“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“Murder is extreme.”
Steve took a breath. “Tracy.”
“What?”
“If Timberlaine did it, who substituted guns?”
“Timberlaine did it himself.”
“Why?”
“As a smoke screen. To divert suspicion from himself.”
“Good lord.”
“No,” Tracy said, excitedly. “It’s perfect. He goes to you. He gives you the substituted gun. He gets you to compare the bullets. Puts you in a position to establish he doesn’t have the original gun. So when the murder’s committed with the original gun-as he intended all along-you can show that he didn’t have it in his possession.” Tracy nodded in agreement with herself. “That would explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“The retainer. He’s got ten thousand dollars invested in you. What do you think it’s for? A retainer? Hell no. It’s an alibi.”
Steve frowned.
“Well,” Tracy said. “What do you think of that?”
Steve took a breath. “Tracy,” he said. “I think you’ve got a vivid imagination.”
She opened her mouth to protest. Steve held up his hand. “I’m not putting it down. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying what you’re giving me is a scenario straight out of a detective book. There’s nothing wrong with detective books, but they’re usually a lot more interesting than real life. Otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten published. That doesn’t mean you’re wrong and it doesn’t mean nothing’s going to happen this weekend. All I’m saying is, the odds are the disappearance of the gun is nothing more than that-a disappearance-and has nothing to do with the people staying here. And even if it did, absolutely nothing is going to happen to them on this particular weekend.”
Steve smiled. “See what I mean?”
There came the sound of a gunshot.
8
Tracy Garvin came pelting down the circular staircase and found Martin standing in the front hallway calmly consulting his clipboard. In her agitation, Tracy couldn’t remember his name. So she clattered down the stairs crying out simply, “Gunshot!”
Martin looked up, saw her, smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That would be Mr. Timberlaine and I believe Mr. Nigouri at the pistol range. I know he had a gun Mr. Timberlaine wanted to check out.”
Tracy blinked. “Pistol range?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Martin pointed. “From the patio take the path off to the left.”
Steve Winslow came walking calmly down the circular stair in time to hear the last exchange. Tracy looked up, caught his eye and he smiled.
Tracy flushed slightly, then turning back to Martin and mustering what dignity she could, said, “And how do we get to the patio?”
Martin pointed again. “Right through there.”
“I suppose you knew it all along,” Tracy said, as she and Steve followed Martin’s directions and stepped out onto a marble terrace running the length of the back of the building.
“Not at all,” Steve said. “That gunshot could just as well have been the murderer firing Pistol Pete Robbins’s Colt.45 into the heart of Russ Timberlaine’s archrival, Melvin Burdett. And I think the fact that it wasn’t in no way diminishes any theories you’ve advanced so far.”
“Fuck you,” Tracy said. “How did you know it was nothing?”
“I didn’t.”
“You walked calmly down the stairs as if nothing had happened.”
“I walked calmly down the stairs because running wouldn’t have helped.”
“Why not?”
“Because unfortunately killers don’t stand over their victims holding the murder weapon, they flee the scene. Once they do, they leave a tableau that basically does not change. The matter of a few seconds in viewing it is not going to make any difference whatsoever.”
“We might have seen something.”
“What?”
“Someone fleeing the scene.”
“If there had been, I’m sure you would have seen them and told me.”
“Yes, of course, but-”
“And,” Steve said. “If I’d gone racing down those front steps, I’d be feeling as foolish as you’re feeling now.”
“Exactly,” Tracy said. “That’s what pisses me off. You’re developing into a conservative old fogy. You’re so concerned about what people might think of you that you’d risk missing a murder scene so as not to appear foolish.”
Steve frowned. “Not a very charitable interpretation of my actions.”
There came the sound of a gunshot up ahead and to the left.
Steve looked at Tracy. “What do you think? Should we run, or stroll along like old fogies?”
“Hey, fuck you,” Tracy said.
Steve nodded. “Right. Yet another hostile sexual reference. Tell me, are you upset because I’m so cool to your theories, or because they gave us separate rooms?”
Whatever crushing comeback Tracy may have had was forever lost, for at that moment they rounded a bend in the path and emerged at the pistol range.
The range was simply a small clearing in the wood. Two men stood in the clearing, Russ Timberlaine and a Japanese gentleman. They were looking down what appeared to be a path off to the left. As Steve and Tracy approached, Russ Timberlaine raised a gun, sighted and fired down the path. He lowered the gun, turned to the Japanese gentleman and said something.
Steve and Tracy came walking up.
Timberlaine saw them, turned, smiled, “Ah, Mr. Winslow. Miss Garvin. Glad you could make it.” He turned to the Japanese gentleman. “Mr. Nigouri, Mr. Winslow.”
As they shook hands, Mr. Nigouri said in perfect English, “Are you a collector, Mr. Winslow?”
“Afraid not,” Steve said. “And you?”
Nigouri smiled. “I’m selling, not buying. I’m here to auction off several weapons. Including that one,” he said, pointing to the one Timberlaine was holding. “So you won’t be bidding on it?”
“Afraid not,” Steve said.
“Then, perhaps you, Miss …?”
“Garvin,” Tracy said, taking his hand. “I’m afraid Steve and I are just looking.”
“Do you know anything about guns?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah, then let me show you,” Nigouri said.
He led Tracy off to one side of the clearing where there was a circular marble alcove and bench, obviously part of the original estate. On the bench was an open leather box. Nigouri began opening drawers, removing guns and showing them to Tracy.
Timberlaine smiled at Steve. “You watch out. He’ll sell her two pistols before dinner.”
“I don’t think she’s in the market,” Steve said.
Timberlaine shrugged. “You’d be surprised who’s buying guns these days.”
“What’s with you?” Steve said.
“What do you mean?”
Steve jerked his thumb. “Your outfit.”
Timberlaine was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair was parted and pulled back in a ponytail. He grinned. “You mean what happened to the Wild West getup? Well, I have to admit that’s a complete affectation. I put it on when I’m carryin’ Pistol Pete’s gun. Or in this case, the substitute.” Timberlaine hefted the gun in his hand. “Now this baby’s a derringer. It’s French. Dates back to 1820. I’d look stupid firin’ it in cowboy boots. Plus, the other guns in the auction will be from all different countries, periods, what have you.”
“You bidding on them?” Steve asked.
“Oh, definitely,” Timberlaine said. “I always bid. I’ll be bidding on several.” He looked at the gun in his hand. “Though I think this baby’s the one I really want.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, there’s a story with it. I’m a sucker for stories. This gun was once owned by Marie LaBlanc, who was the victim of a tragic love affair. Her lover, Pierre LaTour, left her for a cafe singer. In despair she blew his brains out, then turned the gun on herself.”
“You’re kidding.”
Timberlaine frowned. “Why should I kid about a thing like that?”
“This gun here?”
“That’s the one.”
“You’ll pardon me, but how do you know that?” Steve jerked his thumb at Nigouri, who was still pulling out guns and bending Tracy’s ear. “I mean, how do you know your friend there isn’t buying old guns wholesale, then coming out here telling fancy stories and auctioning them off for record prices?”