Free American Gun Mystery by Ellery Queen Page B

alertness, “I suppose it isn’t really your fault. You’re upset, and perhaps your faculty of observation isn’t functioning as well as it should. But the point is: there is something missing.”
    Grant turned abruptly back to look the body over again. The Inspector seemed troubled. And Grant shook his head and shrugged with a weary bafflement.
    “Well, well,” snapped the Inspector to his son, “what’s the mystery? What’s missing?”
    But Ellery, with a glint in his eye, was already stooping over the body. Very carefully indeed he pried open the dead fingers of the corpse’s right hand, and stood up with Buck Horne’s revolver in his hand.
    It was a beautiful weapon. To the Inspector, whose acquaintanceship with firearms was an intimate affair of a lifetime’s duration, the piece Ellery studied so attentively was a heavenly sample of the old-fashioned gunsmith’s art. He saw at once that it was not a modern arm. Not only the slightly antiquated design, but the softly rubbed-metal look of it, told of great age.
    “Colt .45,” he muttered. “Single action. Look at that barrel!”
    The barrel was eight inches long, a slim tube of death. It was delicately chased in a scroll design, as was the cylinder. Ellery hefted the weapon thoughtfully; it was very heavy.
    Wild Bill Grant seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. He moistened his lips twice before he could find his voice. “Yeah, it’s a reg’lar cannon,” he rumbled. “But a beauty. Ole Buck—Buck was partic’lar about the hang of his guns.”
    “The hang?” said Ellery with interrogative eyebrows.
    “Liked ’em hefty an’ liked ’em true. The balance, I’m talkin’ about.”
    “Oh, I see. Well, this relic must weigh well over two pounds. Lord, what a hole it must make!”
    He broke open the weapon; there were cartridges in all the chambers except one.
    “Blanks?” he asked his father.
    The Inspector extracted one of the bullets and examined it. Then he removed the others. “Yep.”
    Ellery carefully returned them to their chambers and snapped the cylinder back into place.
    “This revolver was Horne’s, I suppose,” he asked Grant, “and not your property? I mean, it isn’t one of the rodeo weapons?”
    “Buck’s,” growled Grant. “Prime fav’rite with him. Had it—an’ the pistol belt—fer twenty-odd years.”
    “Hmmm,” said Ellery absently; he was absorbed in a study of the barrel. That the gun had been used a great deal was evident; it barrel was rubbed smooth at the tip, as was the peak of the sight. He transferred his attention to the butt. It was the most curious feature of the weapon. Both sides were inlaid with ivory—single pieces which had been carved in a steer’s-head design, the center of which in each case was an oval, elaborately monogrammed H. The ivory inlays were worn and yellow with age, except for a narrow portion on the right sight of the butt; as Ellery held the revolver in his left hand, this patch of lighter ivory came between the tips of his curled fingers and the heel of his hand. He stared long and hard at it. Then he twirled the revolver thoughtfully and handed the gun to his father.
    “You might include this piece of artillery with the other suspected weapons, dad,” he said. “Just as a matter of precaution. You can never tell what these ballistic johnnies will dig up.”
    The Inspector grunted, took the revolver, gazed at it gloomily for a moment, and then turned it over to a detective with a nod. It was at this moment that there was movement at the eastern gate, and the detectives now on guard opened the big doors to admit a number of men.
    Heading the little procession was a gigantic individual in plainclothes, with a face that seemed composed of overlapping plates of steel, and a thunderous step that outraged the tanbark. This Goliath was Sergeant Velie, Inspector Queen’s favorite assistant; a man of few words and mighty, if mentally uninspired, deeds.
    He bestowed a