“Do you have any idea how much money American sportsmen spend on their hobbies every year, Mr. Moon?”
I had to admit I didn’t.
“Four billion dollars,” he said in an impressive tone, spacing each word to stand individually.
The figure surprised me, and my face must have shown it, for he looked smugly triumphant.
“Of course that covers fishing as well as hunting, including the fees paid for millions of licenses, but if you deduct everything except the amount spent on hunting equipment, you still have a billion-dollar potential market. Know how many deer licenses are issued each year?”
Madeline Strong said abruptly, “Does anyone want another drink?”
We all looked at her a little surprised, for no one, including Madeline herself, had consumed more than a third of the first drink.
Madeline reddened. In a low voice she said, “I’ll help myself, Barney, if you don’t mind,” and departed for the kitchen while we were all still staring at her.
There was a moment of puzzled silence before Barney Amhurst said rather vaguely, “I shouldn’t mention deer hunting in front of Madeline, I suppose.”
This meant nothing to me, but apparently both Ed Friday and Walter Ford knew what he was talking about, for both gave understanding nods. When no one undertook to amplify, I broke the ensuing silence by bringing Amhurst back to the subject.
“Well, how many deer hunters do hit the woods every year?”
Immediately the inventor was all enthusiasm again. “Deer licenses are issued in thirty-nine states plus Alaska,” he said. “The total figure runs into millions. As a starter we’re concentrating our sales approach on deer hunters, because most hunting accidents occur during deer season. But eventually we hope to educate all hunters into wearing Huntsafes.”
I was still puzzled. “But unless every guy carrying a gun had one, it would be kind of useless, wouldn’t it?”
Amhurst smiled at me delightedly. “You’ve hit the key point of the whole idea, Mr. Moon. But that’s Walt’s function, so I’ll let him explain it.”
He stepped back away from me and Walter Ford said simply, “We’re going to sell the idea to state legislatures.”
I thought this over, decided I got what he meant and said, “You mean get legislation enacted making the Huntsafe compulsory?”
Ford nodded. “Make license applicants buy one before they can get a license. The thing is a natural. The annual casualty rate during deer season is appalling. The past season there were three hundred deaths from gunshot wounds and over a thousand other hunters wounded. State and local governments have been seeking a solution for years. I think we can convince at least the majority of state legislatures that requiring such a safety device is as logical as requiring brakes on a car.”
I began to see that this device was likely to be just as hot as the members of the new corporation believed it was. Added to Amhurst’s and Ford’s logical arguments, the fact that Ed Friday was involved in the project practically cinched that it was a good bet, for from what little I knew of the ex-racketeer, I was fairly certain wildcat speculation was out of his line, and that he wouldn’t have come within miles of the new company unless he was satisfied it was going to be a roaring success.
It was not hard to figure what Friday’s function in the corporation was either, now that I knew Barney Amhurst was the inventor and Walter Ford the man responsible for getting the product sold. Obviously Friday was putting up the money for manufacturing.
It was a little more difficult to place Madeline Strong in the scheme of things. I was still considering her without coming to any conclusions when she came back into the room. Her drink was at the same level as when she had left, which led me to believe she hadn’t fixed herself another after all. Noticing me looking at her, Barney Amhurst gave his head a slight shake, as though warning me to let the subject we had been discussing drop in front of her.
I failed to understand it, but if for some reason deer hunting was a taboo subject in front of Madeline, I had no intention of violating the taboo. I stopped thinking about it in order to divide my attention between my drink and Fausta.
“Bubbles is still missing,” I remarked between sips. “You strangle her while you had her alone in there?”
“Rubbing your leg so hard under the table probably exhausted her,” Fausta said. “Probably she is taking a nap.”
I had not been aware Fausta had observed the blonde’s strenuous caresses, and I thought it expedient to let the subject drop. Turning my attention to the room in general, I heard our host suggesting to Ford that they demonstrate the Gimmick for the benefit of Fausta and me.
A moment later Amhurst announced, “Hold everything, folks. We’ll be right back.”
Together he and Ford entered the one room we had not seen, leaving the door ajar.
Distinctly we could hear Barney Amhurst say, “You take that set, Walt, and go back in the front room. I’ll stay here and...”
He was interrupted by a tinkle of glass followed by the roar of a shot.
In the front room everyone froze to immobility. Probably in a movie scene one or all of us would have rushed into the next room to investigate, but people don’t react that way when a real shot sounds. I don’t know what the others’ mental processes were, but my first thought was that I wasn’t carrying a gun. My second was hope that Barney Amhurst, or Walter Ford, or both of them would step to the door and explain the explosion. My third thought, when nothing resulted from the hope, was a reluctant decision to push open the door and see what went on.
Probably less than thirty seconds elapsed between the shot and this decision, but these seemed like minutes because they elapsed in dead silence from both the front room and the room into which the two men had disappeared. I pushed the door wider, cautiously, ready to drop in case whoever had fired the shot decided to discourage curiosity by firing again.
The caution proved unnecessary.
The room into which I peered was a combination study and workshop containing a desk, a couple of leather chairs similar to those in the front room, and an electrical workbench running the length of one wall. Directly across from me were the inevitable French doors leading outside, in this case to the side lawn. They were closed, and on the floor in front of them lay a small pile of broken glass. A shattered pane near the center handle still contained a few thin shards of glass which had not fallen loose.
Sprawled on the floor to one side of the desk lay Walter Ford, his head queerly shortened and flattened because the top of it was missing. A good deal of blood had spattered over the desk, the floor and even over one wall.
Next to the workbench across the room from the body stood Barney Amhurst, a flat, boxlike object with a couple of wires protruding from it in his hands. His mouth was opening and closing soundlessly, like a fish kissing the side of a bowl, and he was staring glassy-eyed at the dead man.
“Amhurst!” I said sharply, but he didn’t even turn his head.
When he continued merely to stare fixedly at the corpse and talk without making any sound, I did the only thing you can do to snap someone out of shock quickly. I rocked his head to the right with a stinging slap across his cheek, then rocked it back the other way with the palm of my left hand.
His eyes focused on me, he gulped and said, “My God! He shot him dead in his tracks!”
“Who?” I asked.
“The guy outside. Through the window. He knocked out the window and— My God, he shot him dead!”
His eyes strayed from me back to the corpse, he gulped, then suddenly clapped his free hand to his mouth and started for the bathroom at an unsteady run. I followed right behind him.