“I wasn’t noticing close,” he said. “There should be only four. First one Mex fires; then the other; then the cowboy shoots twice. That’s the way it goes. Four shots.”
“The cowboy must have fired three this afternoon,” said the second detective jocularly. “Guess he figured two wasn’t enough. Eh, Joe?
“If I was him, I’d have given them the works. Well, come on. We belong out in the lobby.”
NOT long after the two detectives had gone, Howard Griscom entered the theater with Babson, the manager. The latter stopped to speak to the usher.
“You got those packages all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come along with me, while we go in the office. Is Mr. Ballantyne still there?”
“He went out and came back, sir. I didn’t see him go out again.”
Babson stopped at the door. He knocked. Receiving no response, he unlocked the door. He entered, then recoiled against Griscom.
Beside the desk lay the body of George Ballantyne, a gaping wound in his forehead! The man had been shot at close range. A single bullet had ended his life!