by Ellery Queen
“Fixing to marry her?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“On two thousand dollars you’d have a right good start,” she said.
“That would be true, ma’am,” the kid said with great courtesy.
“Well, I hope you make your way proper in the world,” she said, “but you ain’t likely to do that here. You do a sight of hunting, I imagine, from the look of that rifle you carry. You must have seen buck antelope square off a time or two. The young buck tries to get the better of the old buck, tries to displace him in the herd. Rarely happens. I expect you know that. The old buck knows all the tricks that the young buck still needs to learn. That’s why you’re setting on this porch now without a gun.”
The man’s pipe had gone out. He struck another match and indulged himself in the ritual of spreading the flame around the bowl. Then he said, “If you ain’t ready to give it up, son, I’ll take your weapons out there on the desert in the morning and then let you go out and get them and we’ll finish this thing between us. If that’s the way you want it.”
The kid looked at him and uncertainty crept into his young face.
The man said, “The only weapon I own is this Bisley revolver here. Of course you may think you can outrange me with that forty-four-forty rifle of yours. You may think that, but I reckon as how you’d be mistaken.”
The light was beginning to fade, but he still had another 15 or 20 minutes of light good enough for shooting. The wind had died; that was what he had waited for. He went inside the house and got the kid’s rifle and brought it out onto the veranda. The kid watched him while the man worked the lever-action, jacking out the cartridges one by one until the rifle was empty.
Then the man picked up one of the cartridges off the floor and wiped it clean with his hand and chambered it into the rifle. He locked the breech shut and looked at the kid.
“Now I’ve put one load into this rifle of yours. I’m going to let you shoot it, if you like, but not at me. You can aim it down there toward the cliff. If I see that rifle start to swing toward me I’ll just have to shoot you.”
The kid, baffled, just stared at him.
The man pointed off toward the cliff. You could see the little ore cart down there; you could, if you had good eyesight, make out the two jugs perched on it.
“You see those jugs on the ore cart, son?”
“Yes, sir, if that’s what they are.”
“Half-gallon clay jugs. You think you can hit those with that rifle?”
The kid stood up and went to the rail of the veranda. He peered down the slope. “That’s an awful long way off,” he said, half to himself.
“Pref near half a mile,” the man agreed. “Six, seven hundred yards anyhow.”
The kid said, “I don’t know as how even Wild Bill Hickok could have made a shot like that, sir.”
“Well, you can try it if you like.”
“I don’t see the point.”
The man handed the rifle to the woman. Then he drew out his Bisley revolver and stepped over to the pillar that supported the veranda roof.
“I’ll show you why,” he said, and lifted his left arm straight out from the shoulder and braced his palm against the pillar. Then he twisted his body a little and set his feet firm, and holding the Bisley revolver in his right fist he lowered it until his two wrists were crossed, the left one supporting the right one—the shooter’s-rest position. He cocked the revolver and fired it once, almost with careless speed.
Down below at the cliff all three of them plainly saw one of the clay jugs hurtle off its perch on the corner of the ore cart. The jug struck the rocky ground and shattered.
The kid’s eyes, big and round, came around slowly to rest on the man. “Lordy. Seven hundred yards—with a handgun?”
The man cocked his Bisley revolver again and held it in his right hand pointed more or less at the kid. The woman walked behind the kid and held the rifle out over the railing, pointing it toward the cliff. She was proffering it to the kid. “Go ahead,” she said. “You try.”
Slowly the kid took the rifle from her. He was careful to make no sudden motions. He got down on one knee and braced his left forearm against the porch railing to steady his aim. He took his time. The man saw him look up toward the sky, trying to judge the elevation and the windage and the range. The kid adjusted the rear sight of the rifle twice before he snugged down to take serious aim.
Finally he was ready and the man saw the kid’s finger begin to whiten on the trigger as he squeezed. The kid was all right, the man thought. Knew what he was doing. But then that had been clear from the start—when the kid hadn’t tried something foolish at the moment when the man had taken him by surprise back there on the horse. The kid was wise enough to know you didn’t fight when the other man had the drop.
The kid squeezed the trigger with professionally unhurried skill and the rifle thundered. The man was watching the cliff and saw the white streak appear on the rocks where the bullet struck.
“Not bad,” the man said. “You only missed by about ten feet.”
“Lordy,” the kid said. He handed the empty rifle back to the woman.
Then the man took his position again and fired a single shot from his Bisley revolver.
They saw the remaining jug shatter.
The light began to fade. The man said, “I did that to show you the first one wasn’t a fluke.”
The kid swallowed. “I expect I’m kind of overmatched.” He wiped his mouth. “I take it right kindly you did it this way. I mean you could’ve proved the same thing by using me instead of those jugs.” He sat down slowly. “You was right. But that old man in the wheelchair, he showed me a warrant. He said it was all fair and legal. He even showed me where it said dead-or-alive.”
The woman said, “Likely he didn’t show you the date on that warrant, though, did he?”
“I don’t recollect that he did, no, ma’am.”
The man said, “If you ask at the courthouse when you get home you’ll find out those charges expired three years ago.”
In the morning they watched the kid ride away to the north. The man packed his Bisley revolver away after he cleaned it. Then he took the woman’s hand and they went down to the cliff to start the day’s work.
The man picked up the shards of the broken jugs and tossed them on the tailings pile. “It’s a good thing he’s that young. If he’d been older he’d have known for a fact that you just can’t make a shot that far with a handgun. But a fellow that young, you can trick him because he believes what he sees.”
The woman smiled. “Well, it wasn’t exactly a trick. You still had to aim rock-steady. And figure the wind.”
“I waited until there wasn’t no wind. If the air’s moving you can’t do a trick like that.”
He’d set up for it four years ago because he’d known they’d keep coming after him. He’d been counting on the statute of limitations; he hadn’t reckoned, at the time, on that old man being so obsessed that he’d keep sending bounty men forever. But the trick still worked.
He’d done it by figuring the shot in reverse. He’d made a little notch on the pillar of the veranda and that was where he aimed the revolver from. He’d taken aim at the left side of the spire on top of Longshot Bluff. Then he’d taken aim at the right side of it. Then he’d gone down the hill and marked the spots where the two bullets had struck. After that, all he had to do was set up his two targets on exactly those spots. If there wasn’t any wind, all you had to do was aim at one side of the spire or the other. You’d hit the same spots every time.
It had fooled the kid, of course, because it hadn’t occurred to the kid that there was a fixed aiming point. The kid had had to guess the drop of his bullet over a seven-hundred-yard range. He’d guessed pretty close, matter of fact, but it hadn’t been close enough.
The man was pleased with it. Because all the time he’d been a gun-handler by profession he’d managed to do it without ever killing a man. He’d arrested a
lot of them and he’d shot a few, but none of them fatally. He wasn’t about to let a bitter old fool in a wheelchair make a killer out of him at this time of his life.
“Q”
P. G. Wodehouse
Death at the Excelsior
The room was the typical bedroom of the typical boardinghouse, furnished, insofar as it could be said to be furnished at all, with a severe simplicity. In contained two beds, a pine chest of drawers, a strip of faded carpet, and a wash basin. But there was that on the floor which set this room apart from a thousand rooms of the same kind. Flat on his back, with his hands tightly clenched and one leg twisted oddly under him and with his teeth gleaming through his gray beard in a horrible grin, Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyes that saw nothing.
Until a moment before, he had had the little room all to himself. But now two people were standing just inside the door, looking down at him. One was a large policeman, who twisted his helmet nervously in his hands. The other was a tall gaunt old woman in a rusty black dress, who gazed with pale eyes at the dead man. Her face was quite expressionless.
The woman was Mrs. Pickett, owner of the Excelsior boarding-house. The policeman’s name was Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to the riotous element of the waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in the presence of death. He drew in his breath, wiped his forehead, and whispered, “Look at his eyes, ma’am!”
Mrs. Pickett had not spoken a word since she had brought the policeman into the room, and she did not do so now. Constable Grogan looked at her quickly. He was afraid of Mother Pickett, as was everybody else along the waterfront. Her silence, her pale eyes, and the quiet decisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old salts who patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that little community of sailormen.
“That’s just how I found him,” said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speak loudly, but her voice made the policeman start.
He wiped his forehead again. “It might have been apoplexy,” he hazarded.
Mrs. Pickett said nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and a young man entered, carrying a black bag.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pickett. I was told that—good Lord!” The young doctor dropped to his knees beside the body and raised one of the arms. After a moment he lowered it gently to the floor and shook his head in grim resignation.
“He’s been dead for hours,” he announced. “When did you find him?”
“Twenty minutes back,” replied the old woman. “I guess he died last night. He never would be called in the morning. Said he liked to sleep on. Well, he’s got his wish.”
“What did he die of, sir?” asked the policeman.
“It’s impossible to say without an examination,” the doctor answered. “It looks like a stroke, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t. It might be a coronary attack, but I happen to know his blood pressure was normal, and his heart sound. He called in to see me only a week ago and I examined him thoroughly. But sometimes you can be deceived. The inquest will tell us.”
He eyed the body almost resentfully. “I can’t understand it. The man had no right to drop dead like this. He was a tough old sailor who ought to have been good for another twenty years. If you want my honest opinion—though I can’t possibly be certain until after the inquest—I should say he had been poisoned.”
“How would he be poisoned?” asked Mrs. Pickett quietly.
“That’s more than I can tell you. There’s no glass about that he could have drunk it from. He might have got it in capsule form. But why should he have done it? He was always a pretty cheerful sort of man, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” said the constable. “He had the name of being a joker in these parts. Kind of sarcastic, they tell me, though he never tried it on me.”
“He must have died quite early last night,” said the doctor. He turned to Mrs. Pickett. “What’s become of Captain Muller? If he shares this room he ought to be able to tell us something.”
“Captain Muller spent the night with some friends at Portsmouth,” said Mrs. Pickett. “He left right after supper, and hasn’t returned.”
The doctor stared thoughtfully about the room, frowning.
“I don’t like it. I can’t understand it. If this had happened in India I should have said the man had died from some form of snake bite. I was out there two years, and I’ve seen a hundred cases of it. The poor devils all looked just like this. But the thing’s ridiculous. How could a man be bitten by a snake in a Southampton waterfront boardinghouse? Was the door locked when you found him, Mrs. Pickett?”
Mrs. Pickett nodded. “I opened it with my own key. I had been calling to him and he didn’t answer, so I guessed something was wrong.”
The constable spoke, “You ain’t touched anything, ma’am? They’re always very particular about that. If the doctor’s right and there’s been anything up, that’s the first thing they’ll ask.”
“Everything’s just as I found it.”
“What’s that on the floor beside him?” the doctor asked.
“Only his harmonica. He liked to play it of an evening in his room. I’ve had some complaints about it from some of the gentlemen, but I never saw any harm, so long as he didn’t play it too late.”
“Seems as if he was playing it when—it happened,” Constable Grogan said. “That don’t look much like suicide, sir.”
“I didn’t say it was suicide.”
Grogan whistled. “You don’t think—”
“I’m not thinking anything—until after the inquest. All I say is that it’s queer.”
Another aspect of the matter seemed to strike the policeman. “I guess this ain’t going to do the Excelsior any good, ma’am,” he said sympathetically.
Mrs. Pickett shrugged.
“I suppose I had better go and notify the coroner,” said the doctor.
He went out, and after a momentary pause the policeman followed. Constable Grogan was not greatly troubled with nerves, but he felt a decided desire to be where he could not see the dead man’s staring eyes.
Mrs. Pickett remained where she was, looking down at the still form on the floor. Her face was expressionless, but inwardly she was tormented and alarmed. It was the first time such a thing as this had happened at the Excelsior, and, as Constable Grogan had suggested, it was not likely to increase the attractiveness of the house in the eyes of possible boarders. It was not the threatened pecuniary loss which was troubling her. As far as money was concerned, she could have lived comfortably on her savings, for she was richer than most of her friends supposed. It was the blot on the escutcheon of the Excelsior, the stain on its reputation, which was tormenting her.
The Excelsior was her life. Starting many years before, beyond the memory of the oldest boarder, she had built up a model establishment. Men spoke of it as a place where you were fed well, cleanly housed, and where petty robbery was unknown.
Such was the chorus of praise that it is not likely that much harm could come to the Excelsior from a single mysterious death, but Mother Pickett was not consoling herself with that.
She looked at the dead man with pale grim eyes. Out in the hallway the doctor’s voice further increased her despair. He was talking to the police on the telephone, and she could distinctly hear his every word.
The offices of Mr. Paul Snyder’s Detective Agency in New Oxford Street had grown in the course of a dozen years from a single room to an impressive suite bright with polished wood, clicking typewriters, and other evidences of success. Where once Mr. Snyder had sat and waited for clients and attended to them himself, he now sat in his private office and directed eight assistants.
He had just accepted a case—a case that might be nothing at all or something exceedingly big. It was on the latter possibility that he had gambled. The fee offered was, judged by his present standards of prosperity, small. But the bizarre facts, coupled with something in the personality of the client, had won him over. He briskly touched the bell and requested that Mr. Oa
kes should be sent in to him.
Elliott Oakes was a young man who both amused and interested Mr. Snyder, for though he had only recently joined the staff, he made no secret of his intention of revolutionizing the methods of the agency. Mr. Snyder himself, in common with most of his assistants, relied for results on hard work and common sense. He had never been a detective of the showy type. Results had justified his methods, but he was perfectly aware that young Mr. Oakes looked on him as a dull old man who had been miraculously favored by luck.
Mr. Snyder had selected Oakes for the case in hand principally because it was one where inexperience could do no harm, and where the brilliant guesswork which Oakes preferred to call his inductive reasoning might achieve an unexpected success.
Another motive actuated Mr. Snyder. He had a strong suspicion that the conduct of this case was going to have the beneficial result of lowering Oakes’s self-esteem. If failure achieved this end, Mr. Snyder felt that failure, though it would not help the agency, would not be an unmixed ill.
The door opened and Oakes entered tensely. He did everything tensely, partly from a natural nervous energy, and partly as a pose. He was a lean young man, with dark eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, and he looked quite as much like a typical detective as Mr. Snyder looked like a comfortable and prosperous stockbroker.
“Sit down, Oakes,” said Mr. Snyder. “I’ve got a job for you.”
Oakes sank into a chair like a crouching leopard and placed the tips of his fingers together. He nodded curtly. It was part of his pose to be keen and silent.
“I want you to go to this address”—Mr. Snyder handed him an envelope—“and look around. The address is of a sailors’ boarding-house down in Southampton. You know the sort of place—retired sea captains and so on live there. All most respectable. In all its history nothing more sensational has ever happened than a case of suspected cheating at halfpenny nap. Well, a man has died there.”
“Murdered?” Oakes asked.
“I don’t know. That’s for you to find out. The coroner left it open. ‘Death by Misadventure’ was the verdict, and I don’t blame him. I don’t see how it could have been murder. The door was locked on the inside, so nobody could have got in.”
