At three o’clock the University called.
“Mr. Childan,” the voice said, “you wanted this weapon tested for authenticity, this 1860 Army Model Colt .44.” A pause, while Childan gripped the phone with apprehension. “Here’s the lab report. It’s a reproduction cast from plastic molds except for the walnut. Serial numbers all wrong. The frame not casehardened by the cyanide process. Both brown and blue surfaces achieved by a modern quick-acting technique, the whole gun artificially aged, given a treatment to make it appear old and worn.”
Childan said thickly, “The man who brought it to me for appraisal—”
“Tell him he’s been taken,” the University technician said. “And very taken. It’s a good job. Done by a real pro. See, the authentic gun was given its—you know the bluemetal parts? Those were put in a box of leather strips, sealed, with cyanide gas, and heated. Too cumbersome, nowadays. But this was done in a fairly well-equipped shop. We detected particles of several polishing and finishing compounds, some quite unusual. Now we can’t prove this, but we know there’s a regular industry turning out these fakes. There must be. We’ve seen so many.”
“No,” Childan said. “That is only a rumor. I can state that to you as absolute fact, sir.” His voice rose and broke screechingly. “And I am in a position to know. Why do you think I sent it to you? I could perceive its fakery, being qualified by years of training. Such as this is a rarity, an oddity. Actually a joke. A prank.” He broke off, panting. “Thank you for confirming my own observations. You will bill me. Thank you.” He rang off at once.
Then, without pausing, he got out his records. He began tracing the gun. How had it come to him? From whom?
It had come, he discovered, from one of the largest wholesale suppliers in San Francisco. Ray Calvin Associates, on Van Ness. At once he phoned them.
“Let me talk to Mr. Calvin,” he said. His voice had now become a trifle steadier.
Presently a gruff voice, very busy. “Yes.”
“This is Bob Childan. At A.A.H. Inc. On Montgomery. Ray, I have a matter of delicacy. I wish to see you, private conference, sometime today in your office or et cetera. Believe me, sir. You had better heed my request.” Now, he discovered, he was bellowing into the phone.
“Okay,” Ray Calvin said.
“Tell no one. This is absolutely confidential.”
“Four o’clock?”
“Four it is,” Childan said. “At your office. Good day.” He slammed the receiver down so furiously that the entire phone fell from the counter to the floor; kneeling, he gathered it up and replaced it in its spot.
There was half an hour ahead before he should start; he had all that time to pace, helpless, waiting. What to do? An idea. He phoned the San Francisco office of the Tokyo Herald, on Market Street.
“Sirs,” he said, “please tell me if the carrier Syokaku is in the harbor, and if so, how long. I would appreciate this information from your estimable newspaper.”
An agonizing wait. Then the girl was back.
“According to our reference room, sir,” she said in a giggling voice, “the carrier Syokaku is at the bottom of the Philippine Sea. It was sunk by an American submarine in 1945. Any more questions we can help you with, sir?” Obviously they, at the newspaper office, appreciated the wild-goose variety of prank that had been played on him.
He hung up. No carrier Syokaku for seventeen years. Probably no Admiral Harusha. The man had been an imposter. And yet—
The man had been right. The Colt .44 was a fake.
It did not make sense.
Perhaps the man was a speculator; he had been trying to corner the market in Civil War period side arms. An expert. And he had recognized the fake; he was the professional of professionals.