unruffled, quietly directing his group of wild-eyed, crouching-over-camera men.
“Major!” cried Ellery, striving to make himself heard above the din.
Major Kirby peered over the edge of the platform. “Yes? Oh—yes, Mr. Queen?”
“Don’t leave that platform!”
The Major permitted himself to smile, briefly. “Don’t bother yourself about that. God, what a break! By the way, what the devil did happen over there? Did the old chap have a fainting spell?”
“The old chap,” said Ellery grimly, “had a bullet spell, that’s what he had. He was murdered, Major—through the heart.”
“Lord!”
Ellery stared gravely upward. “Come a little closer, Major.” The newsreel man stooped, his little black eyes snapping. “Were your cameras grinding through everything? ”
Something sparkled in the black eyes. “Good Lord! Good Lord!” a slight flush tinted his slick cheeks. “What a miracle, Mr. Queen, what a miracle … yes, every second!”
Ellery said rapidly: “Pluperfect, Major, simply pluperfect. An exquisite gift from the god who watches over detectives. Now listen: keep grinding, get every shot you can—I want a complete photographic record of what happens from now on until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?”
“Oh, perfectly.” The Major paused, and then said: “But how long will I have—”
“You’re worried about the film?” Ellery smiled. “I don’t think you’ve need to, Major. Your company has a really exceptional opportunity to serve the police, and considering how motion picture companies throw their money around, I think the cost of the extra film is money well spent. Well spent.”
The Major looked reflective, then touched the end of his little mustache, nodded, rose, and spoke brusquely to his men. One camera kept focused on the group surrounding the body. Another swept its eye, like a mechanical Cyclops, in a steady circle of the audience-tiers. A third picked up details in other parts of the arena. The technicians in the sound booth were working madly.
Ellery fingered his bow-tie, flicked a speck of dust off his alabaster bosom, and sped back across the arena.
Inspector Queen, that admirable executive, was surrounded by the grim halo of Work. He was the only person in New York who might be called, without intent to malign, an Ultracrepidarian critic. It was of the very nature of his job to find fault with small and insignificant details. He was the scientist of trifles, a passionate devotee of minutiae. And yet his old nose was never so closely pressed to the ground that he could not keep in perspective the broadest view of the terrain. …The present task was worthy of his mettle. A murder had been committed in an auditorium peopled with twenty thousand souls. Two hundred hundred persons, any one of whom might be the murderer of Buck Horne! His bird-like gray little head was cocked fiercely forward, his fingers dipped unceasingly into his old brown snuff-box, his mouth rattled very good orders indeed, and all the while his bright little eyes were wandering about the auditorium as if disembodied, keeping in sight every intricate movement of the forces he had disposed. It was fortunate, perhaps, that while he awaited reinforcements from Headquarters—members of his own squad—he nevertheless had a large army of officers to place strategically about the spacious premises. The ushers and special officers of the Colosseum had been pressed into service, and those of the police who had been within the building at the time of the murder. All exits were grimly guarded. It was already established from relayed reports that not even a pigmy had slipped through the cordon. It was his calm intention not to permit one of the twenty thousand persons in the building to escape until the most searching investigation had been made.
Detectives from the nearby precincts had already responded to the alarm; they ringed the arena, keeping it clear as a base of operations. Hundreds of
“Major!” cried Ellery, striving to make himself heard above the din.
Major Kirby peered over the edge of the platform. “Yes? Oh—yes, Mr. Queen?”
“Don’t leave that platform!”
The Major permitted himself to smile, briefly. “Don’t bother yourself about that. God, what a break! By the way, what the devil did happen over there? Did the old chap have a fainting spell?”
“The old chap,” said Ellery grimly, “had a bullet spell, that’s what he had. He was murdered, Major—through the heart.”
“Lord!”
Ellery stared gravely upward. “Come a little closer, Major.” The newsreel man stooped, his little black eyes snapping. “Were your cameras grinding through everything? ”
Something sparkled in the black eyes. “Good Lord! Good Lord!” a slight flush tinted his slick cheeks. “What a miracle, Mr. Queen, what a miracle … yes, every second!”
Ellery said rapidly: “Pluperfect, Major, simply pluperfect. An exquisite gift from the god who watches over detectives. Now listen: keep grinding, get every shot you can—I want a complete photographic record of what happens from now on until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?”
“Oh, perfectly.” The Major paused, and then said: “But how long will I have—”
“You’re worried about the film?” Ellery smiled. “I don’t think you’ve need to, Major. Your company has a really exceptional opportunity to serve the police, and considering how motion picture companies throw their money around, I think the cost of the extra film is money well spent. Well spent.”
The Major looked reflective, then touched the end of his little mustache, nodded, rose, and spoke brusquely to his men. One camera kept focused on the group surrounding the body. Another swept its eye, like a mechanical Cyclops, in a steady circle of the audience-tiers. A third picked up details in other parts of the arena. The technicians in the sound booth were working madly.
Ellery fingered his bow-tie, flicked a speck of dust off his alabaster bosom, and sped back across the arena.
Inspector Queen, that admirable executive, was surrounded by the grim halo of Work. He was the only person in New York who might be called, without intent to malign, an Ultracrepidarian critic. It was of the very nature of his job to find fault with small and insignificant details. He was the scientist of trifles, a passionate devotee of minutiae. And yet his old nose was never so closely pressed to the ground that he could not keep in perspective the broadest view of the terrain. …The present task was worthy of his mettle. A murder had been committed in an auditorium peopled with twenty thousand souls. Two hundred hundred persons, any one of whom might be the murderer of Buck Horne! His bird-like gray little head was cocked fiercely forward, his fingers dipped unceasingly into his old brown snuff-box, his mouth rattled very good orders indeed, and all the while his bright little eyes were wandering about the auditorium as if disembodied, keeping in sight every intricate movement of the forces he had disposed. It was fortunate, perhaps, that while he awaited reinforcements from Headquarters—members of his own squad—he nevertheless had a large army of officers to place strategically about the spacious premises. The ushers and special officers of the Colosseum had been pressed into service, and those of the police who had been within the building at the time of the murder. All exits were grimly guarded. It was already established from relayed reports that not even a pigmy had slipped through the cordon. It was his calm intention not to permit one of the twenty thousand persons in the building to escape until the most searching investigation had been made.
Detectives from the nearby precincts had already responded to the alarm; they ringed the arena, keeping it clear as a base of operations. Hundreds of
Similar Books
