Time and Time Again | Page 5

it back as soon as possible. I'll get it for you."
Before he could rise, Allan was on his feet.
"Sit still, Dad; I'll get it. I know where the cartridges are." With that, he darted into the
house and upstairs.
The Luger hung on the wall over his father's bed. Getting it down, he dismounted it,
working with rapid precision. He used the blade of his pocketknife to unlock the endpiece
of the breechblock, slipping out the firing pin and buttoning it into his shirt pocket. Then
he reassembled the harmless pistol, and filled the clip with 9-millimeter cartridges from
the bureau drawer.
There was an extension telephone beside the bed. Finding Gutchall's address in the
directory, he lifted the telephone, and stretched his handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
Then he dialed Police Headquarters.
[Illustration]
"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. He intends shooting his wife.
Don't argue about how I know; there isn't time. Just take it for granted that I do. I
disabled the pistol--took out the firing pin--but if he finds out what I did, he may get
some other weapon. He's on his way home, but he's on foot. If you hurry, you may get a
man there before he arrives, and grab him before he finds out the pistol won't shoot."
"O. K., Mr. Hartley. 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. Then he
slapped in the clip and yanked up on the toggle loading the chamber. "It's ready to shoot,
now; this is the safety." He pushed it on. "When you're ready to shoot, just shove it
forward and up, and then pull the trigger. You have to pull the trigger each time; it's

loaded for eight shots. And be sure to put the safety back when you're through shooting."
"Did you load the chamber?" Blake Hartley demanded.
"Sure. It's on safe, now."
"Let me see." His father took the pistol, being careful to keep his finger out of the trigger
guard, and looked at it. "Yes, that's all right." He repeated the instructions Allan had
given, stressing the importance of putting the safety on after using. "Understand how it
works, now?" he asked.
"Yes, I understand how it works. Thank you, Mr. 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 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'll submit that any
man who holds long conversations with the Deity isn't to be trusted with a gun, and
neither is any man who lies about why he wants one. And while I was at it, I called the
police, on the upstairs phone. I had to use your name; I deepened my voice and talked
through a handkerchief."
"You--" Blake Hartley jumped as though bee-stung. "Why did you have to do that?"
"You know why. 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. If I'm wrong--which I'm not--I'll take the thump for it, myself. It'll pass
for a dumb kid trick, and nothing'll be done. But if I'm right, you'll have to front for me.
They'll keep your name out of it, but they'd give me a lot of cheap boy-hero publicity,
which I don't want." He picked up his pencil again. "We should have the complete returns
in about twenty