The Wrong Gun sw-5 Page 2

  “Yes, I do. And I want it done by five o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s when he’ll be back in my office to pick it up. The gun has to be returned to its proper place so no one will notice he’s discovered the substitution.”

  “Why does he care?”

  “I don’t know, Mark. As I say, the gentleman had to run. So we have an interesting situation here. A client’s asked me to do something, he hasn’t told me the whole story, so basically we’re working in the dark.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I want to protect myself. You say a Colt.45’s a pretty common gun, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I want you to find a dealer who has one that matches the one you have there. I want you to buy it, fire test bullets through it, file the serial number off it, carve an R in the handle and have it in my office by five o’clock this afternoon.”

  Mark Taylor’s jaw dropped open. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not at all, Mark. I said I wanted to protect myself.”

  “Great, but what about me? Filing a serial number off a gun happens to be a criminal offense.”

  “I’m sure there’s a matter of intent involved.”

  “Right. Your intent is not to commit a felony. Your intent is only to deceive and defraud your own client.” Taylor held up his hands. “You explain it to the cops. I am not filing any serial number off any gun.”

  “Fine,” Steve said. “Forget the serial number. Just get the gun and fire the test bullets through it. You have no problem with that, do you?”

  “Not at all. I have every right to own a gun.” Taylor held up the forty-five. “Does that mean you don’t want this one tested?”

  “Not at all. Test them both. And you and the ballistics expert are very careful with the bullets. You get ’em labeled and you keep ’em straight.”

  “How do you want ’em labeled?”

  “Same as this one. Put ’em in a glass tube and label the tube.”

  “This tube’s not labeled.”

  “I know. Label it RT-ORIG for Russ Timberlaine original.” Steve pointed to the gun Taylor was holding. “Label the bullets from that RT-SUB for substitute. I want two bullets from the gun in separate tubes-RT-SUB and RT-SUB-2. Same thing with the gun you buy. A bullet in a separate tube, labeled SW.”

  “For Steve Winslow?”

  “Of course. Can you do that?”

  “No problem,” Taylor said. “As long as there’s no serial number filing.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Mark. If it’s illegal, I wouldn’t ask you to do it.”

  “And you need all this by five o’clock?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, Mark.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Now I need it by four o’clock.”

  4

  Tracy Garvin watched while Steve Winslow filed the serial number off the gun. Steve blew the metal scrapings away, held the gun up for her approval.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  She frowned, looked from one gun to the other. “Damned if I can tell the difference.”

  “What about the R?”

  She shrugged. “Your R looks like his R. Whether it looks like the original, I couldn’t tell.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t have to. This gun doesn’t have to pass as the original, just as the substitute.”

  “Think Timberlaine will notice?”

  “There’s no reason why he should.”

  “He’s an expert.”

  “Yeah. He could tell a copy from the original. But to tell a copy from a copy? Unless there’s some particular flaw in the first copy that he’s noted-which I have no way of knowing-well, there’s no reason why he should.”

  “You sure you can tell ’em apart?” Tracy said.

  Steve grinned. “Good point, Tracy. This is where I mustn’t fumble.” He picked up the gun he’d been working on. “This is the substitute gun. I mean, this is the substitute substitute gun. The one Mark bought. This gun I set aside.”

  Steve set the gun down on his desk. He picked up the other one. “This is the original substitute gun. The one Russ Timberlaine brought.” Steve gestured to the antique safe in the corner of his office. “This gun gets locked in the safe.”

  Tracy frowned. “Are you sure? Last time you locked something in that safe it got stolen.”

  “That was entirely different,” Steve said. “In this case, no one even knows we have the gun, and no one will know that it’s there. No, that wouldn’t be enough to stop me.”

  “What would?”

  “Not finding the combination.”

  “No problem,” Tracy said. “After turning the office upside down to find it last time, you will pardon me, but I didn’t leave it with you. You want it, I got it.”

  “Fine,” Steve said. “Get it, and let’s lock this sucker up before Timberlaine gets here.”

  Tracy went to the outer office, copied down the combination and brought it back. Steve took it, spun the dials, opened the antique safe.

  “O.K.,” he said. “The gun goes in here. So do our share of the bullets.”

  He went back to his desk, got the gun and the glass tubes marked RT-SUB-2 and SW, put them all in the safe and locked it.

  “There,” he said. “That leaves us with the substitute gun Mark bought, the original bullet Russ Timberlaine brought, and the bullet fired from the gun he brought us, RT-SUB.”

  “Why isn’t it marked RT-SUB dash one?” Tracy asked. “Aren’t you telling him there’s a dash two?”

  “He’s a busy man,” Steve said. “No need to bother him with too many details.”

  “Like the fact you switched guns?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you switch guns, and why aren’t you telling him?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Not really.”

  “The man is not telling me the whole story, so why should I tell him the whole story?”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s the reason. If I don’t know what’s going on, I have to protect myself.”

  “Bullshit,” Tracy said.

  Steve raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  Tracy smiled. “Give me a break. Protect yourself? Protect yourself from what? No, I’ll tell you what happened. Timberlaine came in here and told you his problem. And he didn’t just ask you to solve it, he told you how to solve it-take the gun and fire test bullets through it.” Tracy smiled again. “Well, it’s a real good solution, but it’s not yours. You’re not being anything but a messenger boy. Which you’re not willing to do. So you take charge of the situation by substituting a gun and not telling him you’re doing it.”

  Steve grinned and shook his head. “That’s very interesting, Tracy. Were you a psych minor, by any chance?”

  “Hey, this doesn’t really require study.” Tracy pointed to the Colt.45 lying on the desk. “Little boys playing with guns. And you substituting yours for Timberlaine’s.” She shook her head. “Freud would have had a field day.”

  5

  Steve Winslow handed the glass tube to Russ Timberlaine. “Here’s your original bullet back. You’ll notice what’s marked on the tube.”

  Timberlaine took it, looked at it. “RT dash ORIG?”

  “Russ Timberlaine Original. That designates the bullet you gave me, the bullet you claim came from the original gun.”

  “It did.”

  “I’m sure it did. But the ballistics expert is not taking your word for it. In terms of evidentiary value, the ballistics expert is prepared to testify that this is the bullet supplied by me. Or rather, by my private detective.”

  “And this seal across the top?

  “On that you will find the signature of the ballistics expert. With that seal in place, the tube itself has evidentiary value. In other words, that seal validates the label RT-ORIG, and guarantees
that the bullet in the tube is the one you gave me.”

  “But if that seal is broken, we can’t prove it?”

  “Not at all. The ballistics expert has also marked the base of the bullet and would be prepared to identify it from that.” Steve smiled. “But as long as it’s in the tube, it’s a lot easier for us to identify.”

  “I see.”

  Steve passed over the second glass tube. “This is the bullet fired from the gun you gave me. The gun you claim was substituted for your own.”

  Timberlaine looked at it. “RT-SUB?”

  “For Russ Timberlaine Substitute,” Steve said. “Now, if you’d like me to keep these bullets for you, I will. I would probably even advise it. What was your intention?”

  “No,” Timberlaine said. “I’ll hang on to them.”

  “Fine,” Steve said. He picked up a gun from the desk and extended the handle toward Timberlaine. “Here,” he said, and when Timberlaine reached for it, added, “Be careful, it’s loaded.”

  Timberlaine drew his hand back. “What?”

  “It isn’t really,” Steve said, “but you should always treat a gun as if it were.”

  Timberlaine frowned. “Damn it,” he said. “I know how to handle guns.”

  He took the gun, opened his briefcase and stuck it in, along with the two glass tubes. He snapped the briefcase shut.

  Steve Winslow stood up.

  Tracy Garvin, who had been sitting taking notes, looked up in surprise. She had expected Steve to draw Timberlaine out on the subject of who could have substituted the gun. Instead he had stood up to indicate that the interview was over.

  However, the reverse psychology worked.

  Timberlaine frowned. “Just a minute.”

  Steve looked at him. “Oh? Was there something else?”

  “Well, damn it, yes there was.”

  “I beg your pardon. I thought we’d finished.” Steve sat back down. “What is it?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about who could have taken the gun.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Timberlaine frowned. “No, that’s the problem. I have no idea who took it. But I have a pretty good idea when it was taken.”

  “Oh? When was that?”

  “A week and a half ago. At the auction.”

  “What auction?”

  “The rare gun auction. That’s when it must have been.”

  “And where was this?”

  “At my house, of course. That’s how the gun could have been taken.”

  “And where’s your house?”

  “I didn’t tell you? Oh, no, I guess I didn’t. Well, I got a house on Long Island. Mansion, really. One of the old estates. Bought it twenty years ago. Got it for a song. Crumbling, broken down. Had it rebuilt. Anyway, I hold auctions there.”

  “Why?”

  Timberlaine frowned. “Why? Because I like to, that’s why. And I got the space to do it, so why not? They’re famous, my auctions are. In gun circles anyway. The top dealers show up, auction their wares. The top collectors come. From all over the country.”

  “Just for one day?”

  “No, the whole weekend. I put ’em up.”

  Steve frowned. “You’re saying they stay with you?”

  “Absolutely. I told you, it’s a mansion. I got forty-eight rooms. Sure I put ’em up. Anyway, that’s when it must have happened. Over the weekend when everyone was there and everyone had access.”

  “I see,” Steve said. “And who do you suspect?”

  Timberlaine hesitated a moment. “I don’t suspect anyone in particular. It’s just that’s when it must have happened.”

  “You hesitated,” Steve said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You hesitated before you answered.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “You may have hesitated because you were thinking, but the fact is you hesitated. I’m wondering who you were thinking of.”

  Timberlaine took a breath and blew it out again. “All right,” he said. “You can’t hide anything from a lawyer. All right. Melvin Burdett.”

  “Who?”

  “Melvin Burdett. That’s the name that flashed to mind. But it isn’t him.”

  “What do you mean, it isn’t him?”

  “I mean I don’t seriously think he took the gun.”

  “Then why does his name flash to mind?”

  Timberlaine took a breath. “All right. Melvin Burdett is a thorn in my side. You know how that is? He’s a collector. A rival collector. Accent on the word rival.”

  Timberlaine held up his hands. “Understand, I’ve never done anything to him. But the man has taken it upon himself to make my life a living hell.”

  “Why?”

  Timberlaine shook his head. “No reason. There are just people like that, you know. Burdett’s one of them. He’s aggressive and competitive. I’m fairly well established as a collector. I have a reputation. So he’s made me his target and he’s out to get me.”

  “In what way?”

  “In any way. He’s always trying to annoy me, compete with me. If there’s a gun I want, he’ll make it a point to outbid me for it.”

  “He has the money to do that?”

  “He has money. To outbid me, no. But to bid me up, sure. If there’s a gun I particularly want, he’s quite prepared to keep bidding to the point where I either let him have it, or wind up paying more than the gun is worth.”

  “I see. And you think he might be involved in the theft of the gun?”

  “No, I don’t,” Timberlaine said irritably. “That’s why I didn’t want to bring it up. The man is a royal pain in the ass, but that doesn’t make him a thief.”

  “Then who is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some ideas.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s the point. I absolutely don’t. I look back to the weekend, there must have been twenty, twenty-five people staying there. It could have been any one of them, but there’s no one I suspect.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Timberlaine frowned. “What?”

  “What’s the point? I did what you wanted, you were ready to go, you made a point of staying to tell me when the gun might have been taken-which isn’t any help at all if you have no idea who took it. So what’s the point? What are you getting to?”

  “That’s just it,” Timberlaine said. “I have another auction planned for this weekend. Most of the same people will be there.”

  “So?”

  “So, if it’s the worst case scenario, if someone took the gun to frame me or at least put me in an embarrassing position, well, that’s when it would logically happen. One, because whoever took the gun would be there. And, two, because enough people will be there that they could work undetected.”

  “That’s obvious,” Steve said. “The question is, why are you telling me?”

  “Because I want you there.”

  6

  “It’s the perfect setup,” Tracy Garvin said as Steve Winslow piloted the rental car along the Long Island Expressway.

  “What is?”

  “This whole weekend. I mean, you couldn’t have written it better. You got a stolen gun. You got a substituted gun. You got a bunch of previously identified bullets. And you got all the suspects gathered together in one spot for the weekend. Plus you got the client’s crack lawyer/sleuth on hand to solve the crime.”

  “Not to mention his attractive, mystery-loving secretary,” Steve said.

  Tracy smiled. “It was kind of him to extend the invitation.”

  “Kind, hell,” Steve said. “The poor man never had a chance.”

  “Oh?”

  “As I recall, you coughed loudly twice and began squirming as if you were about to jump out of your chair.”

  “I was not squirming.”

  “Let’s not quibble. The fact is, you made your wishes known.”

  “Well, I wasn’t about to miss it. A setup like this. By rights, by tomorr
ow morning there should be a corpse on the library floor.”

  “Assuming he has a library.”

  “Are you kidding me? Forty-eight rooms, the man’s going to have a library.”

  “Maybe so. Did we pass our exit?”

  Tracy consulted the directions in her lap. “This is it coming up.”

  Steve got off the highway, followed Tracy’s directions over a series of back roads, turned in at a marble gate.

  “Good lord, is this it?” Tracy said.

  “Damned if I know. I’m just following your directions.”

  “Then this is it.”

  It certainly was impressive. Timberlaine had three hundred acres, and his mansion was set a quarter of a mile back from the road. The driveway wound through spacious front lawns and an apple orchard, and ended in a circle in front of a sprawling, three-story marble mansion.

  About a dozen cars were already parked in the circle. Steve got a space as close to the front door as possible, and he and Tracy got out and retrieved their suitcases from the trunk.

  There was no one outside, but the front door was open. Steve and Tracy walked in and found themselves in an immense front hall, with marble floors, wood-paneled walls, and a wide circular staircase leading up to the second floor.

  A young man in a white suit with a clipboard came bustling up. “May I help you?” he said.

  “Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin,” Steve said.

  The man consulted his clipboard, made a check. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “You’re on the third floor. Just one moment, I’ll have you shown to your rooms.”

  He stepped to the side wall, pushed a button. “The boy will be here in a minute. I’m Martin Kessington. If there’s anything you need, just ask. You’ll find a house phone in your room. Just pick it up and ask for Martin.”

  As if on cue, a voice said, “Martin!” A strident, preemptory voice, obviously not pleased.

  Steve and Tracy looked up to find a plump, bald man waddling down the staircase from the second floor. A teenage boy in slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt trailed behind him, carrying a suitcase.

  “Martin,” the plump man said again. “What is the meaning of this?”