monstrous creature’s bad taste to protest. All except Ellery, for he had seen the look in Kit Horne’s eyes; and he stepped forward and murmured: “You’re a particularly annoying specimen of a pediculus, Lyons, and all that; I wonder if even you realize what a louse you are. Don’t you know that Buck Horne’s daughter is listening to every filthy word you’re saying?”
“Ah, Sir Galahad,” said Lyons rapidly; he was backing up, and his eyes were bright and dangerous. “Boloney, you, whoever you are. I’m getting out of here, and any flatfoot who thinks he’s going to stop me—”
The rest was drowned in a rising tide of fury. Grant and his son, Sergeant Velie, Tony Mars, and half a dozen of the cowboys near by lunged at Lyons. He grinned wolfishly and his hand flashed up with an ugly, tiny weapon—a snub-nosed and incredibly small automatic pistol. The rush stopped abruptly.
“Are the big he-men yellow?” he chattered, his eyes flashing about. Sergeant Velie leaped forward like a catapult and smashed the automatic out of Lyons’s hand. “Damn fool trick,” he said unemotionally, picking it up out of the dirt. “Might hurt someone with that thing.”
Lyons was pale.
“No guts anyway.”
To their amazement the man began to laugh. “All right, all right,” he chuckled. “Teddy gives up. But I tell you my paper—”
“Give me that rod, Thomas,” said the Inspector evenly. The Sergeant handed it over. The Inspector pulled out the magazine, looked into the tiring chamber. Not one cartridge was missing.
“A .25,” murmured the old man, and his eyes narrowed. “But it’s not been fired, and it doesn’t smell—” He sniffed the muzzle for a moment. “Bad for you, Lyons. Now talk, or as God is my judge, I’ll see that you go up the river for pulling a gun on an officer!”
Lyons shrugged and lighted another cigaret. “Sorry. Apologize. I had a couple of snifters. Nothing to get screwy about, Inspector. I did it as a publicity stunt.” His tired eyes were half-closed.
“How’d you get in here?”
“I rented a cowboy rig from a theatrical costumer on 45th Street. Got here half an hour before show time. Gate-keeper passed me through—must have thought I was with the show. I scouted around, got to the stable, picked me out a plug, joined the others in the big Ben Hur scene, and—here I am.”
“You are, of course, the worst sort of exhibitionist,” murmured Ellery, “but I fail to see what even your ego would gain from such a pointless and stupid procedure. Merely to join the troupe—”
“Nerts,” said Lyons. “I’m over my schoolboy thrill days. I’ve got a cameraman planted in one of the boxes. I was going to get near Horne on some excuse or other, and have my box-man snap the two of us. Good break for me and the paper if I’d been able to pull it off. But, damn the luck, somebody bumped the old guy off before I could say ‘Alexander Woollcott’!”
There was a little silence.
“Very brilliant, of course,” said Ellery coldly. “Just how close to Buck Horne were you riding, Lyons?”
“Not so close, smart guy,” said Lyons, “not so close.”
“How close?”
“I was at the tail end of that bunch of ridin’ fools.”
The Inspector conferred with Sergeant Velie aside for a moment. “In which box is this cameraman of yours, Lyons?”
The columnist pointed negligently to a loge only a few feet away from the one in which the Mars party had been sitting. Sergeant Velie lumbered off. He returned in a moment with a very scared and loose-lipped young man carrying a small Graflex camera. Without words this man was searched camera and all. Nothing incriminating was found; and he was sent back to his place.
The Inspector was thoughtfully regarding the newspaperman. “Lyons, there’s something smelly about this. Did you have a tip-off on what was going to happen?”
Lyons groaned. “Jeeze, I wish I’d had! I wish I’d had!”
“You mixed with the other
“Ah, Sir Galahad,” said Lyons rapidly; he was backing up, and his eyes were bright and dangerous. “Boloney, you, whoever you are. I’m getting out of here, and any flatfoot who thinks he’s going to stop me—”
The rest was drowned in a rising tide of fury. Grant and his son, Sergeant Velie, Tony Mars, and half a dozen of the cowboys near by lunged at Lyons. He grinned wolfishly and his hand flashed up with an ugly, tiny weapon—a snub-nosed and incredibly small automatic pistol. The rush stopped abruptly.
“Are the big he-men yellow?” he chattered, his eyes flashing about. Sergeant Velie leaped forward like a catapult and smashed the automatic out of Lyons’s hand. “Damn fool trick,” he said unemotionally, picking it up out of the dirt. “Might hurt someone with that thing.”
Lyons was pale.
“No guts anyway.”
To their amazement the man began to laugh. “All right, all right,” he chuckled. “Teddy gives up. But I tell you my paper—”
“Give me that rod, Thomas,” said the Inspector evenly. The Sergeant handed it over. The Inspector pulled out the magazine, looked into the tiring chamber. Not one cartridge was missing.
“A .25,” murmured the old man, and his eyes narrowed. “But it’s not been fired, and it doesn’t smell—” He sniffed the muzzle for a moment. “Bad for you, Lyons. Now talk, or as God is my judge, I’ll see that you go up the river for pulling a gun on an officer!”
Lyons shrugged and lighted another cigaret. “Sorry. Apologize. I had a couple of snifters. Nothing to get screwy about, Inspector. I did it as a publicity stunt.” His tired eyes were half-closed.
“How’d you get in here?”
“I rented a cowboy rig from a theatrical costumer on 45th Street. Got here half an hour before show time. Gate-keeper passed me through—must have thought I was with the show. I scouted around, got to the stable, picked me out a plug, joined the others in the big Ben Hur scene, and—here I am.”
“You are, of course, the worst sort of exhibitionist,” murmured Ellery, “but I fail to see what even your ego would gain from such a pointless and stupid procedure. Merely to join the troupe—”
“Nerts,” said Lyons. “I’m over my schoolboy thrill days. I’ve got a cameraman planted in one of the boxes. I was going to get near Horne on some excuse or other, and have my box-man snap the two of us. Good break for me and the paper if I’d been able to pull it off. But, damn the luck, somebody bumped the old guy off before I could say ‘Alexander Woollcott’!”
There was a little silence.
“Very brilliant, of course,” said Ellery coldly. “Just how close to Buck Horne were you riding, Lyons?”
“Not so close, smart guy,” said Lyons, “not so close.”
“How close?”
“I was at the tail end of that bunch of ridin’ fools.”
The Inspector conferred with Sergeant Velie aside for a moment. “In which box is this cameraman of yours, Lyons?”
The columnist pointed negligently to a loge only a few feet away from the one in which the Mars party had been sitting. Sergeant Velie lumbered off. He returned in a moment with a very scared and loose-lipped young man carrying a small Graflex camera. Without words this man was searched camera and all. Nothing incriminating was found; and he was sent back to his place.
The Inspector was thoughtfully regarding the newspaperman. “Lyons, there’s something smelly about this. Did you have a tip-off on what was going to happen?”
Lyons groaned. “Jeeze, I wish I’d had! I wish I’d had!”
“You mixed with the other
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