“This is the damnedest thing,” he said at last, shaking his head. “I notice it takes a little time to get it set up, though.” He handed it over to me, and I inspected it.
“Yes, good point,” said Sir Denis. “They call this a ‘poacher’s stick.’ A fellow can’t carry a gun into the woods without people taking notice, but a walking stick looks harmless enough. Of course, any clever game warden knows to look for them, nowadays. But an assassin could bring this into a theater or a lecture hall and very few would blink an eye at him. Its main shortcoming is poor accuracy at any range much over twenty yards. He’d want a steady rest for the barrel to hit a target at any range beyond that. But if he had time to set up unwatched—say, in a private box—it’d serve the purpose. It’s absolutely illegal to have one of these, you know. Even I could get into a spot of trouble for owning this if I weren’t a recognized collector.”
While he was talking I had put the cane to my shoulder and sighted down the barrel. I touched the trigger, and there was a loud click. “Don’t do that!” Sir Denis snapped. His jovial expression vanished.
“Why not?” I said. “It isn’t loaded.”
He wagged a finger at me sternly. “You shouldn’t take my word for it,” he said. “Always inspect the weapon yourself before you touch the trigger, and never point it at anything you don’t wish to shoot. You shouldn’t pull the trigger indoors, in any case. I don’t know how many men have been killed, or badly hurt, by guns somebody thought weren’t loaded.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said contritely. “I really haven’t much experience with guns. I’ll know better, now.”
“I hope so,” said Sir Denis, somewhat mollified. “Just remember, never touch a trigger unless you want to shoot something—or someone.”
“I’m beginning to see the possibilities for our killer,” said Mr. Clemens, returning to our original subject. “If somebody disguised one of those air guns as something else . . .”
“There you have it,” said Sir Denis, nodding, “But there’s another way it could have been done.” He pointed to the table in the center of the room, where there were several leather-bound books held together by a set of heavy antique brass bookends, a pen and inkwell, and a pair of ornate silver candelabra. A tastefully carved wooden chair with a cushioned seat sat by the table. “See if you can find a gun there.”
Mr. Clemens went over to the table and picked up one of the books. “You showed us one book with a gun inside it, so that’d be my first guess,” he said. But when he opened the covers, it was an ordinary book, with engravings of various firearms accompanying the text.
“Never mind the books,” said Sir Denis, chuckling. “They’re part of my reference collection. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer—lift up the chair cushion.”
“Really?” said Mr. Clemens, picking it up. Under the cushion there was an inlaid wooden seat. “Now what?”
“Watch,” said Sir Denis, He pushed down on one side of the inlay, and it opened to reveal a small cut-out depression—in which a pistol rested. “It’s an exact copy of an Italian piece from the last century. The original is in Bologna, at the home of a minor nobleman.”
“What is the use of such a thing?” I asked. “Did the Italians make a custom of inviting their enemies to dinner and dispatching them there?”
“I believe this was a defensive weapon in the main,” said Sir Denis. “In those days it was wise to have a few hidden assets, and the local duce who commissioned this is supposed to have had weapons concealed all over his villa. The idea wasn’t original with him, I assure you—I’ve several pieces you can see later if we’ve time, some very clever. The joke is, the pistol did him no good in the end—the silly fellow fell into a lake and drowned himself.
“But there’s another point I wanted to make,” he said, pointing his forefinger at Mr. Clemens. “Your ordinary criminal wants his victim to know he’s armed, to intimidate him and discourage resistance. But your assassin needs to get close enough to the victim to take him off his guard, and that’s where hidden weapons like the ones you’ve seen here come into play.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “That makes sense. So whoever shot the doctor went to a hell of a lot of trouble. Which means somebody with a long-standing grudge.”
“I still find it hard to believe that any sort of gun could have been fired within a few feet of us without anyone hearing it,” I said. “Wouldn’t even one of these air guns make enough of a pop for us to hear it in a closed room?”
“Well, seeing’s believing,” said Sir Denis. “Or I suppose it’s hearing, in this case. I’ve got a bit of ammunition for that big Austrian air gun. Let’s take it out to my target range and shoot it off so you can judge for yourself.”
“Good idea,” said my employer. “Then all three of us can decide whether we heard anything like it the night of the murder.”
“We’ll do it straightaway,” said Sir Denis. “Tell you what, I’ll have Smollett fetch the coats while you go finish your drinks. Brace yourselves against the chill, you know? I’ll take a moment to run a cleaning rod through the air gun before we shoot it, just to be on the safe side. Then I’ll join you directly.”
“Fair enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “I can’t say I’ve ever
