“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Gutchall. Lovely day, isn’t it?” Blake Hartley said.
Gutchall cleared his throat. “Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me a gun and some bullets,” he began, embarrassedly. “My little dog’s been hurt, and it’s suffering something terrible. I want a gun, to put the poor thing out of its pain.”
“Why, yes; of course. How would a 20-gauge shotgun do?” Blake Hartley asked. “You wouldn’t want anything heavy.”
Gutchall fidgeted. “Why, er, I was hoping you’d let me have a little gun.” He held his hands about six inches apart. “A pistol, that I could put in my pocket. It wouldn’t look right, to carry a hunting gun on the Lord’s day; people wouldn’t understand that it was for a work of mercy.”
The lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchall’s religious beliefs, the objection made sense.
“Well, I have a Colt .38-special,” he said, “but you know, I belong to this Auxiliary Police outfit. If I were called out for duty, this evening, I’d need it. How soon could you bring it back?”
Something clicked in Allan Hartley’s mind. He remembered, now, what that incident had been. He knew, too, what he had to do.
“Dad, aren’t there some cartridges left for the Luger?” he asked.
Blake Hartley snapped his fingers. “By George, yes! I have a German automatic I can let you have, but I wish you’d bring it back as soon as possible. I’ll get it for you.”
Before he could rise, Allan was on his feet.
“Sit still, Dad; I’ll get it. I know where the cartridges are.” With that, he darted into the house and upstairs.
The Luger hung on the wall over his father’s bed. Getting it down, he dismounted it, working with rapid precision. He used the blade of his pocketknife to unlock the endpiece of the breechblock, slipping out the firing pin and buttoning it into his shirt pocket. Then he reassembled the harmless pistol, and filled the clip with 9-millimeter cartridges from the bureau drawer.
There was an extension telephone beside the bed. Finding Gutchall’s address in the directory, he lifted the telephone, and stretched his handkerchief over the mouthpiece. Then he dialed Police Headquarters.
“This is Blake Hartley,” he lied, deepening his voice and copying his father’s tone. “Frank Gutchall, who lives at … take this down”—he gave Gutchall’s address—“has just borrowed a pistol from me, ostensibly to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He intends shooting his wife. Don’t argue about how I know; there isn’t time. Just take it for granted that I do. I disabled the pistol—took out the firing pin—but if he finds out what I did, he may get some other weapon. He’s on his way home, but he’s on foot. If you hurry, you may get a man there before he arrives, and grab him before he finds out the pistol won’t shoot.”
“OK, Mr. Hartley. We’ll take care of it. Thanks.”
“And I wish you’d get my pistol back, as soon as you can. It’s something I brought home from the other War, and I shouldn’t like to lose it.”
“We’ll take care of that, too. Thank you, Mr. Hartley.”
He hung up, and carried the Luger and the loaded clip down to the porch.
“Look, Mr. Gutchall; here’s how it works,” he said, showing it to the visitor. Then he slapped in the clip and yanked up on the toggle loading the chamber. “It’s ready to shoot, now; this is the safety.” He pushed it on. “When you’re ready to shoot, just shove it forward and up, and then pull the trigger. You have to pull the trigger each time; it’s loaded for eight shots. And be sure to put the safety back when you’re through shooting.”
“Did you load the chamber?” Blake Hartley demanded.
“Sure. It’s on safe, now.”
“Let me see.” His father took the pistol, being careful to keep his finger out of the trigger guard, and looked at it. “Yes, that’s all right.” He repeated the instructions Allan had given, stressing the importance of putting the safety on after using. “Understand how it works, now?” he asked.
“Yes, I understand how it works. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Thank you, too, young man.”
Gutchall put the Luger in his hip pocket, made sure it wouldn’t fall out, and took his departure.
“You shouldn’t have loaded it,” Hartley père reproved, when he was gone.
Allan sighed. This was it; the masquerade was over.
“I had to, to keep you from fooling with it,” he said. “I didn’t want you finding out that I’d taken out the firing pin.”
“You what?”
“Gutchall didn’t want that gun to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He meant to shoot his wife with it. He’s a religious maniac; sees visions, hears voices, receives revelations, talks with the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost probably put him up to this caper. I’ll submit that any man who holds long conversations with the Deity isn’t to be trusted with a gun, and neither is any man who lies about why he wants one. And while I was at it, I called the police, on the upstairs phone. I had to use your name; I deepened my voice and talked through a handkerchief.”
“You—” Blake Hartley jumped as though bee-stung. “Why did you have to do that?”
“You know why. I couldn’t have told them, ‘This is little Allan Hartley, just thirteen years old; please, Mr. Policeman, go and arrest Frank Gutchall before he goes root-toot-toot at his wife with my pappa’s Luger.’ That would have gone over big, now, wouldn’t it?”
“And suppose he really wants to shoot a dog; what sort of a mess will I be in?”
“No mess at all. If I’m wrong—which I’m not—I’ll take the thump for it, myself. It’ll pass for a dumb kid trick, and
