The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [183]
I saw Mr. Picton give Miss Howard a surprised look, and then turn to Mr. Moore. “Do not” Mr. Moore said, “push your luck with this girl, Rupert.”
Lucius suddenly looked troubled. “I don’t think I can get the bag off in one piece.”
“Any reason why you need to?” Mr. Moore said.
“If we can prove that the wrapping was manufactured locally,” Marcus explained for his brother, “then it argues against the possibility that this was some other gun dumped more recently by someone else.”
“Well, you don’t need to keep it in one piece to do that,” Mr. Picton said. “Look at the bottom of the thing, Detective—you should find the words ‘West Bags, Ballston Spa, New York’ in small black print.”
Lucius focused his attention on the part of the bag what was draped around the mouth of the gun barrel; then he brightened up. “You’re right, Mr. Picton—it’s there! Let me just cut it loose—” He pulled a surgical scalpel from his pocket and made four neat little slits in the bottom of the bag, then pulled away a rectangular piece of the brown paper and laid it out carefully on the sheet. “There we go. And now we can …”
With slightly faster strokes, Lucius began to peel away strips of the remaining brown paper, revealing a plain, single-action revolver, of the type seen in your standard Western magazine illustrations. Its dark brown grips were dusted with light green mold, and its blue steel chamber and barrel were red with rust. None of the rest of us knew quite what to think until Lucius picked up the gun by slipping one of his probes through the trigger guard, examined it with his brother, and then smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. West,” he sighed.
“You mean it’s in good shape?” Mr. Moore said.
“Let’s just say this,” Lucius answered. “Ballston Spa is, in fact, the home of the world’s finest paper bags.”
Marcus nodded confidently as he took his turn examining the pistol. “Hmm, yes,” he said, trying to control his enthusiasm. “With a little work we should be able to actually fire it again.”
“And that means—” Mr. Moore asked.
“That means,” Miss Howard answered, herself smiling, “a ballistics test.”
Mr. Moore’s face went blank. “A what?”
“Provided,” Lucius said, putting down the gun and holding up a finger, “that we can find a bullet in those pieces of the wagon for comparison.”
“Whoa, slow down, here,” Mr. Moore said.
“What about it, Mr. Picton?” Marcus asked. “How are your judges on the subject of ballistics analysis?”
Mr. Picton shrugged. “They’re aware of the field, of course. But to my knowledge we haven’t yet had a case where it’s been used to convict. On the other hand, I can’t think of one where it’s been specifically excluded, either. And our judges don’t tend to be absolutely primitive about such matters—they don’t mind setting a precedent every now and then. If we come up with something convincing—especially if it’s in conjunction with other evidence—I think I can run it up the pole and get a salute.”
“Run what up the pole?” Mr. Moore said, “What the hell are you people talking about?”
I was in a pretty confused state myself, and I could see that the Doctor and Cyrus weren’t doing much better. But we preferred to let Mr. Moore keep asking the dumb questions, being as—and I say this with all due respect to the man’s more admirable qualities—it came so natural to him.
“Assuming we can make it work,” Lucius said to Mr. Picton, still ignoring Mr. Moore, “we’ll need to set up a firing range of some kind.”
“Well,” Mr. Picton answered happily, indicating the back of the house, “my yard is yours, Detective! There’s nothing but a large cornfield beyond it. If you’ll tell me what you need—”
“Not much,” Lucius answered. “Just a few bales of cotton.”
“Easily done,” Mr. Picton answered. “Mrs. Hastings! We—” He turned to find his housekeeper already standing at the doorway, watching us with a blank, dumbfounded look. “Ah! Mrs. Hastings. Call Mr. Burke, if you would, and tell him—”