“Sy Kramer was shot with a.300 Savage.”
“I read about that in the papers,” Murphy said. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“You think I shot Kramer?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Murphy.”
“I couldn’t hit a grizzly bear at ten paces. You think I could have shot Kramer from a car on a dark, rainy night?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Murphy. But I would like to have the gun run through Ballistics, if you don’t mind.”
“Can’t you just sniff the barrel and tell it wasn’t fired recently?”
Carella smiled. “We like to get a little more precise than that, Mr. Murphy. We’d like to run a comparison test between a bullet fired from your gun and the bullet that killed Kramer.”
“Well, all right,” Murphy said reluctantly.
“I’ll give you a receipt for the gun,” Carella said. “It’ll be returned to you in good condition.”
“Good condition isn’t enough,” Murphy said. “It’s being turned over to you in
“You’ll get it back the same way,” Carella said, smiling.
“Okay,” Murphy said, getting out of his chair. “It’s inside, in the gun rack.”
Carella followed him into the house. When Murphy had taken the Savage from the gun rack, he turned to Carella with the weapon in his hands.
“A good rifle,” he said.
“Yes,” Carella agreed.
“Can bring down an elephant with this,” he said. Inadvertently he had turned the gun’s barrel toward Carella.
“Ahhh…you wouldn’t mind turning that the other way, would you?” Carella said.
“Why?” Murphy asked.
“I’ve been taught never to point a gun at anyone unless I intend shooting him.”
For a moment the room went silent. Murphy stared at Carella. His finger was inside the trigger guard. His hand was trembling.
“Mr. Murphy,” Carella said. “Would you mind?”
“You don’t think I’d shoot you, do you, Mr. Carella?” Murphy asked. There was no smile on his face.
“No, but…”
“I mean, even if this
“If you’re not going to shoot me,” Carella said levelly, “then turn the gun away.”
“Mr. Carella,” Murphy said, smiling now, “I think I’ve made you nervous.” He paused. “The gun isn’t loaded.” He handed it to Carella. “And it
“I’m glad to hear both those facts,” Carella said. “May I have some cartridges for the Ballistics test, please?”
“Certainly,” Murphy said. He opened a drawer at the bottom of the gun rack. “I’ve got some full magazines here. Will they be all right?”
“Fine,” Carella said.
Murphy rummaged in the drawer. “There’s a pool table in the next room,” he said. “Do you play pool?”
“Yes.”
“Care for a game?”
“No.”
“I’m glad,” Murphy said. He slammed the drawer shut, and handed Carella a rotary magazine for the gun. “I’m a lousy pool player.” He paused. “My hands,” he explained. “They’re not too steady.”
And Steve Carella remembered Murphy’s trembling finger inside the trigger guard.
COTTON HAWES did not realize he was being followed until he left the home of Joaquim Miller that night. When he finally realized it, he did something about it-but he was blissfully ignorant up to the moment of realization.
He had called Miller’s home after leaving the office of Frank Ruther. Miller’s wife told Hawes that Joaquim worked as an electronics engineer for a company called Byrd Industries, Inc. Hawes called Miller at his office. Because Miller was an employee in a large firm and because questioning by the police can often cast suspicion of guilt upon the most innocent man, Hawes considerately asked Miller if he could see him at his home that night. Miller readily agreed.
The Miller home was in Majesta, an outlying section of the city.
Hawes had left the 87th at 6:30 P.M. He pulled up to the apartment building at 8:03. He did not as yet know he had been followed from the front steps of the 87th all the way to Majesta. The apartment building in which the Millers lived was on a tree-shaded street There was a small park across from the building. It was one of the best neighborhoods in Majesta. Hawes assumed that the Millers had chosen the location because of its proximity to the Byrd plant. And since they had chosen the best, he further assumed Miller was earning a good salary.
“Apartment Fifty-four,” Miller had told him on the phone. Hawes walked across the simple lobby to the self-service elevator. He took that up to the fifth floor, and then found the Miller apartment. Mrs. Miller answered the door. She was an attractive brunette with large blue eyes, but Hawes made a point of never falling in love with a woman who was already married.
“Are you Detective Hawes?” she asked immediately.
“Yes.” Hawes showed his identification.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. We’re just trying to locate a man your husband once met. We thought he might be able to help.”
“It’s nothing to do with Joaquim?”
“No, ma’am,” Hawes said.
