"For half loads?" I asked, indicating the equipment.
"Sometimes handy," admitted Ledger. He was slipping into his suit coat and shot a sudden look at me as though making up his mind. "You see how it is, Doctor. There's not just the shooting involved."
"A bit of a side show as well," I hazarded.
The man's pale blue eyes were disconcerting, but if one overlooked them, his manner was forthright and friendly. Evidently, he sensed a kindred spirit in me.
"I have to be ready to change the act, you see. If it's not long guns, there's naught left but side arms and for fancy work, half loads are helpful."
"Less recoil for greater accuracy."
The fact that I understood seemed to please him. "Tricks of the trade." He shifted subjects. "Can you talk about the treasure train matter?"
His directness was refreshing. Leaning against the table, he seemed relaxed; but I knew I was in the presence of a coiled spring. The man reflected his profession: dangerous, certainly ruthless if necessary, but his youth dissipated any suggestion of malevolence. I will grant that I rank with the gullible, certainly in comparison to Holmes. Yet I felt that Ledger was sincere, his mood tinged by a genuine regret—not for his performance of the day, but relative to the matter of the stolen gold.
I decided to take a chance. My companion of so many years had once said that to learn something one should tell something, so I became revealing.
"Sherlock Holmes seems intrigued by this gun club competition that has sprung up."
"The trained seals." There was a twist to Ledger's mouth. "I shouldn't complain, for it's what got me my job with the railroad; and marksmanship competition is nothing new. The other stuff, like the cigarette bit, is just so much lagniappe to entertain the people."
I must have been regarding him rather intently, for he shifted position, possibly a nervous movement, and was now seated on the table. "Does Mr. Holmes associate the Wellington Club with the robbery?"
I shook my head promptly. "There's quite a few gun clubs. Holmes is looking for a lead as to who actually pulled off the robbery. The soldiers in the field, as 'twere."
This struck a chord within Ledger. "Now I see it. Ex-military working for business firms, meeting people at the clubs; they could have caught wind of the treasure train." Suddenly he shook his head. "From what I've heard of Mr. Holmes, he's not one for just theorizing. There must be something more."
I decided to plunge in deeper. "A shot was fired at our sitting room. Holmes contends that it was not an assassination attempt, but it had to be done by a sharpshooter."
Those light blue eyes remained devoid of emotion, though a slight smile curled Ledger's lips. "That puts me in the front ranks, I suppose?"
"I think not. Besides, it was a long shot. I doubt if that Beals revolving rifle you fancy could have carried far enough."
He was not offended. "You noticed that did you, Doctor?" Ledger became silent, and I sensed he was considering a thought. Then he continued: "If there's some marksman playing games, it does point a finger at the gun clubs. Does Mr. Holmes know how the robbery was executed?"
I decided not to carry my revelations too far. "I've a thought that he's got a pretty good idea." Had I said no, it would have been an insult to Holmes, and Ledger wouldn't have believed me anyway.
"I haven't. Don't feel good about it either. If I'd done my job right . . ." His voice dwindled away, and then he rose from his half-seated position. "Would there be something that I could do, Doctor?"
"You could consider Holmes' idea about your marksman colleagues," I replied with an authoritative tone that startled me.
"I will," he said.
That was the end of our meeting but not of my investigations.
———«»———«»———«»———
The waning sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving a momentary afterglow as I alighted from a hansom at 221 B Baker Street.
As I entered the sitting room, the sleuth was seated at his desk, its surface cluttered with cables and penned notations. Not the cold, thinking machine, he, but more the general, assaying reports from the front. He seemed pleased, for he slapped the desktop with an open palm and exhibited a wide smile.
"By George, Watson, I was wagering on you, and from your appearance, I know that victory has graced your banners."
"I do think I've stumbled onto something, Holmes."
"About Ledger, of course."
Being in the process of removing my greatcoat, I almost dropped it in surprise. "A trip to the Wellington Club competition sparks you into action. Who was there connected with the treasure train matter? Alvidon Chasseur and Claymore Frisbee, but we can dismiss both, for there was nothing revelatory regarding them. We have left Richard Ledger, whose prowess with firearms astonished even me."
"It was his manner, you see."
"Capital, Watson. It prompted you to suspect that the deadly marksman is an imposter and not Richard Ledger, formerly of the army of India, at all."
The froth of my manner was, frostbitten by reality. Confound it, I could never get ahead of the man. As I lowered myself into the cane-bottom Restoration chair, my sudden despondency had to be apparent and Holmes seized upon it.
"Come now, my stab at the truth was ill-conceived, for I do not know that for a fact and suspect that you do. Relate the path that your investigation followed."
I made a weary gesture with one hand. "What use? You already know."
"Suspect. A far cry from know. A report, good Watson, if you please."
I knew that I was not being twitted. Holmes' expression was as contrite as an erring schoolboy's, so I rallied some enthusiasm and plunged into my tale.
"The man's style led me to the conclusion that rifles were not his métier."
Holmes registered enthusiasm. "Here your superior knowledge of firearms comes into play."
Remembering his identification of the Beals rifle, I did not choose to accept this remark in whole but continued. "Recall how the chap moved while shooting, not choosing to stay positioned as the other marksmen did?"
There were wrinkles on Holmes' broad brow. "It was unusual, though I drew no conclusions from it."
"He's used to shooting at moving targets."
"Since the target was stationary, he moved to compensate. How clever of you."
I regarded him warily. "You were already suspicious of the man. Holmes, if you are leading me on . . ."
"I assure you that is furthest from my mind. I did not take note of the point you are making." Holmes paused as though wondering why, then concluded. "Possibly for reasons I will relate in a moment. Tell all, good chap."
"Ledger, for want of a better name, is really a small-arms expert. Gunfighter is the word that comes to mind."
"American, then?"
"Oh yes," I replied airily. "The speed with which he fired, his frequent shooting from the hip, his use of the Beals revolving rifle, which is constructed like a handgun—it all smacked of one from the American West. Southwest, I would guess."
"How so?" Perhaps he was just trying to encourage me, but Holmes seemed captivated.
"I spoke with the man."
My friend nodded. "That I assumed."
"He made use of the word lagniappe." Since Holmes was regarding me with a questioning look, I continued, not without some pride I might add. "It's a colloquialism of the southern part of the United States. Refers to a gratuitous additive, like baker's dozen."
"Excellent, excellent."
"In his dressing room at the club I noted some tools, and upon questioning, the chap told me he intended to use half loads for some handgun exhibitions."
Holmes merely shook his head, and I might have detected an expression of amazement in his eyes. Or was it pride?
"Another American innovation. Trick-shooting with a handgun seldom requires range; and the targets are small, so there is little need for great force at impact. Professionals reduce the powder charge in the bullets, which in turn lessens the recoil at firing and increases the accuracy of the man behind the gun."