The Devil's Opera(151)

No customers yet. Not surprising; a gun shop, after all, would not be swarmed with customers. He’d made allowance for that in his plans. It would take some time for his clientele to build to the point where his shop would be sustained. The question was whether his money would last until that point. He shrugged. That was up to Jesus, Mary, and the saints. With maybe a little help from a certain scrawny Hungarian.

He was in the back savoring his morning cup of coffee when the bell on the front door rang. “Just a moment,” he called out. Not wanting to appear too eager, he finished the cup in one slow draft, then turned and went back into the sales room.

Ah. A merchant.

Farkas made a lightning assessment of the man. Middling height, somewhat blocky, florid face. Clothes pushed the edge of the old sumptuary laws, but were not flashy. Well trimmed beard. Large gold ring on his right hand. All in all, the most affluent customer Miklos had seen for weeks.

“And what kind of pistol are you looking for today, master? I carry only the best, the finest of pistols, all made by the masters of Hockenjoss and Klott in Suhl.”

The merchant said nothing. Farkas affected not to notice his silence. The man might just be curious, or someone who moved on impulse. It happened, even in the gun trade. He prattled on as he pulled a light wooden case out and set it on top of the counter.

“Take this one, now. This is a Model Forty-Four revolver.” Miklos picked it up and showed it to the merchant from various angles. It was a sizable gun, and it seemed to intrigue the man. He stepped closer.

“Six shot, cap and ball. A guaranteed man-stopper, master. Six-shot cylinder, as I said…”

Miklos let his spiel flow on, but he could tell from a slight crease in the forehead that the merchant had been repulsed by the “man-stopper” comment. After a moment, Miklos set the pistol back in its case.

“But perhaps that is too obtrusive for the master. Something smaller, yes, that might be best.” He brought another case from under the counter, dark walnut this time, set it beside the first, and folded the lid back to reveal a smaller, neater pistol.

“Behold the Model Thirty-Two.”

Again Miklos picked the pistol up and held it in the light, making his pitch. This one seemed to look a little better to the merchant—the forehead crease was gone—but he still wasn’t caught, looking around the store and obviously thinking about leaving.

Miklos let his mouth carry the routine speech about the gun, while he continued to measure the customer. He was concerned about something or someone. Look at the way his shoulders were tightened, almost hunched. Miklos was sure of it. So why wasn’t the man jumping at the protection the pistol could offer?

Ah, of course. Still too big.

“But,” Miklos said with emphasis as he laid the second pistol back in its case, “perhaps the master wants something that is not obtrusive at all, something that is, shall we say, discreet.”

The two cases were pushed to either side, and a third case was pulled out and set between them. It was covered in black leather, and opened to reveal something that this time caught the merchant’s eye. His hand reached out and picked up the pistol almost without his thinking of it.

Got you!

Miklos suppressed his smile with the skill of a trained merchant, without even thinking about it.

“See how light it is, master, and how it nestles in your hand? It is the most unobtrusive of weapons, yet it uses the same thirty-two-caliber ball as its larger brother here.”

He rested a hand on the other .32 for a moment.

“Very discreet, no one would ever realize one was carrying it, yet the perfect thing to have in one’s pocket if one were accosted.”

Miklos paused for just a moment. It really was a pretty design, very striking in its lines. The customer couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“May I?”

Miklos took the pistol back from the man only long enough to show him how to hold it, then handed it back to him.

“Pull the trigger, master. Slowly, don’t jerk it.”

Click.

Miklos almost laughed at the way the man’s eyes lit up.

“How…how much?”

Miklos shifted into closing mode, and the ensuring bargaining was lively; to be expected, when dealing with a merchant. But it didn’t take long for him to bring about the sale, and at a tidy profit.

Then, of course, he had to spend a few minutes showing the new owner how to load and care for his weapon.

“Good day to you, master,” he called out when the man left. And as the bell on the door jangled, he realized he had never gotten the man’s name. How had he managed to forget that? Or was the merchant really a very sly man, to keep that information hidden?