It was this last case which Wolff and Dunning were examining. The secretary pointed to several arms catalogues stacked on the case next in line.
“I found those,” he said, “scattered about on the special-purpose case. When I picked them up to return them to their shelves I saw immediately that two of the exhibits were gone. It looks as if someone had strewn the catalogues about so that we wouldn’t notice—”
Merlini, who had lifted the hinged top of the case and was examining the lock, said, “Bolt sheared off. And the shape of this indentation in the frame would suggest—” He glanced quickly around the room, saw several military rifles in a near-by rack, and finished, “that it was levered up with one of those bayonets.”
Wolff stared at the case with a scowl that promised trouble. Dunning fidgeted uneasily. I crowded in, wondering what special-purpose arms were, and discovered that, without their labels, I wouldn’t have recognized many of them as guns at all. This was, evidently, the freaks-and-oddities department. Small typed cards below each specimen bore such inscriptions as: Apache Pistol Combination Revolver, Brass Knuckles, and Dagger: Poacher’s Cane Pistol; Belgian Harmonica; East Indian Combination Matchlock Pistol, Ax, and Dagger; “My Friend” Knuckle-Duster Pistol; English Duckfoot Flintlock; Pencil Pistol, Chicago Protector Palm Pistol; etc. etc.
There were empty spaces above two of the cards. Merlini read the description on one aloud, Campbell & Harris Spring Gun. 25 caliber. He looked up at Wolff. “What is a spring gun?”
“A trap gun,” Wolff answered, still staring at the case. “Fasten it to a tree or anchor it to the ground, tie a string to the hole provided in the trigger and stretch it across an animal run. Anything touching the string—”
Merlini nodded. “I get the idea. I don’t like it much.” He read from the second card. Vest-Pocket Model Revolver. Smallest practical 5-shot revolver made. 25 caliber. Grip and trigger folds up around cylinder, making it easy to carry in vest pocket or lady’s purse without being conspicuous. Weight: 5½ ounces. Overall length when folded: 3 inches. He paused a moment, then added, “Someone has peculiar tastes. Were they valuable?”
Wolff, who had gone over to the worktable under the window, said, “No. They’re both modern pieces.” He pulled open a drawer beneath the table. “Dunning. You said four guns. What others—”
The secretary turned. “The lock on that drawer has been forced the same way. Two of the .38 target pistols are gone.”
Wolff scowled. “You can forget those. I took them this morning. But I didn’t force this lock.” He lifted a cardboard carton from the drawer, took the cover off, and looked inside. “This what you meant when you said there were cartridges missing?”
Dunning nodded. “Yes. That box of twenty-fives was unopened this morning. Now there are six shells missing. The trap gun would hold one, the vest-pocket revolver, five.” His tone of voice was the same as though he were announcing the escape of a captive cobra. I knew how he felt. That trap gun, loaded and its whereabouts unknown, was definitely not a pleasant prospect.
“Those two guns you took, Wolff,” Merlini asked. “Where are they?”
The man motioned toward his hip. “I’ve got one. I gave Mrs. Wolff the other. In view of what’s been happening around here, I thought—”
“Loaded?”
“Yes. Naturally.”
Merlini cast an uneasy glance at the array of deadly weapons that surrounded us, then approached Wolff and looked at the lock of the open drawer. “Do collectors usually keep ammunition on hand to fit their pieces? I should think that many of these guns would be too valuable to fire.”
“Fire them?” Wolff looked startled. “Of course not. There’s a shooting range outside and this drawer holds several target pistols of various calibers. The shells are intended for those.”
Merlini came back again to the special-purpose-arms case, lifted its glass top, and peered through it at the light. “The missing guns from this case,” he asked, “when were they seen last?”
“They were there less than an hour ago,” Wolff replied. “Dunning and I added that English Duckfoot which came from Bannerman & Kimball while we were in Miami last week. Both the missing pieces were in the case then. What’s so interesting about that glass? Fingerprints?”
Merlini leaned above the next case and examined its glass also, moving his head from side to side to catch the reflection of the light. He repeated this maneuver with the one beyond that before answering. Then he said, “Yes and no. There are a number of finger and palm prints on the glass of these two cases, but not so much as a smudge on the special-purpose case. We can, apparently, strike the family ghost off the list of suspects.”
Galt frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” Merlini said dryly, “if I were a bona fide astral visitant, lately returned from my grave, I wouldn’t worry too much about the fingerprints I might leave. I can imagine a ghost swiping those guns. I might even visualize him forcing the locks with a bayonet. There are tales in the history of apparitions of ghosts who have done things as strange. But I’m inclined to boggle at any haunt who lifts a corner of his shroud and carefully wipes away any possible fingerprints that he may have left behind. Aren’t you?”
Galt frowned. “I haven’t heard anyone say that the ghost is responsible for this.”
“No,” Merlini admitted. “Neither have I. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did.” He turned to Wolff. “There are two things I would suggest that you do at once.”
“What?”
“Gather up all the ammunition in this house and put it in the safe, if you’ve got one. And report your boatkeeper’s absence and the theft of these guns to the police.
Wolff scowled. “I’ll call the police when it becomes necessary. Those two guns haven’t gone far. They’re here in this house. They have to be. And I’m going to find them.”
“Here? What makes you so sure of that?”
“The burglar alarm has been operating all day. No one could possibly have got into or left this house except by Phillips’s permission. And he had orders—”
“The alarm system has a single central control?”
Wolff nodded. “Yes. In the hall below the stairs. Switch box. Locked. I have the key.”
Merlini wasn’t impressed. “These two locks were forced. Perhaps we’d better have a look at that one.”
He headed for the hall. Wolff blinked, and followed him out.
Then Kathryn turned to the secretary. “Dunning, Dad listens to you sometimes. Try to make him call the police.”
Dunning frowned uncertainly at the gun case. “If this sort of thing continues, he’ll have to.”
“If this sort of thing continues, it’ll be too late.” Kay moved with sudden decision toward the phone on the table. “I’m going to do it now.”
“Kay,” I said, “wait. There’s nothing they can do if he won’t—”
But Dunning had moved swiftly, cutting in ahead of her. He put his hand down over the phone. “No. He’ll be furious. And I have orders that—”
Kay tried to put Dunning in his place. “I’ll take the responsibility,” she said sharply. “Take your hand off that phone!”
But the secretary shook his head and stood firm. “No, I’m sorry.”
And from the doorway Wolff’s voice cut in, crisp and hard. “Stay where you are, Dunning. Who does she want to call?”
Kathryn turned. “The police. And, if I can’t phone them from here, I’ll do it from outside. This has gone far enough. Scotty—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Wolff said flatly. “I’ve told you that I don’t want the police. Your calling them will be useless if I won’t let them in. And I won’t. Dunning, go out to the switch box. Stand by to shut off the alarm when it rings.”