The Wrong Gun sw-5 Read online

  The Wrong Gun

  ( Steve Winslow - 5 )

  Parnell Hall

  Parnell Hall

  The Wrong Gun

  1

  Steve Winslow leaned back in his chair, cocked his head, and looked across his desk at the man holding the gun.

  Russ Timberlaine looked like he’d stepped out of the road company of Indians. He could have played Ned Buntline, Buffalo Bill or Wild Bill Hickok, no problem. His blond hair hung to his shoulders. He was dressed in boots, jeans, denim shirt, buckskin vest and cowboy hat. He was a tall man, say six-six, broad-shouldered and solid. Looking at him, the term cowpuncher came to mind. He looked like he could stop a stampede just by standing there and letting the cattle run into him.

  Completing the picture was a hand tooled gun belt and holster. The holster was now empty, since Russ Timberlaine had drawn the gun.

  “Know anything about guns?” Timberlaine said.

  Steve Winslow shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  Timberlaine glanced over at Tracy Garvin. “What about you, young lady?”

  Tracy shook the long blonde hair out of her face, pushed her glasses up on her nose. She smiled. “Only what I read in books.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “Murder mysteries.”

  Timberlaine grinned and shook his head. “Then you know about as much as the boss. Ninety percent inaccurate, those things are.”

  Timberlaine chuckled, looked at the gun a moment, then turned it around and extended it to Steve. “Here, take a look.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d better not mess with it.”

  Timberlaine nodded approvingly. “Good man. I wish more people had that attitude.” He extended the gun. “Go ahead. Take it. It’s not loaded. I just say it is, ’cause you should always handle a gun as if it were loaded. If your reaction is not to touch it, you’ve got the right idea. Here. Go on. Take it.”

  Steve took the gun, turned it over in his hand. Knowing nothing about guns, there wasn’t much for him to observe. It was a revolver, that he could tell. And it seemed to go with the Wild West image Russ Timberlaine was attempting to cultivate. It had what appeared to be wooden handles, though again Steve couldn’t tell if that’s what they really were.

  Steve noticed a flaw on one of them. Looking closer, he saw that it was a scratch. He tilted the handle, made it more visible. Sure enough, the letter R had been scratched onto the handle of the gun.

  Steve looked up to find Russ Timberlaine watching him closely.

  “Well?” Timberlaine said.

  Steve pointed. “This R on the handle. Is that for Russ?”

  Timberlaine winced. “Hell, no. You think I’d deface one of my guns.”

  Steve smiled. “Obviously not. So what’s the R?”

  “The R is for Robbins. As in Pete Robbins. As in Pistol Pete Robbins.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Timberlaine grinned. “Not at all. They really existed. The Kids and the Pistols. Hell, even the Deadeyes and the Two-guns and the Slims and the Reds. Anybody ever killed anybody got some kind of nickname laid on ’em.”

  “Like Pistol Pete Robbins?”

  “Exactly. Now that son of a bitch, Pistol Pete, killed five guys that they know of, and lived to the ripe old age of twenty-six, when he was gunned down by, get this, Sheriff Montana Pride.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.” Timberlaine’s eyes were gleaming. “The pride of Montana. He must have taken some kidding over that, which might explain why he was such a mean son of a bitch. At any rate, guess who this Montana Pride turned out to be?”

  “Pistol Pete’s boyhood friend?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Hey, these things are documented.”

  “By whom? Mexican maidens who play guitars and sing?”

  Timberlaine grinned. “It’s not as bad as all that. There were newspapers back then. Some of the accounts written exist to this day. There’s a lot of stuff on microfilm, and if you dig you can find it.”

  “Fine. So?”

  “So the legend of Pistol Pete is an authenticated part of the history of the Old West.”

  Steve nodded. “I see. And this gun is therefore valuable.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Steve frowned. “Why not?”

  Russ Timberlaine shrugged and shook his head. “It’s the wrong gun.”

  2

  Steve Winslow frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s not my gun. I don’t know how else to say it. It’s not mine.”

  “You mean someone switched guns on you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “I don’t know how it could happen. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The point is it did.”

  “So this gun is not Pistol-Pete-whoever’s despite the R on the handle?”

  “Of course not. Someone scratched the R on the handle to make it look like mine. It could have been done yesterday.”

  “Is that when the gun was stolen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I noticed it last week. That’s why I’m here now. Obviously that’s the first time I noticed. But when was the last time I looked at the gun? I mean carefully enough to see the difference. I try to think back and I don’t know.”

  “Where was the gun kept?”

  “That’s just it. In a display case. In my study. Along with a bunch of other guns. Glass enclosed. The gun sits in a rack. If I glanced at it lying there in the case I might not notice. I’m trying to think. When was the last time I took it out, picked it up? The last time I know for sure. And damn it all, I can’t remember.”

  Steve held up his hand. “O.K.,” he said. “Pardon me for a moment, but as I said, I know nothing about guns. How do you identify your gun, and how do you know this isn’t it? Are you going by the serial number?”

  Timberlaine shook his head. He pointed. “Turn the gun over. Look there, on the other side of the barrel in front of the cylinder. See those scratches?”

  Steve turned the gun over and looked. The area Timberlaine had indicated was a crosshatch of metal scratches. “That’s where the serial number was,” Timberlaine said. “Only it’s been filed off. On my gun and on this one.”

  “Why? On the real gun, I mean.”

  “Theory is Pistol Pete did it himself. Apparently a lot of cowboys did. Superstitious. Didn’t want a number on their gun. The gun was their lifeline. Always workin’ on it. Cleaning and oiling it. Carving things in the handle. So a lot of them took the numbers off.”

  “If there’s no number, how can you tell this isn’t yours?”

  “How do you know one painting’s an original and another’s a copy? I know my gun, and that isn’t it.”

  “Fine, but could you give me a concrete reason?”

  “Sure. Just look at it. See the cylinder? You’ll notice the metal on the cylinder’s slightly lighter than the metal on the barrel. See that? Why, because this gun’s been rebuilt and the cylinder’s been replaced. See what I’m sayin’? The cylinder’s newer than the rest of the gun, so it’s lighter in color.

  “That’s one thing. For another thing, the whole gun is lighter in color. Than the real gun, I mean. That means the whole gun is probably more recent. My gun dates back to 1862. What this is I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I see.”

  “Then there’s the handles. To begin with, the wood’s lighter. And if that weren’t enough, look at the R. Whoever did this rubbed something in the scratches to try to age ’em, but you can tell the difference. No way that R is a hundred and some odd years old. That carving is
fresh.”

  Timberlaine looked up. “You want more?”

  “No, that’s pretty convincing. All right, someone stole your gun and substituted a duplicate. I’ll buy that. Tell me. The original-was it valuable?”

  Timberlaine nodded. “Relatively. I paid twenty thousand dollars for it. And that was ten years ago. The price has doubtless gone up.”

  “Doubtless,” Steve said. “Mr. Timberlaine, why are you here?”

  Timberlaine frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A valuable gun of yours has been stolen. Why are you consulting a lawyer? Why don’t you go to the police?”

  “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 gunsling
er, 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?”

  “You got it.”

  “I don’t think I wanna know what he was named for.”

  Steve grinned. “Pride is the family name, Mark. It’s the Montana that’s suspect.”

  “This whole story’s suspect. Tracy said you had a case. You just havin’ fun with me, or is there a point to all this?”

  “A little of both, Mark.” Steve took out the cigar tube with the bullet, had Tracy pass it over. “What do you make of that?”

  Taylor took it, looked at it. Nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. This is obviously a forty-five-caliber bullet. I assume you’d like me to prove it came from this gun.”

  “No, I’d like you to prove that it didn’t.”

  “What?”

  Steve gave Mark Taylor a rundown of his meeting with Russ Timberlaine.

  “Well, what do you think?” Steve said.

  Taylor shrugged. “It’s a tough call. The guy’s either paranoid or he’s right. Just who does he think stole this gun, by the way?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “No?”

  “No. When I asked, he looked at his watch and remembered an important business engagement.”

  “Uh-oh,” Taylor said. “That’s a bad sign.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “On the other hand, if he gave you a retainer, who gives a shit? You want me to check out the gun?”