members of the show, didn’t you? Before you all rode out?”
“Not me. Wasn’t taking a chance on being spotted.”
“What were you doing?”
“Oh, just hanging around.”
“Notice anything suspicious—anything that might help us?”
“Not a bloomin’ thing, old chappie!”
“Where’d you get that .25 automatic you flashed a minute ago?”
“Don’t worry, Commissioner. I’ve got a permit to go heeled.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Santa Claus sent it. Bought it, of course! What the hell—you don’t think I pulled this job?”
“Tag that gat, Thomas,” said the Inspector calmly. “And take those other hunks of hardware from him. Christmas, he’s a walkin’ arsenal!”
In the fancy holsters of Lyons’s masquerade costume were two long-barreled revolvers. These the Sergeant gently removed; whereupon, handing them to an assistant, he went over Mr. Theodore Lyons’s clothes and body with an impersonal vigor and thoroughness that brought groans to the victim’s lips.
“Nothin’ else, Inspector,” said Velie.
“Where’d you get these guns?” demanded the Inspector.
“From the armory downstairs. I saw all the other chumps taking ’em, so I did too. …Hell, Chief, I didn’t shoot ’em off at all!”
The Inspector examined them. “Blanks. I suppose you got the ammunition down there, too? All right, Thomas, escort this piece of prime scum out of the Colosseum. But mind—be sure nobody slips anything to him on the way out.”
“I mind,” said the Sergeant jovially; and, linking Lyons’s arm in his, he marched the columnist to one of the small exits before that garrulous exponent of The Lowdown —the notorious name of his countrywide-syndicated column—could utter another word. The two men disappeared.
6: The Fact Remains
T HE COLD CORPSE WAS lifted by horny silent hands and carried to one of the innumerable small rooms beneath the amphitheatre. The Queens, Kit Horne, and the Grants retired once more to the timekeeper’s office.
“While we’re waiting for Doc Prouty,” growled the Inspector, “—and as usual he’s late!—suppose we dig a little deeper into what happened today.”
The stiff mask which for an hour had settled over Kit Horne’s features cracked and broke. “It’s high time!” she cried passionately. “Let’s have action, Inspector, for God’s sake!”
“My dear,” said the old man gently, “you’ve got to have patience. You don’t realize what we’re up against. You all assure me that Horne had no enemies—there’s no lead there—and we’ve got twenty thousand suspects on our hands. Nobody’s running away. I want you to tell me—”
“Anything, Inspector, I’ll tell anything. This horrible—”
“Yes, yes, my dear, I know. I’m sure you will. How was your father acting today? Did he seem worried or disturbed about anything?”
She made a brave effort; with lowered lids, in a steady voice, she related the scene she had broken up between Woody and Horne.
“He seemed all right, Inspector. I was nervous for him, asked him if the doctor had examined him—”
“Oh, yes, I believe you said he’d been ill for some time,” murmured Ellery.
“Yes. He’s been—well, out of sorts physically for a couple of years now,” explained Kit dully. “The doctors said it was just age. He was sixty-five.” Her voice broke. “He’s led a very strenuous life, and at his age there was bound to be a let-down. I didn’t want him to go back to work at all. But he insisted it would do him good, tone him up. Today I asked him if the rodeo doctor had examined him, and he said yes, this morning, and everything was all right.”
“But he didn’t seem worried about anything?” asked the Inspector.
“No. I mean. …I don’t really know. He wasn’t upset, although there did seem to be something on his mind.”
“You’ve no idea what it was, I suppose?”
Her eyes met his fiercely. “I wish I did!”
The Inspector turned to the
“Not me. Wasn’t taking a chance on being spotted.”
“What were you doing?”
“Oh, just hanging around.”
“Notice anything suspicious—anything that might help us?”
“Not a bloomin’ thing, old chappie!”
“Where’d you get that .25 automatic you flashed a minute ago?”
“Don’t worry, Commissioner. I’ve got a permit to go heeled.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Santa Claus sent it. Bought it, of course! What the hell—you don’t think I pulled this job?”
“Tag that gat, Thomas,” said the Inspector calmly. “And take those other hunks of hardware from him. Christmas, he’s a walkin’ arsenal!”
In the fancy holsters of Lyons’s masquerade costume were two long-barreled revolvers. These the Sergeant gently removed; whereupon, handing them to an assistant, he went over Mr. Theodore Lyons’s clothes and body with an impersonal vigor and thoroughness that brought groans to the victim’s lips.
“Nothin’ else, Inspector,” said Velie.
“Where’d you get these guns?” demanded the Inspector.
“From the armory downstairs. I saw all the other chumps taking ’em, so I did too. …Hell, Chief, I didn’t shoot ’em off at all!”
The Inspector examined them. “Blanks. I suppose you got the ammunition down there, too? All right, Thomas, escort this piece of prime scum out of the Colosseum. But mind—be sure nobody slips anything to him on the way out.”
“I mind,” said the Sergeant jovially; and, linking Lyons’s arm in his, he marched the columnist to one of the small exits before that garrulous exponent of The Lowdown —the notorious name of his countrywide-syndicated column—could utter another word. The two men disappeared.
6: The Fact Remains
T HE COLD CORPSE WAS lifted by horny silent hands and carried to one of the innumerable small rooms beneath the amphitheatre. The Queens, Kit Horne, and the Grants retired once more to the timekeeper’s office.
“While we’re waiting for Doc Prouty,” growled the Inspector, “—and as usual he’s late!—suppose we dig a little deeper into what happened today.”
The stiff mask which for an hour had settled over Kit Horne’s features cracked and broke. “It’s high time!” she cried passionately. “Let’s have action, Inspector, for God’s sake!”
“My dear,” said the old man gently, “you’ve got to have patience. You don’t realize what we’re up against. You all assure me that Horne had no enemies—there’s no lead there—and we’ve got twenty thousand suspects on our hands. Nobody’s running away. I want you to tell me—”
“Anything, Inspector, I’ll tell anything. This horrible—”
“Yes, yes, my dear, I know. I’m sure you will. How was your father acting today? Did he seem worried or disturbed about anything?”
She made a brave effort; with lowered lids, in a steady voice, she related the scene she had broken up between Woody and Horne.
“He seemed all right, Inspector. I was nervous for him, asked him if the doctor had examined him—”
“Oh, yes, I believe you said he’d been ill for some time,” murmured Ellery.
“Yes. He’s been—well, out of sorts physically for a couple of years now,” explained Kit dully. “The doctors said it was just age. He was sixty-five.” Her voice broke. “He’s led a very strenuous life, and at his age there was bound to be a let-down. I didn’t want him to go back to work at all. But he insisted it would do him good, tone him up. Today I asked him if the rodeo doctor had examined him, and he said yes, this morning, and everything was all right.”
“But he didn’t seem worried about anything?” asked the Inspector.
“No. I mean. …I don’t really know. He wasn’t upset, although there did seem to be something on his mind.”
“You’ve no idea what it was, I suppose?”
Her eyes met his fiercely. “I wish I did!”
The Inspector turned to the
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