22
“A gun that doesn’t make a noise?” Sir Denis DeCoursey wrinkled his forehead, and stared at Mr, Clemens over his whisky glass, then suddenly exclaimed, “By Jove! I see what you’re after, Clemens. Of course, that dreadful business at the sitting.”
“Yes,” said my employer. “We all assumed that the noise of the séance covered up the bang of the gun. But there’s another explanation, which is that the gun didn’t make any bang.”
“I think you’re onto something,” said Sir Denis, “I was so caught up in the rush of events—seeing poor Dr. Parkhurst shot down, right there at the table—that I didn’t ask the question at the time.”
“Well, it’s not to late to ask it,” said Mr. Clemens. “If you can answer it, you may help us find the killer. I don’t think the police are likely to find it. They’re still barking up the wrong tree. But let’s assume it’s not a regular gun—what are the possibilities?”
“Well, those are two different points,” said Sir Denis, rubbing his chin. “As for the first, a gun needn’t use gunpowder, so there needn’t be any great bang. Gunpowder gives the most speed and distance, but it’s not essential. And for the second, there are probably as many ways to conceal a gun as there are guns. Let me show you what I mean.”
We followed him across the hallway to another room, full of gun racks and display cases. I’d never seen so many firearms in one room, with the possible exception of the armory in Boston, which one of my uncles had taken me to visit when I was a boy. Sir Denis took us to a wooden case in which were displayed several military-looking weapons—rifles, I assumed. He pointed to a large one in the middle of the case. “See that great ugly piece? As deadly as anything you’ll see here, but it barely makes enough sound to startle a sleeping baby.”
My employer leaned over to look at the weapon. “That thing? Jesus, it looks like a cannon. Tell me about it.”
“That’s an Austrian weapon from Wellington’s time. It was a sniper’s weapon—quite accurate for its time, practically inaudible even at short range, and smokeless, too, of course. The Frenchies used to execute any soldier they caught carrying one, on grounds that he must be an assassin.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Mr. Clemens. “But how’s it silent? Or smokeless, for that matter.”
“There’s no smoke and no report because it doesn’t use gunpowder,” said Sir Denis. “This is a compressed air rifle, about fifty caliber—they used a large bullet to make up for the slightly lower velocity.”
“Compressed air!” Mr. Clemens peered at the weapon more intently. “Sure, I should have thought of that myself. There was an air-rifle factory in Hartford until just a few years ago, when they switched from making rifles to making bicycles. It wouldn’t surprise me if the damned bicycles killed more people than the rifles.”
“I’ve seen those Hartford air guns,” said Sir Denis. He took a sip of his whisky, then continued. “Shouldn’t rightly call them rifles, since they’re smoothbores, but very respectable workmanship. Small-game weapons, though, not up to military standards. Now, here’s another air gun in this next case . . .”
He showed us two or three more compressed-air weapons, ranging in size from the Austrian sniper gun to very compact air pistols. “A lady could have one of these in her purse and nobody’d be the wiser,” he pointed out. “Of course, any kind of search would spot it in a flash. But let me show you some other items here . . .”
He went to a cabinet on the far side of the room, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drawer. “I keep these locked up, because they’re just the sort of thing I wouldn’t want to get into the wrong hands. A regular gun’s dangerous enough, but at least if you see somebody with a gun, you’re on your guard. Now I’m going to show you some real assassin’s weapons . . .”
He took out a leather-bound book, and I thought he intended to show us an engraving of some weapon until I saw the title: Ovid’s Metamorphoses Surely this could have nothing to do with firearms. Imagine my surprise when he opened the cover to reveal that the insides had been cut away to make room for a small pistol! “Clever, eh?” he said. “You could walk right up to anyone, carrying this. And if you press the center of the capital O on the spine, it drops the hammer.”
“I’ll be tarred and feathered,” said Mr. Clemens, laughing. “It’s Clara’s book! I’ll have to tell her she may have been right after all.”
Sir Denis looked at him with a perplexed expression, and Mr. Clemens went on to explain. “At dinner last night, we were speculating about the murder, and my daughter Clara suggested that the killer might have smuggled in a gun into the séance in a hollowed-out book. I threw cold water on the idea, and of course, now you shove one right into my hands! That’ll teach me.” He paused a second, then added, “Maybe I’d better be careful next time somebody comes up to me with a book to sign, too!”
“Oh, nobody would be such a philistine to hollow out the pages of anything you wrote,” said Sir Denis, smiling. “Now, if it were some socialist tract, it would be a blessing to humanity . . . but you can see what I mean. Now, have a look at this.” He took out what looked like a stout walking stick with several silver ferrules.
“Don’t tell me there’s a gun in that,” said Mr. Clemens.
“Yes indeed,” said Sir
