“Well, that’s a problem.”
“What’s a problem?”
“Well, for one thing, as I said, the serial number had been scratched off.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Technically that makes the gun an illegal firearm.”
“You paid twenty thousand dollars for an illegal gun?”
Timberlaine nodded. “With proper authentication. That’s not unusual. With collectors it happens all the time. Yes, the guns are illegal, but it’s not like we were buying them to hold up banks. A collector’s not going to pass up a chance to own a rare gun just because it’s technically illegal.”
“That explains why you don’t want to consult the police. It doesn’t explain why you want to consult a lawyer.”
Timberlaine nodded. “Good point. The fact is, I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
Timberlaine took a breath, held up his hand. “Look, this is hard to explain, because it’s mostly just a feeling. But it’s basically this. If the gun were just missing, that would be one thing. I could say, O.K., it’s valuable so someone stole it. All right, no big deal, a simple theft, let’s try to find out who.
“But the gun wasn’t just stolen. It was substituted. A duplicate was made and put in its place. And I have to keep wondering why.”
“So you wouldn’t notice the theft.”
“Yes, but that’s only a temporary measure. Because eventually I’m going to notice.”
“Maybe that’s all the thief needed. If you noticed the theft right away, you’d know when the gun was stolen and you’d know who must have taken it. The time of the theft was obscured so it wouldn’t point to any one person.”
Timberlaine held up his hand. “Fine, fine,” he said impatiently. “I can see that, that’s obvious, if that’s all it is I hope you’re right. I’ll kiss the gun off, absorb the loss, and good riddance to it. That’s not what worries me.”
“What is?”
“Suppose that gun is used to commit a crime.”
“What makes you think it would be?”
Timberlaine frowned. “Don’t be stupid. Someone went to all the trouble of switching guns. I start trying to figure out why, and the obvious answer is what if someone’s trying to frame me.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
Timberlaine frowned impatiently. “That’s not the question. Say someone is. I’m looking to protect myself. So what’s the worst case scenario? A dead body turns up with my gun lying next to it.”
“I can see that,” Steve said. “That’s obvious.” He smiled. “Melodramatic as all hell, but obvious. All right, say that happens. First off, how would the cops know it was your gun?”
“What?”
“Well, you say the serial number’s been filed off. How could they prove it was yours?”
“No problem,” Timberlaine said. “True, not as easy as if it were registered and had a serial number. But the gun is known to be mine. In gun-collecting circles, I mean. There’s collectors who could testify to the fact that I did own the gun and that they had seen it in my possession. And there are enough experts who would be able to testify to the fact that the gun in question was indeed the one that had been authenticated as Pistol Pete’s.
“That’s one way.” Timberlaine reached in his pocket and pulled out a glass cylinder the size and shape of a cigar. “Here’s another.” Timberlaine looked at it, passed it over to Steve Winslow.
Steve took it, saw that it was indeed a cigar tube. Inside was a piece of rounded metal, obviously a spent bullet.
“Don’t tell me,” Steve said.
“Absolutely,” Timberlaine said. “This is a bullet fired from my gun. The real gun, I mean, the one that was stolen. It happens I did some target shooting with it last month. That’s a bullet removed from the target.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did you remove the bullet from the target?”
“This morning. Before I came here.
“Then how do you know it’s from your gun? Was that the only gun ever fired at that target?”
“No, there were other bullets in it. But it’s the only forty-five. That I’m sure of.”
“Fine. So what’s the point?”
“If that was the idea, to frame me by killing someone with my gun, then the fatal bullet will match this one.”
“Naturally. All this is obvious, Mr. Timberlaine. The point is, what do you expect me to do about it?”
“I want you to take the bullet and the gun. I want you to give the gun to a ballistics expert and have him fire test bullets from it and then compare them with the bullet in that tube. I want him to be prepared to swear that the bullets do not match, and that therefore this gun, the gun that I have in my possession now, is not the gun that fired the bullet in this glass tube, and consequentially is not responsible for any crime that might be committed with the original gun.”
Steve frowned. “I see. Would you want me to hang on to this gun?”
“No. That’s the problem. The gun has to be returned to its position in the display case. Otherwise, whoever took it will realize I’ve caught on to the theft.”
“So what? If it warns them off, that’s what you want in the first place.”
“Yeah, if it warns them off. But for all we know, whoever took the gun is just waiting for me to discover the substitution and remove the other gun from the case before they act.”
“Yes, but who?” Steve said. “Who could have done such a thing, and why would they want to?”
Timberlaine scowled and looked at his watch. “I don’t have time to get into that now,” he said irritably. “I have a business appointment to get to. I’m noted for my punctuality. If I’m late, people will be surprised and want to know why. I happen to be a rather poor liar. I don’t want to have to answer any questions.
“Now, I need the bullet compared and I need the gun back by tonight. The question is, can you do it?”
Steve glanced over at Tracy Garvin, who had been sitting there hanging on every word. If he said no, he’d have a mutiny on his hands.
“Of course I can do it,” Steve said. “The question is, how sincere are you about wanting it done?”
Timberlaine frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
Steve smiled. “Make me out a check for ten thousand dollars.”
3
Mark Taylor flopped his two-hundred-twenty pounds in the overstuffed clients’ chair, ran his hand through his curly red hair and said, “Shoot.”
Steve Winslow picked up the gun from his desk. “Interesting choice of words, Mark.”
“Good lord,” Taylor said. “What’s that?”
Steve handed the gun to Tracy to give to him. “Here. Take a look.”
Taylor took the gun, turned it over in his hands. “This goes back a few years,” he said. “Colt.45, right?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Taylor grinned. “Actually, I’m guessing. Colt’s a pretty common gun. A revolver this vintage’s apt to be a Colt. Forty-five’s a common caliber, the barrel opening looks right for it.”
Steve nodded. “Very good, Mark. What else can you tell me about it?”
Taylor looked at the gun again. “Not that much. What’s this R carved in the handle?”
“That’s to indicate the gun was once owned by the notorious gunslinger, Pistol Pete Robbins.”
Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“That’s right, Mark.”
Taylor looked sideways at Tracy Garvin. “Is he shitting me?”
“Not at all, Mark. Tell him how he died, Steve.”
“How who died?” Taylor said.
“Pistol Pete,” Steve said. “The notorious gunslinger who shot down five men in his lifetime, and don’t you want to know how he died?”
Mark Taylor looked back and forth from Tracy to Steve. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Steve grinned. “You tell him, Tracy.”
“O.K.,” Tracy said. “Well, Mark, it seems the gentleman in question was gunned down by his boyhood companion, Sheriff Montana Pride.”
“What?”
“That’s right.”
“Sheriff Montana Pride?”