I shook my head. “This was a bolt action, not a semi-automatic. I heard him pull back the bolt.”
Captain Hertel said, “A lot of Army carbines were modified to bolt actions after the war so that they could be used for hunting. Most states won’t let you use an automatic or semiautomatic rifle.”
“It still wasn’t an Army carbine,” I said. “I’ve heard those fired plenty of times. This one had an odd sound. Louder and not as sharp.”
Chief Brown said, “If the suspect is Whiteman, he must have acquired the weapon recently. He certainly didn’t have it when he made his escape. We’ll start the pawnshop detail checking for recent sales of .30-caliber carbines. Better check recent theft reports, too, for a weapon of that type.”
I nodded, and Hertel said, “Yes, sir.”
“If it is the Courteous Killer we’re dealing with, I’ve got one final order.”
“What’s that?” Hertel asked.
“Get him.”
A local manhunt of unprecedented proportions was now set underway. Every man on the force was furnished mug shots of the suspect and was instructed to be on the lookout for him. Teams of officers combed the pawnshop district and questioned the proprietors of sporting-goods stores about recent sales of .30-caliber carbines. The purchaser of every such gun was checked out. A week passed with no leads developing.
Meantime, stakeouts were again put on me and Harriet Shaffer every moment we were off duty. This, too, led to no result.
On Wednesday, November 27th, the day before Thanksgiving, Frank and I checked in at Homicide Division at 4:33 p.m. There was nothing in the message book, and no mail in either of our boxes. It looked like the beginning of a quiet watch.
Frank said, “Gonna make it for dinner tomorrow, aren’t you, Joe?”
“Sure,” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Just going to be a family party,” Frank said. “Just the six of us.”
“Six?” I asked.
“Sure. Fay and me, the two kids, and you.”
“That’s only five.”
Frank looked at me. “Didn’t I tell you? Armand’s back.”
“Oh,” I said, without much enthusiasm.
Frank smiled a secret little smile. “Got a surprise for Armand this year.”
“Yeah?”
“Remember how he kept needling me last Thanksgiving? About the way I carved.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lot of science to carving. When the host knows how to do it, he feels at ease, and that makes everybody else feel at ease. Fay says it’s a matter of poise. Get all flustered and wrestle around with the bird the way I did last year, everybody feels a little embarrassed.”
I said, “I thought you did all right.”
“Aw, I was a rank amateur. Course, it didn’t help any to have Armand sit there snickering all the time. This year he won’t have a chance to snicker.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“I got it licked. You’re looking at the prize turkey carver in the whole Valley.”
“Yeah?”
“Been practicing up.”
“On what?” I asked.
“A turkey. You know O’Malley, the butcher over our way?”
“I remember the shop,” I said.
“Got one of those papier-mâché turkeys from O’Malley. The kind they put in windows for display. He got a new one this year, because the old one was getting a little beat up. Brown paint was beginning to peel off in spots.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then I got me a set of instructions on carving. Had a diagram of a turkey in it, with dotted lines showing just where you’re supposed to cut. I took a fountain pen and made dotted lines on this papier-mâché turkey in the same places the lines were on the diagram.”
I said, “I see.”
“Then I sharpened up my carving tools and cut the thing up. Worked perfect.”
I looked at him. “And that makes you an expert carver?”
“Why not?” Frank asked. “I’ve got the location of those lines memorized. All I’ve got to do is cut the real turkey in the same places I cut the papier-mâché one.”
“One thing you didn’t think of,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Real turkeys have bones.”
One of the phones rang, and I went to answer it. It was Johnson in Burglary.
“Got a man here I thought you’d like to talk to, Joe,” he said. “I’m sending him over.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Came in to report a burglary. Thinks it happened last week, but he just discovered it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Only one item missing. Thought it might interest you.”
“What’s that?”
“A thirty-caliber Army carbine converted to bolt action. With the barrel sawed off to twelve-inch length.”
A few minutes later a wrinkled little man with a hooked nose and a birdlike manner of cocking his head to one side when he looked at you came into the squad room. He introduced himself as Arthur Morrison.
I said, “Sit down, Mr. Morrison. Understand you had a burglary.”
Morrison took a chair, cocked his head at me, and said, “Certainly did, young fellow. Already told the whole story to the people over in Burglary Division. Don’t understand why I have to do it again.”
“They think the burglar might be a man this division wants,” I explained. “Where’d the crime take place, sir?”
“At my store. Morrison’s Secondhand Store on Main. Come in and try our swap-or-buy. That’s my slogan.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “When did you discover the burglary?”
“Well, I found the busted lock on the back door last week. Monday, the eighteenth. Figured it was busted some time over the weekend. Didn’t find nothing missing in the store, so didn’t bother to report it. Figured it was kids. Just put on a new padlock and forgot it.”
I said, “Then later you discovered something had been taken?”
“Yeah. Silly thing to steal, too. Lots of good stuff in the store he could’ve took. Can’t understand what anyone’d want with a gun like that.”
“Nothing was taken but this sawed-off carbine?”
“Not a thing, near as I could figure. Checked my entire inventory when I found the broken lock. Missed checking the gun because it was in the window.”
“Sir?”
“Didn’t check the window. Same stuffs been in it for years. Junk I’d like to get rid of, mostly. Figured there was nothing in the window worth stealing, so didn’t bother to look.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then this afternoon I was standing out front. Drum up business that way sometimes. Stand out front, a fellow comes along and stops to look in the window. I get him in conversation, invite him to come in and look around. Surprising how many customers I get in the store that way. People that’d pass right by, otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today I happened to glance in the window myself. Hardly ever do that. Most of the stuff’s been there so long, I’m tired of looking at it. Just happened to today.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Right away I knew something was missing. Couldn’t figure what at first. Just knew the display looked wrong. Then I realized it was that worthless old gun. Fellow didn’t have to steal it. I was only asking five bucks for it, and I’d have come down to two.”
I said, “Would you describe the gun, please?”
“Sure. Thirty-caliber Army carbine. Fellow I bought it from had Winchester Arms convert it to bolt action so he could use it for deer hunting. Then he used it as a lever to move a big rock and bent the barrel. Was gonna cost too much to have it straightened, so he swapped it to me for a fishing rod. I sawed off the bent part and reset the front sight. Figured somebody might buy it for varmint shooting. I tried it out, and it shot pretty good up to a hundred yards. But it was funny-looking with that short barrel. Nobody seemed to want it.”