The Wrong Gun

“Not to mention his attractive, mystery-loving secretary,” Steve said.

Tracy smiled. “It was kind of him to extend the invitation.”

“Kind, hell,” Steve said. “The poor man never had a chance.”

“Oh?”

“As I recall, you coughed loudly twice and began squirming as if you were about to jump out of your chair.”

“I was not squirming.”

“Let’s not quibble. The fact is, you made your wishes known.”

“Well, I wasn’t about to miss it. A setup like this. By rights, by tomorrow morning there should be a corpse on the library floor.”

“Assuming he has a library.”

“Are you kidding me? Forty-eight rooms, the man’s going to have a library.”

“Maybe so. Did we pass our exit?”

Tracy consulted the directions in her lap. “This is it coming up.”

Steve got off the highway, followed Tracy’s directions over a series of back roads, turned in at a marble gate.

“Good lord, is this it?” Tracy said.

“Damned if I know. I’m just following your directions.”

“Then this is it.”

It certainly was impressive. Timberlaine had three hundred acres, and his mansion was set a quarter of a mile back from the road. The driveway wound through spacious front lawns and an apple orchard, and ended in a circle in front of a sprawling, three-story marble mansion.

About a dozen cars were already parked in the circle. Steve got a space as close to the front door as possible, and he and Tracy got out and retrieved their suitcases from the trunk.

There was no one outside, but the front door was open. Steve and Tracy walked in and found themselves in an immense front hall, with marble floors, wood-paneled walls, and a wide circular staircase leading up to the second floor.

A young man in a white suit with a clipboard came bustling up. “May I help you?” he said.

“Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin,” Steve said.

The man consulted his clipboard, made a check. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “You’re on the third floor. Just one moment, I’ll have you shown to your rooms.”

He stepped to the side wall, pushed a button. “The boy will be here in a minute. I’m Martin Kessington. If there’s anything you need, just ask. You’ll find a house phone in your room. Just pick it up and ask for Martin.”

As if on cue, a voice said, “Martin!” A strident, preemptory voice, obviously not pleased.

Steve and Tracy looked up to find a plump, bald man waddling down the staircase from the second floor. A teenage boy in slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt trailed behind him, carrying a suitcase.

“Martin,” the plump man said again. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Excuse me, sir?” Martin said.

“Excuse me, hell,” the man said. He wheeled on the boy with the suitcase. “This boy refuses to take me to my room. He’s trying to take me to the third floor front.”

Martin coughed discreetly. “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir. That is where I have you down.”

“Nonsense,” the man said. “I have the second floor corner room overlooking the bay. I always have that room, now switch me there at once.”

Martin coughed again. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said. “But there’s a problem. Miss Timberlaine’s fianc e has been staying in that room.”

“He had no right to do that. You shouldn’t have given it to him. Get him out of there.”

Martin, who seemed to have infinite patience, smiled and shook his head. “In the first place, I didn’t put him there, sir. I wasn’t consulted. And in the second place, I don’t have the authority to make him move. Unfortunately, that room is not available. If you are not happy with the one you have been assigned, perhaps you would care to choose another.”

“I want the second floor corner.”

“I understand, sir.” Martin flipped over a page on his clipboard. “Let me show you what’s available. Here’s a nice second floor room with a view over the back lawn to the bay.”

“It’s not what I want.”

“I understand, sir.”

Steve Winslow, who had been watching the scene with some amusement, smiled and nudged Tracy Garvin. “It appears we have been forgotten.”

“Shhh,” Tracy said. “Pay attention. Don’t you see what’s happening here?”

“What?”

“Pay attention. This could be important.”

Steve frowned. “Tracy,” he said. “What are you talking about? How could this possibly be important?”

At that moment Martin snapped his finger and said, “Timothy. Please show Mr. Burdett to his new room.”

7

Tracy Garvin could hardly contain herself. “Don’t you see?” she insisted. “It all fits.”

“What all fits?”

They were in Steve’s room on the third floor front, a room theoretically less desirable in that it overlooked the driveway and the front lawn instead of the backyard and the bay. Unlike Burdett, Steve had not complained. As far as he was concerned, the view he had was magnificent. Not that he gave a damn about the view anyway.

Nor had Tracy complained about her room, which was next door to his and commanded the same view. Instead, the minute she’d been installed in it she’d come banging on Steve’s door to advance her theories.

“Are you kidding?” Tracy said. “It’s the last piece of the mystery. Here’s Burdett, Timberlaine’s hated rival. He’s here for the weekend and he’s just switched his room.”

“So?”

“So?” Tracy said. “Don’t be a dunce. What’s the next thing that happens? Either he gets murdered, or the person he switched rooms with gets murdered.”

Steve looked at her. “Why?”

“Why? Why do you think? Because it screws everything up.”

Steve frowned. “You’ll pardon me, but that’s hardly an answer.”

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean. Timberlaine hates Burdett. If Burdett gets killed, Timberlaine’s the main suspect. Timberlaine’s gun’s been stolen, and he thinks someone’s trying to frame him. If someone’s going to frame him, what better way than to kill Burdett? Can’t you see that?”

“Of course.”

“And now Burdett’s switched rooms. Which, in the vernacular, fucks everything up. If the murderer kills Burdett, Timberlaine would have an alibi if he didn’t know Burdett had switched rooms. On the other hand, if the killer kills the guy Burdett switched rooms with, then Timberlaine is dorked unless he can prove he knew Burdett switched rooms. See what I mean?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Plus, you got a third joker in the deck. This fiance. Did you know Timberlaine’s daughter had a fiance?”

“I didn’t know Timberlaine had a daughter.”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless. Timberlaine’s a widower, he has one daughter. Apparently she has a fiance. So what about him?”

“What about him?”

“Suppose he’s murdered?”

“Oh, come on.”