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Hartley. Thank you, too, young man." Gutchall put the Luger in his hip pocket, made sure it wouldn't fall out, and took his departure. "You shouldn't have loaded it," Hartley père reproved, when he was gone. Allan sighed. This was it; the masquerade was over. "I had to, to keep you from fooling with it," he said. "I didn't want you finding out that I'd taken out the firing pin." "You what?"
Gutchall fidgeted. "Why, er, I was hoping you'd let me have a little gun." He held his hands about six inches apart. "A pistol, that I could put in my pocket. It wouldn't look right, to carry a hunting gun on the Lord's day; people wouldn't understand that it was for a work of mercy." The lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchall's religious beliefs, the objection made sense.
"I didn't want us to lose it, this time, and I didn't want to see you lose face around City Hall. Gutchalls, of course, are expendable," Allan said. "But my main reason for fixing Frank Gutchall up with a padded cell was that I wanted to know whether or not the future could be altered. I have it on experimental authority that it can be.
"Gutchall didn't want that gun to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He meant to shoot his wife with it. He's a religious maniac; sees visions, hears voices, receives revelations, talks with the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost probably put him up to this caper.
I couldn't have told them, 'This is little Allan Hartley, just thirteen years old; please, Mr. Policeman, go and arrest Frank Gutchall before he goes root-toot-toot at his wife with my pappa's Luger. That would have gone over big, now, wouldn't it?" "And suppose he really wants to shoot a dog; what sort of a mess will I be in?" "No mess at all.
Finding Gutchall's address in the directory, he lifted the telephone, and stretched his handkerchief over the mouthpiece. Then he dialed Police Headquarters. "This is Blake Hartley," he lied, deepening his voice and copying his father's tone. "Frank Gutchall, who lives at...take this down" he gave Gutchall's address "has just borrowed a pistol from me, ostensibly to shoot a dog. He has no dog.
The approaching visitor was a tall man in a rumpled black suit; he had knobby wrists and big, awkward hands; black hair flecked with gray, and a harsh, bigoted face. Allan remembered him. Frank Gutchall. Lived on Campbell Street; a religious fanatic, and some sort of lay preacher. Maybe he needed legal advice; Allan could vaguely remember some incident "Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Gutchall.
We'll take care of it. Thanks." "And I wish you'd get my pistol back, as soon as you can. It's something I brought home from the other War, and I shouldn't like to lose it." "We'll take care of that, too. Thank you, Mr. Hartley." He hung up, and carried the Luger and the loaded clip down to the porch. "Look, Mr. Gutchall; here's how it works," he said, showing it to the visitor.
Lovely day, isn't it?" Blake Hartley said. Gutchall cleared his throat. "Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me a gun and some bullets," he began, embarrassedly. "My little dog's been hurt, and it's suffering something terrible. I want a gun, to put the poor thing out of its pain." "Why, yes; of course. How would a 20-gauge shotgun do?" Blake Hartley asked. "You wouldn't want anything heavy."
Gutchall talked the .38 officers' model out of you, and gone home; he'd shot his wife four times through the body, finished her off with another one back of the ear, and then used his sixth shot to blast his brains out. The cops traced the gun; they took a very poor view of your lending it to him. You never got it back." "Trust that gang to keep a good gun," the lawyer said.
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