“Yes, I can see why you might shy away from any ghost of Wolff’s. But, if Kay is right, if he really does want this one laid—”
“He may convince easier. If she’s right. If not, we won’t get past the front door.”
Apparently Kay was right. We did get in, although for a moment it looked very much as though I were coming right back out again. My old pal, Phillips, nodded when Merlini introduced himself. “Yes,” he said, “Mr. Wolff is expecting—”
He hit a snag. The polished regularity of the Phillips features were capable of registering surprise after all. He nearly goggled when he saw me march in behind Merlini. It was quite obvious that I wasn’t included in the expectations.
Working on the theory that offense is the best defense, I said, “Well, fancy seeing you here!”
He played what I was beginning to think was his only record. “Miss Wolff isn’t in.”
“Of course not,” I agreed, handing him my coat and hat. “She’s in Miami, or maybe Iraq. I didn’t come to see her. I have an appointment with a haunt.”
Merlini gave Phillips his things, looked interestedly at the camera that was set up on a tripod facing the stairs, and said, “He’s with me, Phillips. My assistant. It’s quite all right.”
Phillips had his doubts about that, but he didn’t argue. He merely led us to a door on the right of the hall and opened it in the manner of a Roman arena attendant ushering two early Christians in to the waiting lions.
The living-room was nearly as large as an arena, and, with its formally placed, massive Tudor furniture, its dark, oak-paneled walls and heavy-raftered ceiling, about as comfortably inviting as a period room on display in a museum. There were only one or two differences. The neatly lettered cards reading Do Not Touch were missing from the chair seats; the dim half-light with its gloomy shadows had been replaced by a white glare as bright as that in a photographer’s studio; and Dudley Wolff was there.
Kay was there too, and Francis Galt. But it was Wolff who held my attention. The change in the man was astonishing. His familiar scowl was present, but all his characteristic self-confidence had vanished. His head, as we entered, jerked around with an abrupt nervous movement. His glance and gesture were uncertain and apprehensive.
Then he saw me. For a moment his rigid, uncompromising self-assurance almost returned. His shoulders straightened and his jaw pushed out belligerently. But the explosion that came wasn’t up to the usual Wolff standard. He glanced once across at Kay, hesitated perceptibly, and then, when he spoke, there was a thin shaky edge to the deep vigorous rumble of his voice.
“You again? Dammit, why can’t I turn around in my own house without—”
Merlini pretended surprise. “Oh, you know Mr. Harte? I took the liberty of bringing him to assist—”
Wolff’s manners hadn’t improved. He turned his back on Merlini and faced Kathryn. “So. This is what was behind your suggestion? This is why—”
Kay stuck her chin out too. “I didn’t invite Mr. Harte,” she said truthfully enough. “If I wanted to see him I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to do it here. You might credit me with some intelligence.”
Wolff glared at us both for a moment, uncertainly. Then he strode across to the table in the center of the room and his hand reached toward a row of pushbuttons. My plan wasn’t working at all. I dropped it and tried another.
“I came out here on business,” I said quickly. “I offered to assist Merlini because I’m working again, and I want an interview. But not with your daughter or with you. I want one with your ghost.”
Wolff’s thumb jabbed at a button. I talked faster, trying to get in a last argument before the strong-arm boys arrived.
“I’ve already got enough facts for a story, one that’ll make a dull and sickening thud when it lands on page one. If man bites dog is news, think what Ghost Bites Wolff will be. Think what Winchell will do to it. What well-known munitions magnate in black-sheep’s clothing isn’t half as worried about the current Senatorial Investigation as he is about hearing things that go bump in the night? Is the spook of Wolff’s manor oke or hoke? You don’t want that, or do you?”
Wolff glowered. “And what do I do about it?”
“We might trade. You give me a break and I’ll give you one.” Behind me I heard the door open.
It didn’t work. Dudley Wolff may have been scared, but not of me. “No reporter,” he growled, “is going to blackmail—”
As Wolff’s glance turned toward the door, his voice came to such an abrupt halt that I whirled around half expecting to see the ghost creeping up on me from behind. Dunning stood there, just inside the door, his pale face at least two shades lighter. His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Someone,” he said with a rush, “has forced a case in the gun room. There are four guns missing. And—”
He hesitated. The silence was absolute and the interval before he spoke again seemed endless.
“Four guns,” he added finally, “and cartridges to fit!”
Chapter Eight:
The Missing Guns
If we had needed anything more to tell us that what we were investigating was no practical joke — this was it. Wolff stared at Dunning for a moment, then abruptly started toward him, steering a course so direct that I had to step back in order to avoid being run down. He had forgotten me completely.
Dunning let him pass, then turned, and followed him out. Galt glanced nervously at Merlini and myself, started to speak, changed his mind, and hurried after them. Kathryn didn’t move.
Merlini looked at her. “I guess you called it,” he said. “If the ghost is the thief, he’s certainly up to no good. Come on. It might be wise if we all stick together from here on.”
She led the way out across the hall toward the door just at the foot of the stairs. My knowledge of firearms was limited to a nodding out-of-date acquaintance with the army Springfield gained in a college R.O.T.C. class and a scattered miscellany of dubious information acquired in my reading of detective fiction. But I knew, as soon as I stepped into the gun room, that Wolff’s collection was the sort that would make any museum curator mutter enviously in his sleep. And I suspected that his name was on the mailing list of every gun dealer in the country, right up at the top and in capital letters. He hadn’t had to limit himself, as many collectors do, to a specialized collection. He had gone the whole hog from harquebuses to Zigzag Derringers — and beyond.
A window, covered on the outside with close-set iron grilles, pierced the opposite wall above a worktable flanked by bookshelves. The four walls were covered ceiling-high with firearms arranged in neat chronological order. They began to the right of the window with the earliest fourteenth-century hand cannon, and progressed clockwise around the room through the matchlock, wheel lock, flintlock, percussion, and cartridge periods to the latest World War II automatic rifles. There were several allied objects; two or three pieces of armor, a case of swords, several crossbows, a halberd, and some powder horns.
In the center of the room a group of glass-covered exhibition cases held smaller special collections. One was of historical association pieces — guns that had been carried by such persons as Annie Oakley, Wyatt Earp, the Dalton boys, John Paul Jones, Bill Cody, and John Dillinger. There was a collection of Colts, one of dueling pistols, and one labeled: Special-Purpose Arms.