it?” asked Flynn.
“Outside, on the kitchen porch.”
“It must be pretty big.”
“Damned big,” agreed Wahler. “Damned big noise.”
It took Flynn a moment to realize the naked man to his left was addressing him. “I never had much to do with criminal law.”
“I can tell,” said Flynn.
The naked man carefully placed his napkin on his right thigh. Stew was being ladled into his bowl.
“Have you investigated the scene of the crime?”
“Both,” answered Flynn. “Considerate of your membership to give me a choice.”
Wendell Oland looked regretfully at Flynn as stew was ladled into Flynn’s bowl.
“I’d like to know,” Wendell Oland said, sticking the spoon into his stew, “what bastard shot holes in my new waterproofs.”
Buckingham filled his glass from the keg of beer on its own stand near the kitchen door.
Ashley asked, “What have you detected so far, Flynn?”
Each member at the table had taken a hard roll from a basket handed around.
Next to him, Oland had broken open his roll and was making small bread pellets out of it.
“Dwight Huttenbach was murdered last night at about eleven o’clock in what you call the storage room at The Rod andGun Club. He was standing near the north side of the room when he was shot. The murderer was standing at the south side of the room, near the door to the back corridor of the clubhouse. Possibly, if the door were open, he stood behind the door. In any case, it’s a conjecture at this point that Huttenbach may have opened the door, entered, not closed the door, and not seen his murderer until he walked to the north side of the long room and then turned around. The weapon was a shotgun. Besides putting holes in Mister Oland’s new waterproofs, the blast also blew out two small, high windows, wrecked several cross-country skis, ski parkas and other coats hanging on the far wall.”
“We don’t use ‘Mister’ at The Rod and Gun Club, Flynn,” reminded Rutledge.
“If I were willing to be a member,” answered Flynn, “I’d be willing to obey your rules.”
D’Esopo looked sharply at Flynn. He got up and got himself a beer from the keg.
“What shotgun killed him?” asked Arlington.
“There are several shotguns stored in that room,” answered Flynn. “Fifteen, to be exact.”
“Mostly we keep them for guests,” said Ashley, trying his stew.
Buckingham, too, was making his roll into bread balls.
“Ballistics tests on shotguns aren’t much good,” said Flynn. “Plus, in that storeroom, there are cases of ammunition of various kinds, hunting rifles, various kinds of fishing gear, skis, ice skates, and, one music box.”
“You found my music box?” exclaimed Lauderdale.
“It plays
The Wedding March,”
said Flynn. “From the Second Act of Wagner’s
Lohengrin. Fis
missing.”
“My music box!” Lauderdale clasped his hands in front of his flat chest. “He found my music box! What a detective!”
Beside Lauderdale’s plate was a smashed roll and an assortment of bread balls.
“Then,” said Flynn, “most evidence was criminally destroyed, or altered. The corpse was moved ten or twelve kilometers, and placed outside Timberbreak Lodge. Generally, the scene of the crime was so disturbed there is little reason forexamining it much further. The victim’s personal belongings, as much as I know of them, were also removed to the lodge. Outside the lodge an ersatz scene of crime was carelessly arranged. It is a useless source of evidence. The motel operators, I suspect the local police authority, others, the county coroner, apparently have been bribed into a willingness to give false evidence, to perjure themselves.” After tasting it, Flynn considered his stew a moment. He wondered how anyone could make venison stew so bland. “Quite a catalog of crimes, gentlemen, for such a few short hours.”
“Oh, my,” said Lauderdale. “I just knew I shouldn’t have come this weekend. And my son was so hoping I’d get to his
“Outside, on the kitchen porch.”
“It must be pretty big.”
“Damned big,” agreed Wahler. “Damned big noise.”
It took Flynn a moment to realize the naked man to his left was addressing him. “I never had much to do with criminal law.”
“I can tell,” said Flynn.
The naked man carefully placed his napkin on his right thigh. Stew was being ladled into his bowl.
“Have you investigated the scene of the crime?”
“Both,” answered Flynn. “Considerate of your membership to give me a choice.”
Wendell Oland looked regretfully at Flynn as stew was ladled into Flynn’s bowl.
“I’d like to know,” Wendell Oland said, sticking the spoon into his stew, “what bastard shot holes in my new waterproofs.”
Buckingham filled his glass from the keg of beer on its own stand near the kitchen door.
Ashley asked, “What have you detected so far, Flynn?”
Each member at the table had taken a hard roll from a basket handed around.
Next to him, Oland had broken open his roll and was making small bread pellets out of it.
“Dwight Huttenbach was murdered last night at about eleven o’clock in what you call the storage room at The Rod andGun Club. He was standing near the north side of the room when he was shot. The murderer was standing at the south side of the room, near the door to the back corridor of the clubhouse. Possibly, if the door were open, he stood behind the door. In any case, it’s a conjecture at this point that Huttenbach may have opened the door, entered, not closed the door, and not seen his murderer until he walked to the north side of the long room and then turned around. The weapon was a shotgun. Besides putting holes in Mister Oland’s new waterproofs, the blast also blew out two small, high windows, wrecked several cross-country skis, ski parkas and other coats hanging on the far wall.”
“We don’t use ‘Mister’ at The Rod and Gun Club, Flynn,” reminded Rutledge.
“If I were willing to be a member,” answered Flynn, “I’d be willing to obey your rules.”
D’Esopo looked sharply at Flynn. He got up and got himself a beer from the keg.
“What shotgun killed him?” asked Arlington.
“There are several shotguns stored in that room,” answered Flynn. “Fifteen, to be exact.”
“Mostly we keep them for guests,” said Ashley, trying his stew.
Buckingham, too, was making his roll into bread balls.
“Ballistics tests on shotguns aren’t much good,” said Flynn. “Plus, in that storeroom, there are cases of ammunition of various kinds, hunting rifles, various kinds of fishing gear, skis, ice skates, and, one music box.”
“You found my music box?” exclaimed Lauderdale.
“It plays
The Wedding March,”
said Flynn. “From the Second Act of Wagner’s
Lohengrin. Fis
missing.”
“My music box!” Lauderdale clasped his hands in front of his flat chest. “He found my music box! What a detective!”
Beside Lauderdale’s plate was a smashed roll and an assortment of bread balls.
“Then,” said Flynn, “most evidence was criminally destroyed, or altered. The corpse was moved ten or twelve kilometers, and placed outside Timberbreak Lodge. Generally, the scene of the crime was so disturbed there is little reason forexamining it much further. The victim’s personal belongings, as much as I know of them, were also removed to the lodge. Outside the lodge an ersatz scene of crime was carelessly arranged. It is a useless source of evidence. The motel operators, I suspect the local police authority, others, the county coroner, apparently have been bribed into a willingness to give false evidence, to perjure themselves.” After tasting it, Flynn considered his stew a moment. He wondered how anyone could make venison stew so bland. “Quite a catalog of crimes, gentlemen, for such a few short hours.”
“Oh, my,” said Lauderdale. “I just knew I shouldn’t have come this weekend. And my son was so hoping I’d get to his
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