was still laughing at John’s
joke.
"No new dates," he said to me.
"Yeah, I heard it the first time. I’m looking
for a gun."
"We got ’em. All calibers and makes."
"What’s the most powerful handgun you stock?"
The kid went kind of glassy-eyed, as if this were a
moment he’d been waiting for all his life. "Smith and Wesson
Model 29 .44 magnum," he said dreamily. "This gun will cut
a man in two at twenty feet."
"You do a lot of that, do you?" I said.
"Huh?" His eyes broke back into focus and
he stared at me sourly. "Maybe you’re looking for something
smaller? To hunt rabbit or squirrel?"
"No," I said. "That’ll do. I like my
meat well-done, and this way I can kill it and cook it at the same
time."
I bought the pistol with a four-inch barrel and a box
of shells and walked out to my car. When no one along Elm seemed to
be watching, I unwrapped the gun and stuck it in my overcoat. It felt
like I was carrying a steam iron in my pocket.
It took me iive minutes to drive across town to the
Police Building on Ezzard Charles. I parked in the Music Hall Lot and
walked through the snow up to that long yellow building that looks
like nothing so much as a fifties high school. After getting cleared
and tagged by a desk sergeant, I took the elevator up to the second
floor and Sid McMasters’ office. I found Sid sitting behind a desk,
peeling oranges with a Swiss Army knife.
"Fruit?" he said, holding out a section.
"Watch your language," I told him.
McMasters laughed noiselessly. "Heard you got
shot at last night," he said in a mild voice.
"Wouldn’t have anything to with Lovingwell,
would it?"
"You tell me," I said.
"It might." McMasters speared an orange
section with his knife and chewed on the fruit. "I got some news
for you, Harry. That suicide. Well, it ain’t quite kosher. In fact,
it’s trafe . From
what the lab is putting together, it looks like your late client
might not have done himself in, after all."
"Murder?" I said grimly.
"That’s the ticket," McMasters said. "The
position of the body wasn’t right. He was shot here."
McMasters put down his knife and jabbed his right temple with a thick
forefinger. "We found blood and tissue on the safe, so he must
have been standing in front of it at the time of the shooting.
Somebody tried to clean off the metal, but they didn’t do a very
good job."
"Where was the gun?"
"By his hand. But that doesn’t mean much."
"Prints"?"
"His. But they’re perfect. Just like somebody
rolled each finger in ink and pressed it onto the butt."
"No smears or smudges," I said half to
myself.
"That’s right," McMasters said.
"Who do you suspect?"
"We don’t have a clue."
"What about the daughter?"
"That’s a grim little thought coming from
you," he said. "You were working for the family, weren’t
you?"
"I still am."
"Well, unless you know something we don’t,
she’s in the clear. The O’Hara kid swore up and down she was in
the nature club office until one P.M. yesterday."
"He did, huh?" I threw the package of
photographs onto his desk. "I’d like you to have the FBI take
a look at these. See if they can make any of the faces. Tell them to
check the local subversives fi1e—Marxists, Weathermen, stuff like
that."
McMasters fingered the envelope and looked
uncertainly at the snapshots. "What’s this about?"
"They’re members of that little club that
Sarah belongs to. The Friends of Nature. It’s possible that the
club is a communist front."
McMasters’ eyes lit up. "Yeah?" he said
happily.
"That could be a
help. Thanks, Stoner. I’ll have this checked out."
***
Traffic was heavy on the expressway because of the
weather; so I spent almost half an hour getting back to Clifton. I
took the Hopple Street exit to the Parkway, the Parkway to Ludlow,
ground my wheels up that long, lazy hill that flattens out at Resor,
then picked my way among the side streets to the Lovingwell home. I
pulled into the driveway behind Sarah’s V.W. and
joke.
"No new dates," he said to me.
"Yeah, I heard it the first time. I’m looking
for a gun."
"We got ’em. All calibers and makes."
"What’s the most powerful handgun you stock?"
The kid went kind of glassy-eyed, as if this were a
moment he’d been waiting for all his life. "Smith and Wesson
Model 29 .44 magnum," he said dreamily. "This gun will cut
a man in two at twenty feet."
"You do a lot of that, do you?" I said.
"Huh?" His eyes broke back into focus and
he stared at me sourly. "Maybe you’re looking for something
smaller? To hunt rabbit or squirrel?"
"No," I said. "That’ll do. I like my
meat well-done, and this way I can kill it and cook it at the same
time."
I bought the pistol with a four-inch barrel and a box
of shells and walked out to my car. When no one along Elm seemed to
be watching, I unwrapped the gun and stuck it in my overcoat. It felt
like I was carrying a steam iron in my pocket.
It took me iive minutes to drive across town to the
Police Building on Ezzard Charles. I parked in the Music Hall Lot and
walked through the snow up to that long yellow building that looks
like nothing so much as a fifties high school. After getting cleared
and tagged by a desk sergeant, I took the elevator up to the second
floor and Sid McMasters’ office. I found Sid sitting behind a desk,
peeling oranges with a Swiss Army knife.
"Fruit?" he said, holding out a section.
"Watch your language," I told him.
McMasters laughed noiselessly. "Heard you got
shot at last night," he said in a mild voice.
"Wouldn’t have anything to with Lovingwell,
would it?"
"You tell me," I said.
"It might." McMasters speared an orange
section with his knife and chewed on the fruit. "I got some news
for you, Harry. That suicide. Well, it ain’t quite kosher. In fact,
it’s trafe . From
what the lab is putting together, it looks like your late client
might not have done himself in, after all."
"Murder?" I said grimly.
"That’s the ticket," McMasters said. "The
position of the body wasn’t right. He was shot here."
McMasters put down his knife and jabbed his right temple with a thick
forefinger. "We found blood and tissue on the safe, so he must
have been standing in front of it at the time of the shooting.
Somebody tried to clean off the metal, but they didn’t do a very
good job."
"Where was the gun?"
"By his hand. But that doesn’t mean much."
"Prints"?"
"His. But they’re perfect. Just like somebody
rolled each finger in ink and pressed it onto the butt."
"No smears or smudges," I said half to
myself.
"That’s right," McMasters said.
"Who do you suspect?"
"We don’t have a clue."
"What about the daughter?"
"That’s a grim little thought coming from
you," he said. "You were working for the family, weren’t
you?"
"I still am."
"Well, unless you know something we don’t,
she’s in the clear. The O’Hara kid swore up and down she was in
the nature club office until one P.M. yesterday."
"He did, huh?" I threw the package of
photographs onto his desk. "I’d like you to have the FBI take
a look at these. See if they can make any of the faces. Tell them to
check the local subversives fi1e—Marxists, Weathermen, stuff like
that."
McMasters fingered the envelope and looked
uncertainly at the snapshots. "What’s this about?"
"They’re members of that little club that
Sarah belongs to. The Friends of Nature. It’s possible that the
club is a communist front."
McMasters’ eyes lit up. "Yeah?" he said
happily.
"That could be a
help. Thanks, Stoner. I’ll have this checked out."
***
Traffic was heavy on the expressway because of the
weather; so I spent almost half an hour getting back to Clifton. I
took the Hopple Street exit to the Parkway, the Parkway to Ludlow,
ground my wheels up that long, lazy hill that flattens out at Resor,
then picked my way among the side streets to the Lovingwell home. I
pulled into the driveway behind Sarah’s V.W. and
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