Taylor at this point intimated that morgues had never entered into his life and he hoped they never would. Campbell was entirely willing to excuse him from further participation in the night’s wanderings. The ex-ranger and Detective Graney, presently, were viewing the body of the reckless and once handsome Oklahoma Kid, awaiting the official autopsy that would take place in the morning.
At his first glance, the Texan spoke with relief.
“Yes,” he said. “There ain’t any doubt about his being shot from behind. I was afraid some mistake had been made about that and if it had been done from in front, it might ’a’ been a fight. Where’s the bullet?”
“We never found it,” Graney said. “The killing, you see, was out of doors. In that alley that leads up to the side door of the Monaco Cabaret.”
“I hope it gets found. Because I’m sure Curly Bratton ha’n’t got any gun except a .45. All the pistols in our outfit are that caliber. And there ain’t any way of proving it without that piece of lead, because bullets don’t always act just the same in all cases—but I’d gamble the best hawse I’ve got that this hole wasn’t made by any Colt. Looks to me as if it was too small going in and too big coming out. When you find that bullet, if it isn’t busted so its weight don’t prove anything, I’m sayin’ it’ll be a .38 at the biggest, and perhaps a .32.”
His eyes fell upon the pile of clothing that had been stripped from the body.
“Say, Mr. Graney!” he demanded. “Are you sure all these clothes were Marling’s?”
“Bound to be,” the detective said. “The system they’ve got here, there’s no chance of a mix-up.”
“I took ’em off him myself,” put in the morgue attendant who accompanied them. “Don’t touch ’em. The coroner ain’t looked ’em over yet.”