The Wrong Gun

“That’s right,” Martin said. “Burdett was originally assigned Room Thirty-four, a third floor front. He was switched to Room Seventeen, a second floor rear. What he wanted, of course, was Room Twelve, the second floor corner, occupied by Donald Walcott, Miss Timberlaine’s friend.”

“And who was originally assigned the room where Burdett is now?”

Martin consulted the chart again. “That would be Mr. Potter.”

“Jack Potter? The expert?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is Potter now? In the room you originally assigned for Burdett?”

Martin nodded. “Yes, sir. Room Thirty-four, third floor front. I simply switched rooms.” Martin cocked his head, looked at Steve somewhat quizzically. “Was there anything else?”

Steve shook his head grimly. “No, that will do it. Have you seen Mr. Timberlaine?”

“I believe he’s on the patio.”

“Great,” Steve said. “Come on, Tracy.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and piloted her outside.

There were about a dozen people on the patio talking in small groups. Steve looked around, spotted Timberlaine in one corner talking to Potter.

Steve turned back to Tracy. “You really want me to do this?”

She gave him a look.

He sighed, walked up to the two men.

“Excuse me,” Steve said. “Mr. Timberlaine. If I could just talk to you for a minute.”

Timberlaine frowned, said, “Excuse me,” to Mr. Potter, and moved off with Steve. “What is it?” he asked.

Steve took a breath. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but did you know that your daughter’s fiance is sleeping in Melvin Burdett’s room?”

Timberlaine’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped open, and he looked at Steve Winslow incredulously. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

As expected, Steve felt like a total idiot.

10

In the back row of the seats in the grand ballroom, Tracy Garvin grabbed Steve Winslow’s arm. “Look at that.”

Steve looked up from his auction program just in time to see Russ Timberlaine come striding through the double doors. For the auction, Timberlaine had reverted to his full cowboy regalia, with hat, vest and boots.

“Good lord,” Steve said. He looked back at Tracy. “I don’t want to stare, but from where you’re sitting, can you tell if he’s wearing a gun?”

“He certainly is.”

“You don’t suppose it’s the one I think it is?”

“Bet you a nickel.”

It was two o’clock on Saturday afternoon and Steve and Tracy were in good spirits as they waited for the auction to begin. That was partly due to the fact that the weather was gorgeous and they had spent a very pleasant morning strolling around the grounds, and partly due to the fact that no one had died in the night. Donald Walcott, the boyfriend, didn’t get shot in his bed by someone thinking he was Melvin Burdett. And Jack Potter didn’t get shot in his bed by someone thinking he was Melvin Burdett. And Melvin Burdett didn’t get shot in his bed by anyone thinking he was Melvin Burdett, Jack Potter or Donald Walcott for that matter. All of these were not only alive and well, but had been present and accounted for at brunch that morning. So aside from feeling slightly foolish, Steve and Tracy were feeling particularly well.

“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