Free The Seventh Bullet by Daniel D. Victor

Doctor,” Beveridge said after tasting his coffee, “just what does make you and Holmes believe in Carolyn’s conspiracy theory?”
    “Why, the seventh bullet, of course,” I said. “Doesn’t that fact trouble you?”
    “Yes, Doctor, it does. But it can be explained away so obviously. Inaccurate witnesses, for example. After all, the police do have the ten-chambered murder weapon.”
    “The putative murder weapon,” I corrected him.
    “To be sure, Doctor, to be sure. But now that Graham is dead and buried—I’m sorry, Carolyn—we can never be certain about the precise number of bullets fired at him.”
    Was the senator backing away, I asked myself, from his earlier resolve to find out more about the mystery surrounding Phillips’s death? Aloud, I enquired of him, “Then what makes you believe in Mrs. Frevert’s story?”
    “Doctor, I was a United States senator. I’m used to seeing powerful men at odds with one another. When I was younger, I worked on a farm. I had little money and had to make my own way. I guess you could call me a self-made man. I’m familiar with struggle, Doctor, and I believe that those who achieve success deserve to. The Law of the Jungle is also the law of the business world. Perhaps more surprising to those who are unfamiliar with it, the political arena is much the same. In politics, however, ‘kill or be killed’ is supposed to be figurative. But I tell you, Doctor, mention the name of David Graham Phillips on the Senate floor, and you will see murderous looks that are anything but figurative.”
    Not even Beveridge’s boyish visage could contradict theMachiavellian menace he was ascribing to the brethren of his own institution.
    “The Treason of the Senate destroyed people, Doctor. Graham attacked over twenty members of our club, and for one reason or another some two-thirds of them are no longer in the Congress. There’s even talk now of a Constitutional Amendment to allow the people at large to vote for their Senators rather than continuing to have our friendly state legislatures perform the honour. What’s more, as much as I loved Graham, I realise he was working for Bill Hearst, who had his own eyes set on the New York State House and ultimately the presidency. Still does, for that matter. And as much as Graham liked to talk of patriotism and democracy, those Treason pieces were part of a cleverly constructed plan to provide a political platform for Hearst and to take out some of his rivals on the way. Oh, no, Doctor, one doesn’t need an extra bullet to smell foul play; one need only look at the ugly faces of vengeful senators to comprehend that Graham’s death could have been arranged by others. Your famous Shakespeare readily understood the compulsion to commit murder—if not for one’s own survival, then for the benefit of the state. Remember Brutus.”
    Yet another reference to the murdered Caesar, I thought. Beveridge raised his coffee cup again as if to signal the end of his explanation. When he finished speaking, he narrowed his eyes, but I wasn’t sure if this last had been caused by steam from the hot coffee or whether it was more like the focusing glare of the predator on the hunt. I had read enough of Phillips’s fiction to know that, although he had written about political heroes like Hampden Scarborough, he had written about political killers as well; and both characterisations were sculpted from the people hehad met in reality—people like Albert Beveridge and his theories about the Survival of the Fittest.
    Once we had all finished our coffees, Mrs. Frevert rose, invited us to remain seated for postprandial cigars and port, swooped up Ruffle, and left the room. As much as I longed for the friendliness of a bed—even a hotel-room bed—I recognised that I had promised Holmes to find out as much as I could about these people. Thus, I postponed my departure a trifle longer. With the strong-willed Mrs. Frevert out of our presence, I could at least