The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [193]
'Aha! so you were going to keep that little detail to yourself.'
'I was,' said the inspector; 'but as you've found one revolver, you may as well know about the other. As I say, neither of them may do us any good. The people in the house--'
Both men started, and the inspector checked his speech abruptly, as the half- closed door of the bedroom was slowly pushed open, and a man stood in the doorway. His eyes turned from the pistol in its open case to the faces of Trent and the inspector. They, who had not heard a sound to herald this entrance, simultaneously looked at his long, narrow feet. He wore rubber-soled tennis shoes.
'You must be Mr Bunner,' said Trent.
CHAPTER VI: Mr Bunner on the Case
'Calvin C. Bunner, at your service,' amended the newcomer, with a touch of punctilio, as he removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth. He was used to finding Englishmen slow and ceremonious with strangers, and Trent's quick remark plainly disconcerted him a little. 'You are Mr Trent, I expect,' he went on. 'Mrs Manderson was telling me a while ago. Captain, good-morning.' Mr Murch acknowledged the outlandish greeting with a nod. 'I was coming up to my room, and I heard a strange voice in here, so I thought I would take a look in.' Mr Bunner laughed easily. 'You thought I might have been eavesdropping, perhaps,' he said. 'No, sir; I heard a word or two about a pistol--this one, I guess--and that's all.'
Mr Bunner was a thin, rather short young man with a shaven, pale, bony, almost girlish face, and large, dark, intelligent eyes. His waving dark hair was parted in the middle. His lips, usually occupied with a cigar, in its absence were always half open with a curious expression as of permanent eagerness. By smoking or chewing a cigar this expression was banished, and Mr Bunner then looked the consummately cool and sagacious Yankee that he was.
Born in Connecticut, he had gone into a broker's office on leaving college, and had attracted the notice of Manderson, whose business with his firm he had often handled. The Colossus had watched him for some time, and at length offered him the post of private secretary. Mr Bunner was a pattern business man, trustworthy, long-headed, methodical, and accurate. Manderson could have found many men with those virtues; but he engaged Mr Bunner because he was also swift and secret, and had besides a singular natural instinct in regard to the movements of the stock market.
Trent and the American measured one another coolly with their eyes. Both appeared satisfied with what they saw. 'I was having it explained to me,' said Trent pleasantly, 'that my discovery of a pistol that might have shot Manderson does not amount to very much. I am told it is a favourite weapon among your people, and has become quite popular over here.'
Mr Bunner stretched out a bony hand and took the pistol from its case. 'Yes, sir,' he said, handling it with an air of familiarity; 'the captain is right. This is what we call out home a Little Arthur, and I dare say there are duplicates of it in a hundred thousand hip-pockets this minute. I consider it too light in the hand myself,' Mr Bunner went on, mechanically feeling under the tail of his jacket, and producing an ugly looking weapon. 'Feel of that, now, Mr Trent--it's loaded, by the way. Now this Little Arthur--Marlowe bought it just before we came over this year to please the old man. Manderson said it was ridiculous for a man to be without a pistol in the twentieth century. So he went out and bought what they offered him, I guess--never consulted me. Not but what it's a good gun,' Mr Bunner conceded, squinting along the sights. 'Marlowe was poor with it at first, but I've coached him some in the last month or so, and he's practised until he is pretty good. But he never could get the habit of carrying