The Puzzle of the Red Stallion by Stuart Palmer

Author:Stuart Palmer [Palmer, Stuart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784087692
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd
Published: 2013-03-29T21:43:00+00:00

10

Target Practice

THE CAR HAD COME to a stop in the driveway of the Gregg home, and the inspector was frozen half inside and half on the running board. His mouth was unbecomingly open.

Miss Withers blinked at him. “Oscar, what was that?”

“Keep your head down or you’ll find out!” he returned, drawing himself somewhat under cover. “Sounds like a declaration of war to me,” he added.

“Sharpshooting, eh?” Miss Withers peered toward the Gingerbread House in an interested fashion. “But I didn’t hear a shot!”

She heard one now—a sharp spat like the clapping of hands. Again she heard a sharp z-z-zing in the air overhead. This time the aim of the invisible marksman was either worse or infinitely better, for a fat sparrow who had been quarreling noisily with his fellows in the clear air overhead now did a perfect double inside loop and then shot away toward the distant thickets, leaving only a couple of silvery feathers to float lazily down upon the inspector and Miss Withers.

The face of a man presented itself momentarily at a bedroom window and was withdrawn. Piper straightened up, regained his hat.

“Wasn’t shooting at us, after all,” the inspector admitted.

“He had the range closely enough to make me feel uncomfortable,” the schoolteacher returned. “Come on—in the immortal words of the poet, let us storm their redoubt!” She led the way toward the porch of the Gingerbread House and pressed a resolute finger on the bell.

“Somehow,” she observed during the ensuing silence, “somehow, Oscar Piper, I have a feeling we are getting warmer.”

Mrs. Mattie Thomas opened the door and greeted them as long-lost friends. But behind the vast smiles her eyes glinted warily.

“We want to see—” began the inspector, and stopped.

“Say, Hildegarde, who do we want to see?”

“Everyone in the household,” Miss Withers prompted.

“You can’t see Mr. Gregg,” the woman told them. “He’s a lot better, but he can’t see anybody. He even sent out the nurse to say he couldn’t see his own flesh and blood.”

Miss Withers’s eyebrows went up. “Then—his son is here?”

Evidently Mrs. Thomas had made a mistake. “Who? Why—no, ma’am….” She managed another smile. “He was—but he’s gone….”

He hadn’t gone far. Don Gregg was coming down the staircase holding a rusty air rifle in his hand.

“Hello,” he said. “Owe you an apology, I suppose. But I didn’t think anybody would be in the driveway.” He held out the little gun. “Stumbled on this in my closet when I got home a little while ago—haven’t seen it for years. I was practicing shooting out of my bedroom window….”

“You’re quite a good shot with that thing?” Miss Withers hinted.

Young Gregg smiled. “I used to be—but it took two shots to get that sparrow. When I was a kid Thomas would have given me the raspberry if I didn’t do it first crack.”

“Oh—so the efficient Mr. Thomas taught you to shoot?” Miss Withers went on.

“Him?” Gregg laughed shortly. “No, Thomas could never hit anything. Bad eyes or nerves, I don’t know which. He could miss the barn when shooting inside the haymow.

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