The conical slug exhibited an almost virgin shape. It was a tiny thing, remarkably harmless in appearance, and the blood coating seemed nothing more sinister than red paint.
“Went in pretty clean,” growled Dr. Prouty, chewing his cigar with energy. “Smack through the pumper. Nice hole, too. Didn’t even crack a rib on the way in; just glanced off.”
Ellery turned the bullet over his fingers, his eyes far away.
“Anything else of interest?” demanded the Inspector glumly.
“Nothing much. Four snapped ribs, sternum smashed, arms and legs broken in several places, skull kicked in — you saw all that, I suppose — nothing that wouldn’t be accounted for by the trampling of the horses that Sergeant of yours was telling me about on my way in.”
“No other wound of any kind — I mean knife or gun?”
“Nope.”
“Death instantaneous?”
“He was deader’n an iced mackerel when he hit the ground.”
“You say,” said Ellery slowly, “that the bullet left a clean hole, Doctor. Clean enough to give evidence of the angle of entry?”
“I was coming to that,” mumbled Dr. Prouty. “You betcha. That piece of lead entered his body from the right — that is, going toward the left — on a downward line, making an angle of thirty degrees with the floor.”
“Downward line!” cried the Inspector; he stared, and then began to hop up and down on one leg. “Fine. Fine! Sam, you’re a honey, a life-saver — best old scoundrel that ever played poker. Downward line, hey? Thirty degrees, hey? By God, El, now we have got an excuse for holding that mob up there! The lowest tier is at least ten feet from the floor of the arena, where Horne was when he was shot. And even in a sitting or crouching position the murderer would be three-four feet higher than that... Thirteen-fourteen feet. Audience, hey? Oh, this is great!”
Dr. Prouty, unruffled by this professional admiration, sat down, scrawled some hieroglyphics on a printed slip, and handed it to the Inspector. “For the Public Welfare gang. They’ll be here any minute now to cart the stiff away. Want an autopsy?”
“Think it’s necessary?”
“No.”
“Then hold one,” said the Inspector grimly. “I’m taking no chances.”
“All right, all right, you old fuss-budget,” said Dr. Prouty indifferently.
“And,” said Ellery, “pay particular attention to the contents of his stomach, Doctor.”
“Stomach?” echoed the Inspector blankly.
“Stomach,” said Ellery.
“Right,” growled Dr. Prouty, and strolled out.
The Inspector turned to Ellery, and saw that Ellery was still gazing with rapt and ardent eyes at the bloody bullet.
“Well, what’s the matter now?” demanded the old man.
Ellery regarded his father sadly. “When was the last time you visited the movies, you incorrigible old realist?”
The Inspector started. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“You remember a few months ago we went to that neighborhood theatre at Djuna’s solicitation and saw what the management so ingeniously called a ‘double-feature’?”
“Well?”
“What was the — ah — lesser of the two attractions, so to speak?”
“Some Western trash — Sa-a-ay! Kit Horne was in that picture, El!”
“Indeed she was.” Ellery gazed intently at the bullet in his hand. “And do you remember the scene in that great cinema epic in which the beauteous heroine, galumphing down the hillside on — yes, it was Rawhide, by thunder the same horse! plucked her six-shooter from her holster and—”
“And shot the strands of the rope through, the rope the villain was hanging the hero with?” cried the Inspector excitedly.
“And did that very thing.”
The Inspector grew glum. “That must have been a movie trick. Easy enough to fake it. They do all sorts of things out there.”
“Perhaps. But you’ll recall that the camera snapped the scene from behind Miss Horne; she was distinctly visible all the time, as were the revolver in her hand and the rope she was shooting at. Nevertheless, I grant the possibility of a trick—”
“Darned decent of you. What of it, anyway?”
“I wonder, now... Kit Horne was brought up — from childhood, mind — on a ranch in those great interstices — I beg your pardon, open spaces. Her guardian, the redoubtable Buck, was an expert marksman. Impossible to believe, under the circumstances, that Buck wouldn’t have schooled her in marksmanship as well as those other desperate accomplishments of hers. Hmm... And that young Lochinvar of ours — Curly, who comes out of the West all shiny and curly and heroic. Did you notice the facility with which he popped little glass balls out of existence by means of his trusty cannon? Yes, yes! And as for his sire, the great impresario of horse spectacles — where did I hear that he’d been one of the most famous United States Marshals of the last century, fighting desperadoes and redskins in the Indian Territory?”
“What the dickens you driving at?” groaned the Inspector, and then his eyes grew very round. “By ginger, El! Come to think of it — the box where we sat, Mars’s box — must have been pretty well in the line of fire! Downward angle of thirty degrees, Sam makes it... Cripes, yes! That would just about place it in the audience somewhere, rotten as I am in arithmetic. Shot through the left side into the heart as his horse rounded the turn — tightens it, son, tightens it!” He stopped suddenly, and grew very thoughtful.
Ellery surveyed his father through narrowed lids, juggling the little painted bullet carelessly. “What a beautiful crime this is,” he murmured. “What finesse, what daring, what superb coolness in the execution...”
“What I can’t see, though,” muttered the Inspector, unheeding, as he began to chew a strand of his mustache, “is how anyone could have shot so close. We didn’t hear—”
“What is required? One death. What is utilized? One bullet. Short, precise, mechanical — very sweet, altogether. Eh?” Ellery smiled dryly as his father began to exhibit unmistakable signs of interest. “Ah, but there’s a complication. The target is a living, swaying figure on the back of a galloping horse. Never still for an instant. Ever think how difficult it must be to hit a fast-moving target? Nevertheless, our murderer disdains to fire more than once. His single shot does the trick very thoroughly. Very thoroughly indeed.” He rose and began to prowl up and down. “The fact remains, Herr Inspektor, and this is what my rambling remarks have been circuitously leading up to — the fact remains that whoever killed Buck Horne either was possessed of the luck of the devil, or else... was a quite extraordinary marksman!”
7: 45 Guns
Julian Hunter, summoned peremptorily from the Mars box, appeared in the doorway before Sergeant Velie’s granite figure. The pouches beneath his eyes were more batrachian than ever; his pink cheeks were pinker and his expression more wooden, if that were possible, than before.
“Come in, Mr. Hunter,” said the Inspector shortly. “Take a chair.”
The pouches sank, and keen pupils glittered for an instant. “No, thank you,” said Hunter. “I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself. How well did you know Horne?”
“Ah,” said Hunter. “The inquisition. My dear Inspector, aren’t you being a little absurd?”
“What— Say!”
The night-club owner waved a manicured hand. “It’s apparent that you consider me a potential suspect for the murder of that — uh — dashing old gentleman who came a cropper out there. It’s too silly, you know.”