by Parnell Hall
“If that’s the gun,” Tracy said, “he hasn’t noticed the substitution yet.”
“A credit to my craftsmanship,” Steve said.
“Oh, bullshit,” Tracy said. “It’s no trick to copy a copy. Now if you could make a copy that could pass for the original, that would be something.”
“Too late for that,” Steve said.
“Tell me something.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re convinced that being here’s totally stupid, nothing’s going to happen and we’re wasting our time?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“On the other hand, you went to the expense of the elaborate precaution of switching guns.”
“True. So?”
“So, how do you justify those two positions?”
“Easy,” Steve said. “While I have no expectations a crime is actually going to be committed with Pistol Pete’s original gun, I have to figure there was some purpose for the substitution-if there was a substitution, since I only have Timberlaine’s word for that. Since I don’t know whether his story is true, or what he or anyone else is planning, I attempted to take some measure of control of the situation by introducing a factor into the equation that only I would know. See?”
Tracy shook her head. “Bullshit. You’re just like me. You think something’s going to happen.”
“Shhh,” Steve said. “It’s starting.”
Tracy looked where Steve was pointing and saw that a man in a red jacket now stood at a lectern that had been set up on the stage at the front of the ballroom. On either side of the lectern were tables. At one sat an accountant with a ledger and cash box. At the other sat two assistants with lists of the items to be auctioned.
Also on stage, but further back, were long tables at which the dealers stood with their wares. There were five dealers on stage, including Mr. Nigouri.
The auctioneer tapped the microphone, said, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Please be seated, let’s get right to it.”
There was actually a couple of minutes of shuffling and finding chairs before the auctioneer said, “Very well. The first item up for bids. Number one in your program. From Mr. Nigouri. A Smith and Wesson thirty-two-caliber revolver.”
As the auctioneer droned on, Steve Winslow slumped down in his seat looking bored, but Tracy Garvin, who had never been to an auction before, perked right up. Tracy found the whole process fascinating. Particularly an auction of this kind, where the auctioneer was not jabbering away a mile a minute in some sort of doubletalk the uninitiated couldn’t understand. Instead, the whole thing was rather calm and sedate and easy to follow.
Plus, the bidders all turned out to have different styles. Some never said a word, but would bid just by raising a finger or inclining the head. Ms. Ebersol fell into that category. She seemed to bid with her finger and her chin. In fact, once, Tracy could have sworn she bid just by raising an eyebrow.
Others were verbal. Some would raise a hand and say, “Here,” to indicate that they were making the bid requested by the auctioneer. Others shouted out the actual amounts. Mr. Crumbly was one of those. He seemed to take delight in booming out the figures. Tracy noticed he never said the number alone, but always punctuated it with the word dollars.
The bidders Tracy was really concerned with, of course, were Timberlaine and Burdett, but in the early going, neither of them bid. None of the guns seemed to generate much interest, and the bidding was low key at best.
Tracy had just begun to shift restlessly in her seat when Steve poked her in the arm. “Here we go,” he said. He pointed to the program. “Item Fourteen. The derringer.”
Tracy’s eyes widened. “Is that it?”
“I think so.”
It was. The auctioneer produced Item Fourteen with a bit of a flourish, and actually told the story of Marie LaBlanc in describing it.
Other guns had been starting in the thousand, two thousand dollar range, but in this case the auctioneer said, “Let’s start the bidding at ten thousand dollars.”
Russ Timberlaine bid and Tracy smiled. He was, as she’d expected, one of those bidders who both gestured and spoke. He raised his hand and said, “Ten thousand.”
On the other side of the room, Melvin Burdett rose to his feet. His smile was a challenge. “Fifteen,” he said.
There was an audible reaction in the room, a common intake of breath. A five-thousand-dollar jump was by far the largest raise of the afternoon.
Timberlaine scowled.
The auctioneer frowned. “I have a bid of fifteen thousand.”
“Sixteen,” Timberlaine said.
Burdett smiled at him from across the room, turned to the auctioneer and said, “Twenty.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-five.”
A pause.
“I have twenty-five thousand.”
“Twenty-six.”
“Twenty-seven,” Burdett said promptly.
Another pause.
Timberlaine took a breath. From way across the room, Tracy could see the fire in his eyes. She expected him to bid.
Then he slowly blew it out again. Clamped his lips together.
“I have a bid of twenty-seven thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear twenty-eight? … Twenty-seven thousand going once … Going twice … Sold to Mr. Burdett for twenty-seven thousand, mark it down.”
Tracy leaned over, grabbed Steve’s arm. “Why’d he let Burdett outbid him?”
Steve shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“Don’t you know?”
“I would assume Burdett bid higher than Timberlaine was willing to pay.”
Tracy made a face. “That’s obvious. I mean-”
“I know what you mean. The answer is, I don’t know. You can ask him at the break.”
“The break?”
“It’s a long auction. There’s an intermission.”
“Oh.”
Tracy settled back in her seat to see if anything else interesting would happen. Nothing did. Neither Timberlaine nor Burdett bid again, and the rest of the bidding was decidedly lackluster.
At the intermission, Steve and Tracy got up and went out in search of Timberlaine, who had actually slipped out before the end of the bidding. They found him on the patio talking with his daughter.
“I hope we’re not interrupting,” Steve said.
“Not at all,” Timberlaine said. “We were talking about the Mets.”
“Oh. How was the ballgame?” Steve asked.
Carrie made a face. “Terrible.”
Timberlaine smiled. “She says terrible. The Mets won, one nothing. A great pitchers’ duel.”
“Oh, men,” Carrie said. “That’s what Donald said too. Pitchers’ duel. You know what a pitchers’ duel is? It’s a game where nothing happens. Boring, boring, boring.”
Steve and Tracy laughed, and Timberlaine smiled indulgently.
“So,” Timberlaine said. “How do you like the auction?”
Steve pursed his lips judiciously. “It’s a pitchers’ duel.”
Timberlaine laughed. “Glad to see you’ve got a sense of humor. You’re right. It’s been pretty dull.”
“Except for the derringer,” Tracy said. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but why did you let it get away?”
Timberlaine frowned. “Because it was a no-win situation. That’s the way it is with Burdett. Yeah, I could outbid him, but I get too high, see? I have to pay much more than the gun is worth. See why it’s no-win? I’m either a fool for paying way too much for the gun, or I’m a loser for letting Burdett outbid me.”
“I see,” Tracy said. She frowned. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Timberlaine said. He smiled. “Now you see my problem.”
“Yes, I do,” Tracy said. She looked at him. Frowned again. “But I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Timberlaine, but considering Melvin Burdett just outbid you
, and considering what you just told me, you don’t seem that upset.”
Timberlaine smiled. “Is that so.” He looked around the patio to see who was in earshot, then leaned in conspiratorially, said, “Well, just between you and me, the auction ain’t over yet.”
11
Tracy Garvin was on the edge of her seat for the second half of the auction. Russ Timberlaine hadn’t said what he meant by the auction not being over yet, but Tracy knew damn well he must have some surprise in store for Melvin Burdett, and the way Timberlaine was acting, she figured it was going to be good.
What that could be in the course of an auction, she had no idea. The only thing that came to mind was Cary Grant making ridiculous bids in the auction in North By Northwest. Which, of course, would make no sense here. Unless, the next time Burdett bid, Timberlaine intended to make nonsensical bids to mock him. Which didn’t seem practical on the one hand, or in character on the other. So what the hell was he up to?
As the auction progressed, Tracy had no idea. Because a Timberlaine-Burdett confrontation simply did not materialize. In fact, Timberlaine bid on no guns at all. Neither did Burdett, until nearly the end of the auction. That was when the auctioneer announced what sounded like a particularly choice item, a pistol reputed to have been carried by one of the cavalry at the battle of the Little Big Horn. Burdett bid ten thousand and Tracy perked right up. Surely this was the gun where Timberlaine was going to take him on.
Only he didn’t. Mr. Crumbly was the only other bidder. He bid twelve thousand. Burdett came back with fifteen. Crumbly offered sixteen. Burdett bid twenty thousand. Crumbly bid twenty-two, Burdett twenty-five.
Tracy was annoyed. It was the most spirited bidding of the afternoon, but without Timberlaine in the auction it seemed dull.
There was a pause while Crumbly conferred with his wife. Since that was obviously what he was doing, the auctioneer waited, did not prompt.
Crumbly turned back. “Thirty thousand,” he said.
Once again there was a common intake of breath. A five-thousand-dollar jump at that level was somewhat unprecedented. It was to all intents and purposes a close-out bid.
Not to Burdett. “Thirty-one thousand,” he said.
A murmur of voices greeted that bid. Burdett was bidding over and above Crumbly’s close-out?
Crumbly frowned.
The auctioneer repeated the bid, asked if he heard higher, did not, went through the going once, going twice routine and said, “Sold to Mr. Burdett for thirty-one thousand, mark it down.”
Tracy wasn’t watching the auctioneer at the time. Nor was she watching Crumbly, nor Burdett. She was watching Timberlaine.
His face was murderous. Earlier, he’d been angry when Burdett had outbid him for a gun. But that was nothing compared to this. The man was furious.
As the gun was marked down, Timberlaine turned on his heel and stalked out of the grand ballroom.
“What was that all about?” Tracy said.
“Damned if I know,” Steve said.
“I thought the auction was almost over.”
Steve checked the program. “It is.”
“Then where the hell is he going?”
“I have no idea.”
Steve and Tracy sat there while the next few items were knocked down. Tracy expected that at any moment Timberlaine would return to deliver the fireworks he had promised at intermission.
As the auctioneer called the next bid, there suddenly came the sound of a gunshot.
Tracy jumped, started to get out of her chair, then thought better of it. She turned to Steve. “Pistol range?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Is that Timberlaine?”
“Probably a good bet.”
“What the hell’s he doing?”
“Most likely letting off steam.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Hey, you know as much as I do.”
Tracy shook her head. “How many items left?”
Steve checked the program. “Three.”
“Are they interesting?”
He looked again, shook his head. “Don’t appear to be.”
They weren’t. Not one of them fetched more than five thousand dollars. Timberlaine did not return, and just like that the auction was over.
12
Steve and Tracy caught up with Carrie Timberlaine and Donald Walcott right outside the grand ballroom door.
“What happened in there?” Tracy demanded.
Carrie looked around. The guests were streaming out of the ballroom all around them.
“Dad’s very upset. We can’t talk here. Come outside.”
She and Donald led them out onto a corner of the patio.
“So what happened?” Tracy said.
“It was just like Dad told you. Burdett would never let him have a gun. Not for a reasonable price.”
“Yeah, so?”
“He wanted that cavalry piece. From Little Big Horn. Burdett would outbid him if he knew he wanted it, so he got Crumbly to bid for him.”
“So that’s what he was talking about at intermission?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Only it didn’t work. Burdett outbid him.”
“Right. Dad’s furious.”
“Why?”
“He figures someone tipped him off.”
“Who?” Steve said.
Carrie smiled. “Hey. I haven’t talked to him. I saw him storm out just like you did. I’m guessing this from knowing Dad.”
“Who could have tipped him off? Who knew?”
“Besides me and Donald?” Carrie said. “The Crumblys, of course, but they wouldn’t have, they were in on it. The only other one it could have been is Jack Potter.”
“Why him?”
“He’d have known, because Dad would have had him check out the gun.”
“How well does your father know Potter?”
“That’s just it. Not that well. This is the third or fourth time he’s used him. His regular expert, the guy he relied on, moved to L.A.”
“Who recommended Potter?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Dad.”
“Surely not Burdett.”
“There again I don’t know.”
“O.K., thanks.” Steve took Tracy by the arm. “Come on, Tracy. Let’s check out the pistol range.”
Steve led Tracy off the patio and down the path toward the range.
As they went, Tracy looked up at him and shook her head. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
“Oh, why’s that?”
“I’ve been knocking myself out all weekend to get you to take an interest in this thing and it’s like pulling teeth, you don’t wanna hear about it. Suddenly you’re all gung-ho to find your client like it was a matter of life and death.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I would like to find him.”
“Why?”
“Because the guy is really pissed off and is probably out running around with a gun I had Mark Taylor buy and then filed the serial number off of. If so, he just fired it at the pistol range, which means he’s running around with it loaded. Now, if that gun winds up back in the display case where it belongs, we have no problem. But until it does, I must admit I am somewhat less than happy.”
Tracy smiled up at him. “You weren’t prepared to see Timberlaine come walking in wearing that gun, were you?”
“No, I must admit that was a bit of a shock. But keep your voice down. We’re almost there.”
They came around a bend and reached the clearing, but to no avail. The pistol range was deserted.
“O.K., what now?” Tracy said.
“O.K., we missed him and there’s no telling where he’s gone.”
“Assuming he was here at all.”
“Right. But I think that’s a pretty fair assumption. Anyway, if he was, he’s long gone. He could be walking around the grounds just to let off steam, or he could have gone back to the house. There’s a lot of different paths. We cou
ld easily have missed him.”
“So?”
“Let’s go back to the house, see if we missed him along the way.”
They made their way back to the house.
By the time they got back, the patio was filled with guests who had filtered out from the grand ballroom after the auction. Steve and Tracy looked around, but couldn’t see Timberlaine. His daughter and her boyfriend were no longer there either. They saw Burdett, who had a small cluster of guests around him, and who seemed to be pontificating on some subject or other, but there was no sign of their host.
“Damn,” Steve said.
“What do we do now?”
“Well, no use getting worked up over nothing. Now we check the gun room, make sure the gun he’s running around with is the one we think it is. I’ll feel like a damn fool if all this time it’s sitting there right in its case.”
“Right,” Tracy said. “But I don’t think it is.”
They went inside, walked down the long hallway toward the gun room.
They almost walked by it. The huge double doors were closed.
Tracy had to grab Steve’s arm.
“Wait a minute. Isn’t this it?”
“Isn’t what it?”
“The gun room. Isn’t this the gun room?”
“Oh. I thought it was the next door.”
“No, that’s the last room down. The gun room wasn’t the last room down. This has to be it.”
“Then why are the doors closed?”
“Maybe it’s locked.”
“Why would it be locked?”
“Maybe they keep it locked during the auction, and they forgot to open it when it was over.”
“It’s not locked,” Steve said, twisting the doorknob.
Steve pushed the double doors open. He and Tracy stepped into the room and stopped dead.
The body of Jack Potter lay face up beside the display case in the middle of the gun room floor.
He’d been shot in the head.
Next to the body lay a Colt.45 with the letter R carved in the handle.
13
