Chapter 7 Chapter 6 Facts to be clarified
The frozen body was lifted by many silent hands and transported to one of the many rooms in the underground hall of the sports field.The Quinns, Kit Horn, and the Grants returned to the timekeeper's workshop.
During the wait for Dr. Boddy, Officer Quinn said: "—Hey! As usual, it's still late!—We can think about these things that happened today."
The stiff mask that Kit had been wearing fell apart: "What time!" she exclaimed impulsively, "do something now, Sergeant, for God's sake!"
"Honey," said the old man softly, "you've got to be patient. You can't imagine what we're up against. You're all so sure that Horn didn't make any enemies—no reason to be killed, no clues ——However, we have 20,000 suspects on the shelf, and none of them can be released. Let me ask you first..."
"Ask anything, Sergeant, and I can tell you anything. This terrible..."
"Yes, yes, my dear, I know. I know you will. Is your father all right today? Is he showing any signs of anxiety or irritability?"
She tried to pull herself together, lowered her eyes, and kept her voice steady, recalling the conflict between Woody and Horn that morning.
"He seems fine, officer. I've been worrying about him, asking if he's been checked by a doctor..."
"Oh yes, I remember you saying he had been ill for a while," Ellery whispered.
"Yeah. He's been in poor health for about two years, maybe," Kit said quietly. "The doctor says it's just aging. He's sixty-five." She was a little Get excited, "He's used to an intensely active life, and it's going to be frustrating at this age. I don't want him to go back to work. But he insists it's better for him, it lifts him up. Today, I asked him if he had been checked by the team doctor, and he said he did, just this morning, and the results were normal."
"Isn't he worried about anything?" Sergeant Quinn asked.
"No. I mean . . . I don't know. He's not agitated, though he seems to have something on his mind."
"Then I guess you don't know what's on your mind?"
She looked straight at him and said, "I wish I knew!"
Officer Quinn turned to the old entertainer and said, "How about you, Mr. Grant? Do you know what's on Horn's mind?"
"Hell, how would I know. It doesn't matter to him other than what's going on in the movie industry. Kit, you must be playing tricks on..."
"Okay, okay," Officer Quinn interrupted him eagerly, "don't argue about it. Miss Horn, what's going on today?"
"I—I got in late last night, so I didn't get up until almost noon today. Buck and I—our lodgings are at the Barclay's Hotel on the west side of Forty-fourth Street. Our whole group lives there. I knocked He went to Buck's room, opened it, and kissed me good morning, looking very happy. He said he had been up for hours—of course, he had a habit of getting up at sunrise. He Said he went for a walk in Central Park and had breakfast... I ordered something to eat and Buck had a cup of coffee with me. About two o'clock we walked to the playground for the final rehearsal."
"Oh, so you did a live rehearsal today, eh, Mr. Grant?"
"Yeah. Full make-up. Except for Buck—he didn't bother to change again. We went through the cutscene one last time, and everything was in order."
"I looked around for a while," Kit said, "and then I slipped out..."
"Wait," Ellery said, frowning, "Mr. Grant, are you at the rehearsal?"
"Of course I will."
"Is everything going as planned in the program?"
Grant stared: "That's right! It's just that Buck is a little nervous, I think he is. He told me that he really felt a little warm when he appeared in front of the public again."
Ellery said, "How was the show planned?"
"Nothing special. A run around the ring--you saw that tonight, and then Buck did some simple horse stunts--there were little tricks that looked weird but were really easy, and then there was a shooting show. Finally, a little rope trick..."
"Isn't it too dangerous? Didn't he be asked to noose a buffalo or ride a crazy horse?"
Officer Quinn looked at his son a little puzzled.But Ellery seemed to be trying to find order in the mess, thinking about something.As usual, whenever he got excited thinking, or fell into a puzzling mystery, he took off his clean pince-nez and wiped it vigorously, but his mind wandered elsewhere.
"No," Grant said, "there's no show like that—I wouldn't let him do that. Yeah, he did a couple of buffalo nooses in rehearsal, but he didn't put the buffalo on, nothing dangerous."
"Did he do it himself?" Ellery asked pressingly.
"Buck always wants to do anything," said Grant wearily. "You'd never guess he's an old man by the way he's going. And, god damn it, he can do it! When we were designing the program, I almost got into a fight with him."
"Hmm," Ellery said, putting his glasses back on his nose, "what an interesting story."
Kit and Curley stared at him dumbfounded.A gleam of hope flashed in Kit's eyes, his bronzed face blushed with excitement, and his breathing became tense: "You mean, Mr. Grant, Horne's performance also includes shooting?"
"Yeah, he did it in the rehearsal too. He's a real sharpshooter, as Horn is," said Grant grimly. "There's an old saying out there—a real cowboy is only a horse if he's good at shooting. He There's more to that. Young people these days are just booing. Back then..." He shook his head sadly. "I've seen Buck a couple of times with his old goth long-barreled gun, a hundred feet away. The first six rounds hit the two-inch-wide bull's-eye! And it only took a few seconds to fire all six rounds. He can do anything with a gun. Look, he's got some tricks to practice tonight. , Mr. Quinn! He's going to ride Kit's mane horse with the silver star on his brow, and shoot the gun while the horse is running at top speed. Best of all, shoot coins thrown in the air... ..."
"I believe that," Ellery said with a smile. "I think Buck must have some extraordinary skill at shooting. Very good. Then, did anything unusual happen in today's rehearsal? Even a little thing." ?”
Grant shook his head. "Everything is going as planned. It's like clockwork."
"Have all the riders arrived?"
"A lot."
Ellery shook his head impatiently—as if angry with himself.He said "thank you" muffledly, then walked away, staring at the cigarette butt in his hand absently, the light of thought flashed across his eyes.
"Anything after rehearsal?" Sergeant Quinn asked.
"Oh," said Kit, "I told you I caught Buck and Woody arguing in the stables. I didn't see him again when I came out of his dressing room. I mean—after I left Before the stadium. I stopped by Mr. Grant's office before I left, just after I parted with Curley." There was pain in her voice now, and Curley blushed to the roots of his hair, He lowered his head and kicked the floor with his feet until he found Officer Quinn watching him attentively, then he stood quietly.
"I found Buck there, with Bill—with Mr. Grant."
"Really?" Officer Quinn asked, staring at the old entertainer with expressionless eyes.
"That's right, officer."
"Go on, Miss Horn."
She shrugged resignedly. "But there's nothing more to say. Buck is writing a check. I said hello and left the stadium."
"Wait," said Ellery a little cheerfully, apparently again, "what is the purpose of this check, Mr. Grant?"
"Nothing special, and Buck asked me if I could give him twenty-five dollars in cash, and I said no problem. So he wrote me a check, and I gave him the bill."
"Well," said Ellery flatly, "what did you do with the check? Did you have it with you, Mr. Grant?"
"What? I haven't," said Grant flatly. "I'll go to the bank later--Coast National Bank, and deposit it."
"Seems pretty innocent," Ellery said casually, and stepped back again.
Officer Quinn gave him a stern look, then turned to Grant: "Is that the last time you saw him?"
"No. I was walking into this building when I came back from the bank, and I met Horne again. He had a hat on. 'Where are you going?' I asked him. He said, 'For the evening show, Rest up first.' That's it. Nothing else to say. He came late at night, seemed a little excited, I think so. He waved to me and ran into his dressing room. There was hardly much time Let him change clothes, and soon, the team will be on the field."
Quinn and his son looked at each other: "This may be very important," Police Officer Quinn whispered, "I'm late, aren't you? What time did he say he was going to Barclay?"
"Around four o'clock."
"Well. Have you seen him since you left the playground, Miss Horn?"
"Yes. I went straight from here to the hotel. Buck came back about four-thirty, and he said he was going to take a nap. I changed--and went downstairs. And then--"
Curly Grant spoke for the first time: "Since then," he said with air, "Miss Horne has been with me. I met her in the hall, and we were out all afternoon. "
"Yes." Kit said softly.
"And when you get back?" Sergeant Quinn asked.
"Buck's gone, he left me a note on my bedside table. So I changed into my evening clothes and took a cab straight to the stadium. Didn't see him again until..." Her voice began to tremble. "Until he rode into the field."
"Oh, so you're late too, right?" Officer Quinn asked slowly.
"What do you mean?"
Officer Quinn smiled slightly, and shook his hands indifferently: "Nothing, my dear, absolutely nothing!" He took a pinch of snuff and sneezed twice, "It's just—Mr. Grant (Ah-chuck!) Mr. Grant said your father was late, so you must be late too. Got it? Very simple!"
Curley took a step forward: "Listen," he roared, "I won't let you talk like that. I told you Miss Horn was with me..."
"Ah, so you're late too, young man?"
Grant looked sternly from Kit to his son.Curley looked down and said, "No, I'm not late. I left her when we passed the playground. She said it was best not to go back to the hotel together..."
Officer Quinn stood up: "I understand very well. Well, Miss Horn, and you, Mr. Grant..."
Suddenly there was a violent knock on the door.
"What are you doing?" Officer Quinn shouted.
The door was kicked open.A stern, malevolent Machiavellian figure bursts in.His dark chin and iron-gray Derby hat made his face pale and sinister like a dead man's.The cigar dangling between his teeth is clearly the product of a poorly crafted tobacco workshop.What he carried with him was an equally dark small equipment box.
"Here I am," he announced bellowing, "where's the one who made it through?"
"Uh——Let's do it first, Miss Horne, Mr. Grant. Thank you." Police Officer Quinn said hurriedly, and sent the Grant father and son and the girl out of the house.Officer Willie flashed out from a shadow outside the room, and quietly walked with them, "Go back to the field, Thomas!" Officer Quinn ordered loudly.Willie nodded and left.
"Now, you lazy bastard of the American witch doctor," Officer Quinn yelled at the black man, "when do you think this is? There was a murder, and you told us to wait here for you for two hours! It's too much..."
"Come on, come on," said Machiavelli, grinning his teeth. "Okay again. Now, where's the body, you old fellow?"
"Go ahead, Samuel, go ahead. It's just getting stiffer in the next room."
"Wait a minute, Dr. Boddy," Ellery called out as the visitor turned to leave.The ghostly figure responsible for performing autopsies on more than half of New York's homicides paused.Ellery put his arm around the man's shoulder and whispered something affectionately in his ear.The forensic doctor nodded, and quickly dangled out the half-lit cigar.
Quinn and his son were the only ones left in the room.
The father and son looked at each other sullenly.
"How is it?" Sergeant Quinn asked.
"That's a very meaningful 'how'." Ellery said with a sigh. "We're back to the most typical Quinn case—there were so many suspects in the truck. Remember that The nasty Feld case? The entire theater was murdered! And that murder of the Frenchman, the department store full of customers? Old lady Doran died strangely. Doctors, nurses, patients everywhere. , madman's hospital. Well now, a sports field! We've got a case..." he said sleepwalking, "I'm afraid the criminal will have to take the murder scene to Yankee Stadium, in which case we'll have to The entire New Jersey reserve army was brought in to help us filter 70,000 viewers."
"Stop blah blah blah," Sergeant Quinn said impatiently. "That's the thing that bothers me the most. It's no joke. We can't lock up twenty thousand people here forever. Good thing the chief of police is out of town." Otherwise, let him know that I am enclosing half the population of New York like this, and he will have to strangle me. And Henry Simpson is not here, so I feel more at ease."
"Whatever, what about the chief of police, what about the district judge?" said Ellery flatly. "Just do what you want."
"What did you tell Poddy just now?"
"I ask your venerable forensic doctor to take the bullet out of Horn's body."
"What does it matter, you quick-tempered man! Didn't the circus doctor say—yes, it's a .22 or a .25, right?"
"Shall we be a little more scientific, my lord? I'm very curious about the Deathbringer. You must not allow a spectator or anyone else to leave this stadium until you discover the secret of that bullet."
"I know that." Officer Quinn said briefly.Neither of them said anything.
Ellery hummed a sad little tune.
"Ellery... what are you thinking?"
The ditty stopped: "I was thinking of poor Dijuna, sitting in a box with that horrible Hollywood actor, with a guy like Tommy Black next to him."
"My God," screamed Officer Quinn, "I completely forgot about Dijuna!"
"Don't be nervous," Ellery said calmly. "He's going through a major event in his life, and his gods will be delighted to see him tonight. Back to the point, what you were asking was... ..."
"What do you think of the case?"
Ellery puffed on the low ceiling: "I find it odd that there are so many doubts."
Officer Quinn was opening his mouth to ask something, a lengthy conversation was interrupted by Dr. Poddy who suddenly broke in.He had taken off his coat and hat, his shirtsleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and in his right hand he held a gauze-covered object as if presented as a trophy.
Officer Quinn snatched the little thing from Dr. Boddy's hand, without saying a word of courtesy to the doctor, and without caring that the blood on it got on his finger.
Ellery also walked quickly.
"Ha!" exclaimed the old man, looking at the thing carefully. "It's really a .25 caliber, fully automatic, yes. The doctor was right. It's intact, eh, son?"
The conical bullet is almost in its original perfect pose.It was a delicate little thing, and the blood stains on it seemed to be painted with red paint, but it didn't look evil at all.
"It penetrated very neatly," Boddy said in a rough voice, taking a hard puff on the cigar, "it went right through the heart. The bullet holes were also very neat. It didn't even touch a rib, just passed by. "
Ellery's fingers twirled the bullet, but his eyes moved away.
"Any other meaningful signs?" Officer Quinn asked sternly.
"Nothing. Four broken ribs; comminuted sternum; multiple fractures of limbs; extensive depression of the skull . Your police officer told me all the way just now."
"Are there no other kinds of trauma—I mean, knife wounds or other gunshot wounds?"
"No."
"Death immediately?"
"He was as dead as a frozen fin fish when he hit the ground."
"You mean," said Ellery slowly, "that the path of the bullet's entry is clear, doctor. Is it clear enough to judge the angle of entry?"
"That's what I came here to say," murmured Dr. Boddy. "You're right. The buckshot went in from his left side—that is, from left to right." Penetrating—a top-down line at a thirty-degree angle to the ground."
"Top-down line!" Officer Quinn yelled.He opened his eyes wide, and then slapped his thigh, "Great, great! Samuel, you are really my baby, my savior—the best old guy among all the rogue gamblers. Up and down the line, eh? Thirty degrees, eh? Thank God, Ellery, now we've got a reason to lock up the ragtag crowd in the stands! The lowest tier has to be ten feet off the ground, ho It's entirely possible that Ern was shot from that position. Adding in the heights of the sitting and prone positions, the murderer could be hiding from the ground floor up to three or four feet higher...that is Say, maybe thirteen or fourteen feet high, eh? Oh, that's pretty darn good!"
Dr. Bodi was accustomed to this kind of professional praise. He sat down calmly, scratched a line on a printed form with his hieroglyphic-like handwriting, and raised his hand to Officer Quinn: " It's for those Social Welfare guys. They're gonna come pick up dead people any minute from now. Want an autopsy?"
"is it necessary?"
"It's not necessary."
"Let's make one because of the burden." Officer Quinn said seriously, "I don't want to omit anything."
"Okay, okay, you don't want to be empty at all." Dr. Poddy looked indifferent.
"And," said Ellery, "pay special attention to what's left in his stomach, doctor."
"Stomach?" Officer Quinn asked blankly.
"Stomach," Ellery said firmly.
"Okay." Doctor Boddy replied loudly, and walked out again.
Sergeant Quinn turned to Ellery, who was still studying the bullet with rapt attention and interest.
"So, what's the problem now?" Inspector Quinn asked.
Ellery looked at his father sadly. "When was the last time you were in a movie theater, you hopeless old realist?"
Officer Quinn stared: "Does it have anything to do with this?"
"Do you remember that a few months ago, we were begged by Di Juna so that we went to that night cinema together to watch a 'one ticket for two' movie that the theater cleverly arranged?"
"What's the matter?"
"Which movie is less interesting? How do you say it?"
"Looks like it's a Western—aha! Yes, the one with Kit Horn, Ellery!"
"That's indeed her movie," Ellery said, staring at the bullet in his hand, "remember that epic scene in that great movie, the beautiful heroine, the pegasus rushing down the hillside—yes, riding right It was 'Ruo Hai', and it was the horse!—then she drew a six-shot revolver from the holster..."
"Shot off the rope hanging from the hero." Officer Quinn recalled loudly excitedly.
"And she did it herself."
Sergeant Quinn turned despondently and said, "It must be a movie stunt, too simple. They have a lot of that kind of tricks."
"Perhaps. But do you remember that shot? It was taken from Miss Horn's back, and she was always there, with her gun and the rope she was aiming at. Anyway, I doubt it was Special effects……"
"You do, but so what?"
"I'm just guessing, look, that Kit Horn was raised by Buck, especially—on an open pasture—don't mind my incoherent, open spaces. Her adoptive father, father and father Damn Buck, she's a sharpshooter, there's no way Buck wouldn't teach her the kung fu that she's crazy about. Well, our young flamboyant Curly, come here from the West in all his splendor, blond hair, and majesty .Did you notice his skill at shooting glass missiles? Yes, yes! As for his elders, the great man in the riding world-I think I heard someone say that he was a beautiful man in the last century. The most famous general in the Federation, he has fought against the outlaws and reds in the Indian barbarian area."
"What the hell are you trying to say?" Officer Quinn muttered disapprovingly.Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Yes, Ellery! Come to think of it, the box we sat in—the Mass box—was at the right angle for shooting! Thirty degrees from top to bottom, Sarah Muir estimated... what a coincidence, yes! Just need to position him somewhere between the auditorium, but I'm too bad at math. When his horse comes to the bend, shoot it , from his left side, straight to the heart—very close, son, very close!" Suddenly he paused again, lost in thought again.
Ellery quietly observed his father through half-closed eyelids, still fiddling with the small bullet in his hand: "How beautifully designed the crime process," he murmured, "so tight, so bold, Do it so calmly..."
"And what I can't figure out," said Officer Quinn, stroking his beard subconsciously, "is how the man managed to shoot from such a close range. We didn't hear..."
"What does the murderer want? Effective and lethal. What is it? A bullet. Speed, accuracy, and mechanical reliability—all together, it's cool, huh?" Ellery smiled flatly, and his father clearly Enthusiastic, "Ah, but, there is still a little difficulty. The target he aims at is a living, moving object on the back of a galloping horse, which does not stop for a moment. Think about it, shooting a How difficult should a target that is moving violently be? But our killer doesn’t bother to shoot more than one shot. The task is completely completed with one shot. It’s so clean.” He stood up and walked back and forth, “The truth is still there. To be clarified, Mr. Constable. My general feeling is that all this seems to imply that if the man who killed Buck Horn had not had the devil's luck, he must be... an extraordinary sharpshooter!"
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