4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4 by Frederick Ramsay Page A
Authors: Frederick Ramsay
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anything going on and I can make a case, those bozos are going to jail.”
Essie looked distressed.
“Problem?”
“They’ll know I was the one that ratted them out.”
Ike hadn’t thought of that. “Tell you what. You pack your bags and get on down to Orlando. I’ll let the word leak out that I put you on disciplinary paid leave. That is partly true and it ought to make them look elsewhere. Essie, now you see how it is. Police work is messy and sometimes it gets dangerous. But if we don’t put the bad guys away, if we turn a blind eye because they might come back to hurt us, they win.”
She nodded unhappily and walked back into the office with him. “I reckon you’re right. Whew.”
Chapter 16
Norbert’s Lock and Load sold a combination of security devices, surveillance equipment, and other marginally legal items, as well as guns and ammunition. Rumor had it that some of Norbert’s clientele traveled from as far away as Washington D.C. to browse through his inventory. When it came to selling hand guns, Norbert had acquired a reputation, which he vehemently denied, for being somewhat loose in his background checks. In any case, he remained a politically incorrect institution in the very shadows of Callend College, Picketsville’s major, and perhaps, only point of interest and bastion of correctness. Ike pulled into the gravel parking lot and waited a moment for Norbert to recognize him and make whatever adjustments he needed before welcoming the town’s law enforcement arm.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Norbert, as usual, greeted Ike with a display of expensive dental work framed in what Ike assumed passed for a sincere smile.
“Behaving yourself, Norbert?”
“Absolutely, Sheriff. All on the up and up, as you know.”
“Right. Just a caution, nothing personal, you understand, but we’ve been jotting down the license plate numbers of your out of town customers and notifying the states in question. I’m sure there’ll be no problem, but on the off chance one of your sales turns up in the commission of a felony, there could be some serious consequences. Just a heads-up. Oh, and the Commonwealth is suing the state of New York to keep them from videotaping gun sales down here. They may or may not have frequented your store. I hope the suit fails.”
Norbert blanched and stole a glance at his sales receipt file.
“No worries in that department,” he said, but looked worried, nonetheless. “Is there anything else?”
“Webley .455 caliber. You carry loads for that?”
“Webley? I haven’t seen one of those for years. Collector’s piece. You have one? I’ll buy it.”
“No, I was wondering if you sold one recently to anyone local and if not the pistol, ammunition for one.”
“Not much call for .455. Now, some of the newer Webley’s used .380. I stock that.”
“Anybody in here asking for .455?”
Norbert frowned and looked thoughtful. Ike recognized the sign of a man wrestling with the truth and trying to find a way to tell it while avoiding it at the same time.
“Nobody from around here, no sir.”
That would have to do. Whether a box of shells found their way to Pittsburg or Philadelphia was not Ike’s concern at the moment. He’d heard enough to know that the shooter at Lydell’s either had shells or acquired them elsewhere. The report suggesting an older composition of the slug probably meant the shells had been around for a while.
“Norbert, I should know this, but if ammunition sits around a while, will it still fire?”
“Theoretically, yes. It depends on the make and conditions—you know, weather, damp, corrosion—but kept dry and clean, it’s probably good forever. Might lose some punch, though. I had a fellow in here t’other day had an old Sharp’s rifle. It had been hanging on the wall for maybe a hundred years or more. Might not have been used since the Civil War, who knows? Anyway, he said he sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger and damned near
Essie looked distressed.
“Problem?”
“They’ll know I was the one that ratted them out.”
Ike hadn’t thought of that. “Tell you what. You pack your bags and get on down to Orlando. I’ll let the word leak out that I put you on disciplinary paid leave. That is partly true and it ought to make them look elsewhere. Essie, now you see how it is. Police work is messy and sometimes it gets dangerous. But if we don’t put the bad guys away, if we turn a blind eye because they might come back to hurt us, they win.”
She nodded unhappily and walked back into the office with him. “I reckon you’re right. Whew.”
Chapter 16
Norbert’s Lock and Load sold a combination of security devices, surveillance equipment, and other marginally legal items, as well as guns and ammunition. Rumor had it that some of Norbert’s clientele traveled from as far away as Washington D.C. to browse through his inventory. When it came to selling hand guns, Norbert had acquired a reputation, which he vehemently denied, for being somewhat loose in his background checks. In any case, he remained a politically incorrect institution in the very shadows of Callend College, Picketsville’s major, and perhaps, only point of interest and bastion of correctness. Ike pulled into the gravel parking lot and waited a moment for Norbert to recognize him and make whatever adjustments he needed before welcoming the town’s law enforcement arm.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Norbert, as usual, greeted Ike with a display of expensive dental work framed in what Ike assumed passed for a sincere smile.
“Behaving yourself, Norbert?”
“Absolutely, Sheriff. All on the up and up, as you know.”
“Right. Just a caution, nothing personal, you understand, but we’ve been jotting down the license plate numbers of your out of town customers and notifying the states in question. I’m sure there’ll be no problem, but on the off chance one of your sales turns up in the commission of a felony, there could be some serious consequences. Just a heads-up. Oh, and the Commonwealth is suing the state of New York to keep them from videotaping gun sales down here. They may or may not have frequented your store. I hope the suit fails.”
Norbert blanched and stole a glance at his sales receipt file.
“No worries in that department,” he said, but looked worried, nonetheless. “Is there anything else?”
“Webley .455 caliber. You carry loads for that?”
“Webley? I haven’t seen one of those for years. Collector’s piece. You have one? I’ll buy it.”
“No, I was wondering if you sold one recently to anyone local and if not the pistol, ammunition for one.”
“Not much call for .455. Now, some of the newer Webley’s used .380. I stock that.”
“Anybody in here asking for .455?”
Norbert frowned and looked thoughtful. Ike recognized the sign of a man wrestling with the truth and trying to find a way to tell it while avoiding it at the same time.
“Nobody from around here, no sir.”
That would have to do. Whether a box of shells found their way to Pittsburg or Philadelphia was not Ike’s concern at the moment. He’d heard enough to know that the shooter at Lydell’s either had shells or acquired them elsewhere. The report suggesting an older composition of the slug probably meant the shells had been around for a while.
“Norbert, I should know this, but if ammunition sits around a while, will it still fire?”
“Theoretically, yes. It depends on the make and conditions—you know, weather, damp, corrosion—but kept dry and clean, it’s probably good forever. Might lose some punch, though. I had a fellow in here t’other day had an old Sharp’s rifle. It had been hanging on the wall for maybe a hundred years or more. Might not have been used since the Civil War, who knows? Anyway, he said he sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger and damned near
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