and rapidly stiffening clay, was left where it was, to the mercy of twenty thousand pairs of resentful eyes. Of Tony Mars, standing by in utter quietude, masticating a cigar so shredded and pulpy that little bits of it stuck brownly and wetly to his thin lips, the Inspector demanded information.
“Where the devil can we go for a heart-to-heart talk, Tony? Time’s come to ask some questions, and I don’t feel like doing it in front of half the population of Brooklyn and Manhattan. Where’s the nearest cubbyhole?”
“I’ll show you,” said Mars tightly, and began to march off.
“Just a minute. Thomas! Where’s Thomas?”
Sergeant Velie, who had the uncanny faculty of seeming to be in two places at the same time, materialized at the Inspector’s side.
“Come along, Thomas. You guerrillas,” snapped the Inspector to his five stalwarts, “you stick around here. Mr. Grant, you join us. Piggott, get that angel-haired cowboy — Curly Grant — and Miss Horne from among that gang over there.”
Mars led the way to one of the small exits on the south wall of the oval; the Inspector clucked something, and the detective on duty opened the door. They emerged into a vast underground chamber with tiny rooms branching off, and it was to one of these that Mars went, the group at his heels. It proved to be a minor office, perhaps of a watchman or a time-keeper.
“Ellery, shut that door,” growled the Inspector. “Thomas, no one’s to get in here.” He appropriated one of the two chairs in the room, sat down, inhaled snuff, smoothed his neat gray trousers, and waved his hand at Kit Horne, who was clutching the back of a chair. She was not dazed now; some emetic Curly Grant had applied to her shock had brought it out of her; but she was extremely quiet and, it seemed to Ellery, watchful. “Sit down, sit down, Miss Horne,” said the Inspector in a kindly tone. “You must be tired.” She sat down. “Now, Mr. Grant, let’s get together,” went on the old man more crisply. “We’re alone, we’re all friends here, and you can speak your mind. Any suggestions?”