I looked at it carefully. “I think it’s the same gun. Of course, I didn’t take down the serial number. But as nearly as I can tell—”
Hale said, “Why, Lam! Of course it’s the gun. You know that.”
“I think — well, it looks—”
Pellingham said, “Here, put your initials on it.” He handed me his knife.
Bertha was looking from the gun to me. Her face was a study. Hale was beaming.
Pellingham said, “Now you’ve identified that gun. Don’t go back on that identification, and don’t let any shyster lawyer mix you up when he comes to the cross-examination.”
The loud-speaker blared, “Telegram for Lieutenant Pellingham of New Orleans police force. Inquire at the ticket office. Lieutenant, please.”
Pellingham said, “Excuse me,” and closed the Gladstone. He went to the ticket window.
Hale said, “I’m glad you identified that gun. Lam. We should have taken the serial number when we first found it.”
Bertha said, “I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Donald.”