American Gun Mystery by Ellery Queen Page B

showman. “How about you, Mr. Grant? Any idea what Horne might have had on his mind?”
    “Hell, no. Nothin’ important ’less he smelled a rat on that movie business. Kit, you must be imaginin’ things—”
    “Well, well,” said the Inspector hastily, “let’s not quarrel about it. Miss Horne, what happened today?”
    “I—I was out late last night and didn’t wake up until mid-morning. Buck and I—we’ve—we’d adjoining rooms at the Barclay, on West Forty-fourth Street. That’s where the rest of the troupe are stopping, too. I knocked on Buck’s door; he opened it and kissed me good morning. He was quite cheerful. Said he’d been up for hours—he was used to getting up with the sun, of course; he said he’d had a walk in Central Park, had had breakfast. …I had a snack sent up and Buck joined me in a cup of coffee. At about two o’clock we walked over to the Colosseum for the rehearsal.”
    “Oh, so you had a dress rehearsal, eh, Mr. Grant?”
    “Yeah. Fancy duds an’ all. ’Ceptin’ Buck—didn’t want to bother gettin’ rigged out. We went through the routine a last time to get everything straight.”
    “I watched for a while,” said Kit, “and then wandered off—”
    “Pardon,” said Ellery with a frown. “Mr. Grant, did you attend the rehearsal?”
    “Shore.”
    “Everything go off strictly as scheduled?”
    Grant stared. “Shore! Buck was kind o’ nervous seemed to me. Tole me he was tickled pink at the prospect of performin’ before an audience again.”
    Ellery sucked his lip. “What was the routine?”
    “Nothin’ much. Gallop around the arena—what you saw tonight when it happened, then Buck was to do a few simple ridin’ tricks all by himself—flashy, but easy; then an exhibition of shootin’. Afterwards a little ropin’—”
    “Nothing strenuous? He wasn’t required to rope steers and throw them, for example, or ride a bucking horse?”
    The Inspector regarded his son with a mildly disturbed air. But Ellery seemed to be wading through a mass of clogging and contradictory thoughts; as usual when he was excited, or in the throes of intangible composition, he took his shining pince-nez glasses from his nose and with absent energy began to polish the lenses.
    “No,” said Grant. “Nothin’ like that—I wouldn’t let ’im. Yeah, he did a couple of loops on a longhorn in rehearsal, but no real bulldoggin’, nothin’ dangerous.”
    “He wanted to, though?” persisted Ellery.
    “Buck always wanted to do everythin’,” replied Grant wearily. “Couldn’t get it through his thick head that he was an ole man. An’, by thunder, he could do it, too! I almost had to rassle him when we were makin’ up the routine.”
    “Hmm,” said Ellery, He replaced his glasses on his nose. “How very interesting.” Kit and Curly stared at him in astonishment; in Kit’s eyes there was a dawning glimmer of hope, and a flush came to her brown cheeks while her breath quickened. “You say, Mr. Grant, that Horne was scheduled to give an exhibition of marksmanship?”
    “Yeah, an’ he did, too, at rehearsal. He was a real sharpshooter, Buck was,” replied Grant in a tight voice. “There’s an old sayin’ out West—a cowboy is a man with guts an’ a horse. It don’t take into account his ability to throw lead. Nowadays the boys are just punchers; in the ole days. …” He shook himself savagely. “Many a time I’ve seen Buck, with one of his ole long-barreled Colts, put six slugs into the heart of a two-inch target at a hundred feet! An’ on split-second notice, too. Wasn’t anything he couldn’t do with a gun. Why, the show he was goin’ to put on tonight was real fancy, Mr. Queen! Riddle targets plumb center while at full gallop on that starfaced roan stallion o’ Kit’s, clip coins thrown in the air—”
    “I’m convinced,” said Ellery with a smile. “I take it Buck Horne was something special in marksmen. Very well. Now, did anything unusual