Страница 193 из 203
"The gun was his?"
"Well, yes, it was. He has a collection of shotguns. I swear he took better care of them than he did of me. I just despise guns. I was always after him to get rid of them. Makes me nervous to have them in the house. Anyway, when he got sick, it turned out he had insurance, but it only paid eighty percent. I was afraid his whole life savings would go up in smoke. I figured he'd go on for years, using up all the money, and then I'd be stuck with his debts when he died. So I just picked up one of the guns and took it out to that gun place to sell. I was going to buy me some clothes."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Well, I didn't think it'd be worth but eight or nine hundred dollars. Then Avery said he'd give me six thousand for it, so I had to guess it was worth at least twice that. I got nervous and thought I better put it back."
"How soon after that did the gun disappear?"
"Oh, gee, I don't know. I didn't pay much attention until Bill got out of the hospital the second time. He's the one who noticed it was gone," she said. "Of course, he raised pluperfect hell. You should have seen him. He had a co
"Do you have any idea who might have taken the gun?"
She gave me a long, candid look. Her eyes were very blue and couldn't have appeared more guileless. "Not the faintest."
I let her practice her wide-eyed stare for a moment, and then I laid out a little bait just to see what she'd do. "God, that's too bad," I said. "I'm assuming you reported it to the police."
I could see her debate briefly before she replied. Yes or no. Check one. "Well, of course," she said.
She was one of those liars who blush from lack of practice.
I kept my tone of voice mild. "What about the insurance? Did you put in a claim?"
She looked at me blankly, and I had the feeling I'd taken her by surprise on that one. She said, "You know, it never even occurred to me. But of course he probably would have it insured, wouldn't he?"
"Sure, if the gun's worth that much. What company is he with?"
"I don't remember offhand. I'd have to look it up."
"I'd do that if I were you," I said. "You can file a claim, and then all you have to do is give the agent the case number."
"Case number?"
"The police will give you that from their report."
She stirred restlessly, glancing at her watch. "Oh, lordy, I'm going to have to give him his medicine. Was there anything else you wanted to ask while you were here?" Now that she'd told me a fib or two, she was anxious to get rid of me so she could assess the situation. Avery Lamb had told me she'd never reported it to the cops. I wondered if she'd call him up now to compare notes.
"Could I take a quick look at his collection?" I said, getting up.
"I suppose that'd be all right. It's in here," she said. She moved toward a small panelled den, and I followed, stepping around a suitcase near the door.
A rack of six guns was enclosed in a glass-fronted cabinet. All of them were beautifully engraved, with fine wood stocks, and I wondered how a priceless Parker could really be distinguished. Both the cabinet and the rack were locked, and there were no empty slots. "Did he keep the Parker in here?"
She shook her head. "The Parker had its own case." She hauled out a handsome wood case from behind the couch and opened it for me, demonstrating its emptiness as though she might be setting up a magic trick. Actually, there was a set of barrels in the box, but nothing else.
I glanced around. There was a shotgun propped in one corner, and I picked it up, checking the manufacturer's imprint on the frame. L. C. Smith. Too bad. For a moment I'd thought it might be the missing Parker. I'm always hoping for the obvious. I set the Smith back in the corner with regret.
"Well, I guess that'll do," I said. "Thanks for the coffee."
"No trouble. I wish I could be more help." She started easing me toward the door.
I held out my hand. "Nice meeting you," I said. "Thanks again for your time."
She gave my hand a perfunctory shake. "That's all right. Sorry I'm in such a rush, but you know how it is when you have someone sick."
Next thing I knew, the door was closing at my back and I was heading toward my car, wondering what she was up to.
I'd just reached the driveway when a white Corvette came roaring down the street and rumbled into the drive. The kid at the wheel flipped the ignition key and cantilevered himself up onto the seat top.
"Hi. You know if my mom's here?"
"Who, Jackie? Sure," I said, taking a flyer. "You must be Doug."
He looked puzzled. "No, Eric. Do I know you?"
I shook my head. "I'm just a friend passing through."
He hopped out of the Corvette. I moved on toward my car, keeping an eye on him as he headed toward the house. He looked about seventeen, blond, blue-eyed, with good cheekbones, a moody, sensual mouth, lean surfer's body. I pictured him in a few years, hanging out in resort hotels, picking up women three times his age. He'd do well. So would they.
Jackie had apparently heard him pull in, and she came out onto the porch, intercepting him with a quick look at me. She put her arm through his, and the two moved into the house. I looked over at the old man. He was making noises again, plucking aimlessly at his bad hand with his good one. I felt a mental jolt, like an interior tremor shifting the ground under me. I was begi
I drove the two blocks to Lisa Osterling's. She was in the backyard, stretched out on a chaise in a sunsuit that made her belly look like a watermelon in a laundry bag. Her face and arms were rosy, and her ta
"I have a question," I said, "and then I need to use your phone. Did Rudd know a kid named Eric Barnett?"
"I'm not sure. What's he look like?"
I gave her a quick rundown, including a description of the white Corvette. I could see the recognition in her face as she sat up.
"Oh, him. Sure. He was over here two or three times a week. I just never knew his name. Rudd said he lived around here somewhere and stopped by to borrow tools so he could work on his motorcycle. Is he the one who owed Rudd the money?"
"Well, I don't know how we're going to prove it, but I suspect he was."
"You think he killed him?"
"I can't answer that yet, but I'm working on it. Is the phone in here?" I was moving toward the kitchen. She struggled to her feet and followed me into the house. There was a wall phone near the back door. I tucked the receiver against my shoulder, pulling the appraisal slip out of my pocket. I dialled Avery Lamb's gun shop. The phone rang twice.
Somebody picked up on the other end. "Gun shop."
"Mr. Lamb?"
"This is Orville Lamb. Did you want me or my brother, Avery?"
"Avery, actually. I have a quick question for him."
"Well, he left a short while ago, and I'm not sure when he'll be back. Is it something I can help you with?"
"Maybe so," I said. "If you had a priceless shotgun-say, an Ithaca or a Parker, one of the classics-would you shoot a gun like that?"
"You could," he said dubiously, "but it wouldn't be a good idea, especially if it was in mint condition to begin with. You wouldn't want to take a chance on lowering the value. Now if it'd been in use previously, I don't guess it would matter much, but still I wouldn't advise it-just speaking for myself. Is this a gun of yours?"
But I'd hung up. Lisa was right behind me, her expression anxious. "I've got to go in a minute," I said, "but here's what I think went on. Eric Barnett's stepfather has a collection of fine shotguns, one of which turns out to be very, very valuable. The old man was hospitalised, and Eric's mother decided to hock one of the guns in order to do a little something for herself before he'd blown every asset he had on his medical bills. She had no idea the gun she chose was worth so much, but the gun dealer recognised it as the find of a lifetime. I don't know whether he told her that or not, but when she realised it was more valuable than she thought, she lost her nerve and put it back."