 8 Pre-dinner cocktails in the library seemed to be a sort of household right. He self-imposed truce of back-us before the resumption of hostilities in the dining room. It lasted from 6.45 to 7. Everybody sipped Manhattan's and kept quiet and listened to the radio newscast. The only new face to Rand was Fred Dunmore's. It was a smooth, pinkly-shaven face decorated with octagonal rimless glasses, an entirely unremarkable face, the face of the type that used to be labeled Babbitt. The corner of Rand's mind that handled such data subconsciously filed his description, 45 to 50, 180, 5 feet 8, hair brown and thinning, eyes blue. To this he added the Rotarian button on the lapel and the small gold globule on the watch chain that testified that when his age and weight had been considerably less, Dunmore had played on somebody's basketball team. At that time he had probably belonged to the YMCA and had thought that Mussolini was doing a splendid job in Italy, that H. L. Menken ought to be deported to Russia and that prohibition was here to stay. At company sales meetings he probably radiated an hour of synthetic good fellowship. As Rand followed Walters down the spiral from the gun room, the radio commercial was just starting and Geraldine was asking Dunmore where Anton was. Oh, you know Dunmore told her impatiently. He had to go to Lewisburg to that medical association meeting. He's reading a paper about the new diabetic ration. He broke off as Rand approached and was introduced by Gladys, who handed both men their cocktails. Then the news commentator greeted them out of the radio and everybody absorbed the day's news along with their Manhattan's. After the broadcast they all crossed the hall to the dining room, where hostilities began almost before the soup was cool enough to taste. I don't see why you women had to do this, Dunmore huffed. Lewis had made us a fair offer, bringing in an outsider will only give him the impression that we lack confidence in him. Well, won't that be just too, too bad, Geraldine slashed at him? We mustn't ever hurt dear Mr. River's feelings like that. Let him have the collection for half what it's worth, but never, never let him think we know what a goddamn crook he is. Dunmore evidently didn't think that worth dignifying with an answer. Because he expected Nelda to launch a counteroffensive as a matter of principle. If he did he was disappointed. Well, Nelda demanded, what did you want us to do, give the collection away? You don't understand, Dunmore told her. You probably heard somebody say what the collection's worth and you never stopped to realize that it's only worth that to a dealer who can sell it item by item. We expect a lot more than ten thousand dollars, Nelda retorted. In fact, we can expect more than that from Rivers. Colonel Rand was talking to Rivers this afternoon. Colonel Rand doesn't have any confidence in Rivers at all and he doesn't care who knows it. You were talking to Arnold Rivers this afternoon about the collection? Dunmore demanded of Rand. That's right, Rand confirmed. I told him his ten thousand dollar offer was a joke. Stephen Gresham and his friends can top that out of one pocket. Finally he got around to admitting that he's willing to pay up to twenty-five thousand. I don't believe it, Dunmore exclaimed angrily. Rivers told me personally that neither he nor any other dealer could hope to handle that collection profitably at more than ten thousand. And you believe that, Nelda demanded. And you're a business man? My God! He's probably a good one as long as he sticks to pancake flour, Geraldine was generous enough to concede, but about guns he barely knows which end the bullet comes out. Ten thousand was probably his idea of what we'd think the pistols were worth. Dunmore ignored that and turned to Rand. Did Arnold Rivers actually tell you he'd pay twenty-five thousand dollars for the collection? He asked. I can't believe that he'd raise his own offer like that. He didn't raise his offer. I threw it out and told him to make one that would be taken seriously. Rand repeated as closely as he could his conversation with the arms dealer. When he had finished, Dunmore was frowning and puzzled this pleasure. And you think he's actually willing to pay that much? Yes, I do. If he handles them right, he can double his money on the pistols inside of five years. I doubt if you realize how valuable those pistols are. You probably defined Mr. Fleming's collection as a hobby and therefore something not to be taken seriously. And aside from the actual profit, the prestige of handling this collection would be worth a good deal to Rivers as advertising. I haven't the least doubt that he can raise the money or that he's willing to pay it. Dunmore was still frowning. Maybe he hated being proved wrong in front of the women of the family. Do you think Gresham and his friends will offer enough to force him to pay the full amount? Rand laughed and told him to stop being naive. He's done that himself and what's more, he knows it. When he told me he was willing to go as high as twenty-five thousand, he fixed the price. Unless somebody offers more, which isn't impossible. But maybe he's just bluffing. Dunmore seemed to be following Gwyneth's line of thought. After he's bluffed Gresham's crowd out, maybe he'll go back to his original ten-thousand offer. Fred, please stop talking about that ten-thousand dollars, Geraldine interrupted. How much did Rivers actually tell you he'd pay? Twenty-five thousand like he did Colonel Rand? Dunmore turned in his chair angrily. Now look here, he shouted. There's a limit to what I've got to take from you. He stopped short as Nelda, beside him, moved slightly and his words ended in something that sounded like a smothered moan. Rand suspected that she had kicked her husband painfully under the table. Then Walters came in with the meat-course, and firing ceased until the butler had retired. By the way, Rand tossed into the conversational vacuum that followed his exit. Does anybody know anything about a record Mr. Fleming kept of his collection? Why, no, can't say I do, Dunmore replied promptly, evidently grateful for the change of subject. You mean like an inventory? Oh, Fred, you do, Nelda told him impatiently. You know that big gray book father kept all his pistols entered in? It was a gray ledger with a black leather back, Gladys said. He kept it in a little bookcase over the workbench in the gun room. I'll look for it, Rand said. Sure it's still there? It would be a big help to me. The rest of the dinner passed in relative tranquility. The conversation proceeded in fairly safe channels. Dunmore was anxious to avoid any further reference to the sum of ten thousand dollars. When Gladys introduced Rand to talk about his military experiences, he lapsed into preoccupied silence. Several times Geraldine and Nelda aimed half-hearted feline swipes at one another, more out of custom than present and active rancor. The women seemed to have erected a temporary tree-partee, on Tom more or less cordial. Finally the meal ended and the diners drifted away from the table. Rand went to his room for a few moments, then went to the gun room to get the notes he had made. Fred Dunmore was using the private phone as he entered. Well, never mind about that now, he was saying. We'll talk about it when I see you. Yes, of course. So am I. Well, say about eleven. Have you seen you? He hung up and turned to Rand. More goddamn union trouble, he said. It's enough to make a saint lose his religion. Our factory hands are organized in the CIO, and our warehouse, sales, and shipping personnel are in the AF of L. And if they aren't fighting the company, they're fighting each other. Now they have some damn kind of jurisdictional dispute. I don't know what this country's coming to. He glared angrily through his octagonal glasses for a moment. Then his voice took on an ingratiating note. Look here, Colonel. I just didn't understand the situation, until you explained it. I hope you aren't taking anything that sister-in-law of mine said seriously. She just splurts out the first thing that comes into her so-called mind. While only yesterday she was accusing Gladys of bringing you into this to help her gyp the rest of us. And before that—oh, forget it. I didn't dismiss Geraldine with a shrug. I know she was talking through a highball glass. As far as selling the collection is concerned, you'd just let Rivers sell you a bill of something you hadn't gotten a good look at. He's a smart operator, and he's crooked as a wagonload of black snakes. Maybe you never realized just how much money Fleming put into this collection. Naturally, you wouldn't realize how much could be gotten out of it again. A lot of this stuff has been here quite a while, and antiques of any kind tend to increase in value. Well, I want you to know that I'm just as glad as anybody if you can get a better price out of him than I could. Dunmore smiled ruefully. I guess he's just a better poker player than I am. Not necessarily. He could see your hand, and you couldn't see his, Rand told him. You going to see Gresham and his friends this evening, Dunmore asked. Well, when you get back, if you find four cars in the garage, counting the station wagon, lock up after you've put your own car away. If you find only three, then you'll know that Anton Varsik's still out, so leave it open for him. That's the way we do here. Last one in locks up. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Murder in the Gun Room. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Murder in the Gun Room by H.Beam Piper. Chapter 9. Then found another car, a smoke-gray Plymouth coupe, standing on the left of his Lincoln when he went down to the garage. Running his car outside and down to the highway, he settled down to his regular style of driving. A barely legal 50 miles per hour punctuated by bursts of absolutely felonious speed whenever he found an unobstructed straightway. Entering Rosemont, he slowed and went through the underpass at the railroad tracks, speeding again when he was clear of the village. A few minutes later he was turning into the crushed limestone drive that led up to the buff-brick Gresham House. A girl met him at the door, a cute little redhead in a red-striped dress who gave him a smile that seemed to start on the bridge of her nose and lift her whole face up after it. She held out her hand to him. "'Colonel Rand,' she exclaimed, "'I'll bet you don't remember me.' "'Sure I do, your dot,' Rand said. "'At least I think you are. The last time I saw you you were in pigtails, and you were only about so high,' he measured with his hand. "'The last time I was here you were away at school. You must be old enough to vote by now.' "'I will this fall,' she replied. "'Come on in, you're the first one here. Daddy hasn't gotten back from town yet.' He called and said he'd be delayed till about nine.' In the hall she took his hat and coat and guided him toward the parlor on the right. "'Oh, mother,' she called, "'here's Colonel Rand.'" Rand remembered Irene Gresham, too, an overaged dizzy blonde who was still living in the flaming youth era of the twenties. She was an extremely good egg. He liked her very much. After all, insisting upon remaining in F. Scott's Gerald character was a harmless and amusing foible, and it was no more than right that somebody should try to keep the bright banner of Jazz Age innocence flying in a grim and sullen world. He accepted a cigarette, shared the flame of his lighter with mother and daughter, and submitted to being gushed over. "'And honestly, Jeff, you get handsomer every year,' Irene Gresham rattled on. "'Dah, doesn't he look just like Clark Gable on Gone with the Wind? But then, of course, Jeff really is a southerner, so... The doorbell interrupted this slight non-sequitur. She broke off, rising. "'Sit still, Jeff, I'm going to see who it is. You know, we're down to only one servant now, and it seems as if it's always her night off or something. I don't know, honestly, what I'm going to do,' she hurried out of the room. Voices sounded in the hall, a man and the girls. "'That's Pierre and Karen,' Dodd said. "'Let's all go up in the gun room and wait for the others there.'" They went out to meet the newcomers. The man was a few inches shorter than Rand, with gray eyes that looked startlingly light against the dark brown of his face. He wasn't using a cane, but he walked with a slight limp. Beside him was a slender girl, almost as tall as he was, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. She wore rust-brown sweater and a brown skirt, and low-heeled walking shoes. Irene Gresham went into the introductions. The newcomers shook hands with Rand, and were advised that the style of address was Jeff, rather than Colonel Rand. And then Dodd suggested going up to the gun room. Irene Gresham said she'd stay downstairs. She'd have to let the others in. "'Have you seen this collection before?' Pierre Jauré inquired as he and Rand went upstairs together. "'About two years ago,' Rand said. Stephen had just gotten a cased dueling set by Wilkinson then. From the far west hobby shop, I think. "'Oh, he's gotten a lot of new stuff since then, and sold off about a dozen culls and duplicates,' the former Rand said. "'I'll show you what's new, till the others come.' They reached the head of the stairs and started down the hall to the gun room in the wing that projected out over the garage. Along the way the girls detached themselves for nose-powdering. Unlike the room at the Fleming House, Stephen Gresham's gun room had originally been something else—a nursery or a playroom or a party room. There were windows on both long sides which considerably reduced the available wall space, and the situation wasn't helped any by the fact that the collection was about 30% long arms. Things were pretty badly crowded. Most of the rifles and muskets were in circular barracks racks, away from the walls. "'Here, this one's new since you were here,' Pierre said, picking a long musket from one of the racks and handing it to Rand. "'How do you like this one?' Rand took it and whistled appreciatively. "'Real European matchlock? No, I never saw that. Looks like North Italians, say, fifteen seventy-five to about sixteen hundred.' "'That musket,' Pierre informed him, came over on the Mayflower. "'Really? Or just a gag?' Rand asked. "'It easily could have.' The Mayflower company bought their muskets in Holland from some seventeenth-century forerunner of Bannermans, and Europe was full of muskets like this then, left over from the wars of the Holy Roman Empire and the French religious wars. "'Yes. I suppose all their muskets were obsolete types for the period,' Pierre agreed. "'Well, that's a real Mayflower arm. Stephen has the documentation for it. It came from the Charles Wintherup Sawyer collection. And there were only three ownership changes between the last owner and the Mayflower company. Stephen only paid a hundred dollars for it, too. "'That was practically stealing,' Rand said. He carried the musket to the light and examined it closely. Nice condition, too. I wouldn't be afraid to fire this with a full charge right now.' He handed the weapon back. "'He didn't lose a thing on that deal. I should say not. I'd give him two hundred for it any time. Even without the history, it's worth that. "'Who buys history anyhow?' Rand wanted to know. The fact that it came from the Sawyer collection adds more value to it than this Mayflower business. Past ownership by a recognized authority, like Sawyer, is a real guarantee of quality and authenticity. But history, documented or otherwise, hell, only yesterday I saw a pair of pistols with a wonderful 350-year documented history. Only not a word of it was true. The pistols were made about 20 years ago. "'Those wheel-locks Fleming bought from modern old rivers?' Pierre asked. "'God, wasn't that a crime? I'll bet Rivers bought himself a big drink when Lane Fleming was killed.' Fleming was all set to hang Rivers' scalp in his wigwam. But with Stephen, the history does count for something. As you probably know, he collects arms types that figured in American history. Well, he can prove that this individual musket was brought over by the pilgrims. So he can be sure it's an example of the type they used. But he'd sooner have a typical pilgrim musket that never was within 5,000 miles of Plymouth Rock than a non-typical arm brought over as a personal weapon by one of the Mayflower Company. Oh, none of us are really interested in the individual history of collection weapons, Rand said. You show me a collection that's full of known history arms and I'll show you a collection that's either full of junk or else costs three times what it's worth. And you show me a collector who blows money on history. And nine times out of 10, I'll show you a collector who doesn't know guns. I saw one such collection once. Every item had its history neatly written out on a tag and hung onto the trigger guard. The owner thought that the patent dates on colts were model dates and the model dates on French military arms were dates of fabrication. Pierre wrinkled his nose disgustedly. God, I hate to see a collection all fouled up with tags hung on things. He said we're stuck over with gums labels. That's even worse. Once in a while, I get something with the label pasted on it, usually on the stock. And after I get it off, there's a job getting the wood under it rubbed up to the same color as the rest of the stock. Yes, I picked up a lovely little rifle flintlock pistol once, Rand said. American full length curly maple stock, really a Kentucky rifle in pistol form. Whoever had owned it before me had pasted a slip of paper on the underside of the stock between the trigger guard and the lower ramrod thimble with a lot of crap, mostly erroneous, typed on it. It took me six months to remove the last traces of where that thing had been stuck on. What do you collect or don't you specialize? Pistols. I try to get the best possible specimens of the most important types. Special emphasis on British arms after 1700 and American arms after 1800. What I'm interested in is the evolution of the pistol. I have a couple of wheel locks to start with and three Miguelette locks and an Italian snap haunts. Then I have a few early flintlocks and a number of mid 18th century types and some late flint locks and percussion types and about 20 Colts and so on through percussion revolvers and early cartridge types to some modern arms, including a few World War II arms. I see, about the same idea Lane Fleming had, Pierre said. I collect personal combat arms, firearms and edge weapons. Arms that either influenced fighting techniques or were developed to meet special combat conditions. From what you say, you're mainly interested in the way firearms were designed and made. I'm interested in the conditions under which they were used. And Adam Treehearn, who'll be here shortly, collects pistols and a few long arms and wheel lock, proto-flint lock and early flint lock to 1700. And Philip Cabot collects US Marshals, flint lock to automatic and also enemy and allied army weapons from all of our wars. And Colin McBride collects nothing but Colts. On how a Scott who's only been in this country 20 years should be interested in so distinctively American a type. And I collect anything I can sell at a profit from Chinese Matlocks to Tommy Guns. Karen Lawrence interjected, coming into the room with Doc Gresham. Pierre Grind. Karen is practically a unique specimen herself, the only general antique dealer I've ever seen who doesn't hate the sight of a gun collector. That's only because I'm crazy enough to want to marry one, the girl dealer replied. Of all the miserly unscrupulous grasping characters, she expressed a doubt that the average gun collector would pay more than 10 cents to see his lord and savior riding to Hounds on a brand carrier. They don't give a hoot who's grandfather owned wood and if anything's battered up a little, they don't think it looks quaint, they think it looks lousy and they've never heard of inflation. They think arms ought still to sell for the sort of prices they brought at the old Mark Field sale back in 1911. What are you looking at? Dodd asks Rand, then glanced at the musket in Pierre's hands. Oh, Priscilla, Karen laughed. Dodd not only knows everything in the collection, she knows it by name. Dodd, show Colonel Rand, Hester Prynne. Hester, coming up, Gresham's daughter said, catching another musket out of the same rack from which Pierre had gotten the matchlock and passing it over to Rand. He grasped the heavy piece, approving of the easy instinctive way in which the girl had handled it. Look on the barrel, she told him. On top, right at the breach. The gun was a flintlock, or rather a doglock. Sure enough, stamped on the breach was the big A of the Company of Workmen Armourers of London, the 17th Century Gunmakers Guild. That's right, he nodded. That's Hester Prynne, all right, the first American girl to make her letter. There were footsteps in the hall outside and male voices. Adam and Colin, Pierre recognized them before they entered. Both men were past 50. Colin McBride was a six-foot black highlander, black eyes, black hair, and a black weeping willow mustache from under which a stubby pipe jutted. Except when he emptied it of ashes and refilled it, it was a permanent fixture of his weather-beaten face. Treehorn was somewhat shorter and fair. His sandy mustache, beginning to turn gray at the edges, was clipped to micrometric exactness. They shook hands with Rand, who set Hester back in her place. Treehorn took the matchlock out of Pierre's hand and looked at it wistfully. Some chaps have all the luck, he commented. What do you think of it, Mr. Rand? Pierre, who had made the introductions, had respected the detective's present civilian status. Or don't you collect long arms? I don't collect them, but I'm interested in anything that'll shoot. That's a good one. Those things are scarce, too. Yes, you'll find a hundred wheel locks for every matchlock, and yet there must have been a hundred matchlocks for every wheel lock. Matchlocks were cheap and wheel locks were expensive, McBride suggested. He spoke with a faintest trace of Highland accent. Naturally, they got better care. It would take a scot to think of that, Karen said. Now, you take a scot who collects guns and you have something. That's only a part of it, Rand said. I believe that by the last quarter of the 17th century, most of the matchlocks that were lying around had been scrapped and the barrels used in making flint locks. Hester Prynne, over there, could easily have started her career as a matchlock. And then a great many matchlocks went into the West African slave and ivory trade and were promptly ruined by the natives. Yes, and I seem to recall having seen Spanish and French migulet muskets that looked as though they had been altered directly from matchlocks. Retaining the original stock and even the original lock plate, Treehearn added. So have I come to think of it, Rand stole a glance at his wristwatch. It was nine-five. He was wishing Stephen Gresham would put in an appearance. McBride and Treehearn joined Pierre and the girls in showing him Gresham's collection. Evidently, they all knew it almost as well as their own. After a while, Irene Gresham ushered in Philip Cabot. He too was past middle age, with prematurely white hair and a thin scholarly face. According to Hollywood typecasting, he might have been a professor or a judge or a Boston brahmin, but never stockbroker. Irene Gresham wanted to know what everybody wanted to drink. Rand wanted bourbon in plain water. McBride voted for Jamaican rum. Treehearn and Cabot favored Brandy and soda. And Pierre and the girls wanted Bacardi and Coca-Cola. And Stephen will want rye and soda when it gets here, Irene said. Come on, girls, let's rustle up the drinks. Before they returned, Stephen Gresham came in lighting a cigar. It was just nine-twenty-two. Well, I see everybody's here, he said. No, where's Karen? Pierre told them. A few minutes later, the women returned carrying the bottles and glasses. When the flurry of drink mixing had subsided, they all sat down. Let's get the business over first, Gresham suggested. I suppose you've gone over the collection already, Jeff? Yes, and first of all, I want to know something. When was the last that any of you saw it? Gresham and Pierre had been in Fleming's gun room just two days before the fatal accident. And can you tell me if the big Whitneyville cult was still there then? Rand asked. Or the Rappahannock Forge or the Collier Flintlock or the Hall? Why, of course. My God, aren't they there now? Gresham demanded. Rand shook his head. And if Fleming still had them two days before he was killed, then somebody's been weeding out the collection since. Doing it very cleverly, too, he added. You know how that stuff's arranged and how conspicuous a missing pistol would be. Well, when I was going over the collection, I found about two dozen pieces of the most utter trash. Things lain Fleming wouldn't have allowed in the house, all hanging where some really good item ought to have been. He took a paper from his pocket and read off a list of the dubious items, interpolating comments on the condition and a list of the real rarities which Gresham had mentioned the day before, which were now missing. All that good stuff was there the last time I saw the collection, Gresham said. What do you say, Pierre? I had the haul pistol in my hands, Pierre said, and I remember looking at the Rappahannock Forge. Chiehern broke in to ask how many English dog locks there were, and if the Snap Haunts, Highlander, and the Big All steel wheel lock were still there. At the same time, Cabot was inquiring about the Springfield 1818 and the Virginia Manufactory pistols. I'll have a complete itemized list in a few days, Rand said. In the meantime, I'd like a couple of you to look at the collection and help me decide what's missing. I'm going to try to catch the thief and then get at the fence through them. Think Rivers might have gotten the pistols? Gresham asked. He's the crookedest dealer I know of. He's the crookedest dealer anybody knows of, Rand amended. The only thing, he's a little too anxious to buy the collection for somebody who's just skimmed off the cream. Ten thousand dollars isn't much in the way of anxiety, Cabot said. I call that a nominal bid to avoid suspicion. The dopes changed a little on that. Rand brought him up to date. Rivers' offer is now twenty-five thousand. There is a stunned hush followed by a gust of exclamations. Get Lord! The Scots accent fairly curdled on Colin McBride's tongue. We cannot go over that! I'm afraid not. Twenty would be about our limit, Gresham agreed, and with the best items gone, he shrugged. Pierre and Karen were looking at each other in blank misery. Their dream of establishing themselves in the arms business had blown up in their faces. Oh, he's talking through his hat, Cabot declared. He just hopes he will lose interest, and then he'll buy what's left of the collection for a song. Maybe he knows the collection's been robbed, tree heron suggested. That would let him out later. He'd accuse you or the Fleming estate of holding out the best pieces, and then offer to take what's left for about five thousand. Well, that would be presuming that he knows the collection has been robbed, Cabot pointed out, and the only way he'd know that would be if he himself had bought the stolen pistols. Well, does anybody need a chaser to swallow that, tree heron countered? I'm bloody sure I don't. Karen learned shook her head. No, he'd pay twenty-five thousand for the collection just as it stands to keep Pierre and me out of the arms business. This end of the state couldn't support another arms dealer, and with the reputation he's made for himself, he'd be the one to go under. She stubbed out her cigarette and finished her drink. If you don't mind, Pierre, I think I'll go home. I'm not feeling very festive myself right now. The ex-marine rose and held out his hand to Rand. Don't get the idea, Jeff, that anybody here holds this against you. You have your client's interest to look out for. Well, if this be treason, make the most of it, Rand said, but I hope Rivers doesn't go through with it. I'd like to see you people get the collection, and I'd hate to see a lot of nice pistols like that get into the hands of a damned swindler like Rivers. Maybe I can catch him with the hot goods on him and send him up for about three to five. Oh, he's too smart for that, Karen despaired. He can get away with faking, but the dumbest jury in the world would know what receiving stolen goods was, and he knows it. Dorothy and Irene Gresham accompanied Pierre and Karen downstairs. After they had gone, Gresham tried, not very successfully, to interject more life into the party with another round of drinks. For a while they discussed the personal and commercial inequities of Arnold Rivers. Tree Hearn and McBride, who had come together in the latter's car, left shortly, and half an hour later Philip Cabot rose and announced that he too was leaving. You haven't seen my collection since before the war, Jeff, you said. If you are not sleepy, why don't you stop at my place and see what's new? You were staying at the Flemmings. My house is along your way about a mile on the other side of the railroad. They went out and got into their cars. Rand kept Cabot's taillight in sight until the broker swung into his drive and put his car in the garage. Rand parked beside the road, took the leech and rigged in out of the glove box, and got out, slipping the Confederate revolver under his trouser band. He was pulling down his vest to cover the button as he went up the walk and joined his friend at the front door. Cabot's combination library and gun room was on the first floor. Like Rand's own collection, his collection was hung on racks over low bookcases on either side of the room. It was strictly a collector's collection, intensely specialized. There were all but a few of the U.S. regulation's single-shot pistols, a fair representation of secondary types, most of the revolvers of the Civil War, and all the later revolvers and automatics. In addition, there were British pistols of the Revolution and 1812, Confederate revolvers, a couple of Spanish revolvers of 1898, the Lugers and Mausers and Stairs of the First World War, and the pistols of all our allies beginning with the French weapons of the Revolution. I'm having the Devil's own time filling in for this last war, Cabot said. I have a Wandaad running in the Rifleman, and I've gotten a few, that Nambu and that Japanese Model 14, and the Polish Radom and the Italian Glicenti and that Takarov, and of course the P-38 and the Canadian Browning, but it's going to take the Devil's own time. I hope nobody starts another war for a few years till I can get caught up on the last one. Rand was looking at the Confederate revolvers, Griswold and Greer, Heyman Brothers, Tucker and Chirad, Dance Brothers and Park Spiller and Burr. There it was, Leech and Rigdon. He tapped it on the cylinder with a finger. Wasn't it one of those things that killed Lane Fleming, he asked? Leech and Rigdon? So I'm told. Cabot hesitated. Jeff, I saw that revolver, not four hours before Fleming was shot, had it in my hands, looked it over carefully. He shook his head. It absolutely was not loaded. It was empty, and there was rust in the chambers. Then how the hell did he get shot, Rand wanted to know? That I couldn't say. I'm only telling you how he didn't get shot. Here, this is how it was. It was a Thursday and I'd come half way out from town before I remembered that I hadn't bought a copy of time. So I stopped at Biddle's drugstore in the village, for one. Just as I was getting into my car, outside Lane Fleming drove up and saw me. He blew his horn at me and then waved to me with the revolver in his hand. I went over and looked at it, and he told me he'd found it hanging back at the counter at a barbecue stand, where the road from Rosemond joins Route 22. There had been some other pistols with it, and I went to see them later, but they were all trash. The Leech and Rigdon had been the only decent thing there, and Fleming had talked it out of this fellow for ten dollars. He was disgustingly gleeful about it, particularly as it was a better specimen than mine. Would you know it if you saw it again? Rand asked. Yes, I remember the cereals. I always look at cereals on Confederate arms. The highest known serial number for Leech and Rigdon is 1393. This one was 1234. Rand pulled the 36 revolver from his pants leg and gave it a quick glance. The number was 1234. He handed it to Cabot. Is this it? He asked. Cabot checked the number. Yes, and I remember this bruise on the left grip. Fleming was saying that he was glad it would be on the inside so it wouldn't show when he hung it on the wall. He carried the revolver to the desk and held it under the light. Why, this thing wasn't fired at all, he exclaimed. I thought that Fleming might have loaded it, meaning to target it. He had a pistol range back of his house, but the chambers are clean. He sniffed at it. Hops number nine, he said, and I can see traces of partly dissolved rust and no traces of fouling. What the devil, Jeff? It probably hasn't been fired since Appomattox, Rand agreed. Philip, do you think all of this didn't know it was loaded routine might be an elaborate suicide buildup, either before or after the fact? Absolutely not. There was a trace of impatience in Cabot's voice. Lane Fleming wasn't the man to commit suicide. I know him too well ever to believe that. I heard a rumor that he was about to lose control of his company, Rand mentioned. You know how much pre-mix meant to him. That's idiotic. Cabot's voice was openly scornful now, and he seemed a little angry that Rand should believe such a story, as though his confidence in his friend's intelligence had been betrayed. Good Lord, Jeff, where did you even hear a yarn like that? Quote, usually well-informed sources, unquote. Well, they were unusually ill-informed that time, Cabot replied. Take my word for it. There's absolutely nothing in it. So it wasn't an accident, and it wasn't suicide, Rand considered. Philip, what is the prognosis on this merger of pre-mix and national milling and packaging? Now that Lane Fleming's opposition has been, shall we say, liquidated? Cabot's head jerked up. He looked at Rand and shocked surprise. My God, you don't think—he began. Jeff, are you investigating Lane Fleming's death? I was retained to sell the collection, Rand stated. Now I suppose I'll have to find out who's been stealing those pistols and recover them, and jail the thief and the fence. But I was not retained to investigate the death of Lane Fleming. And I do not do work for which I am not paid, he added, with mendacious literalness. I see. Well, the merger's going through. It won't be official until the 16th of May, when the pre-mix stockholders meet. But that's just the formality. It's all cut and dried and in the bag now. Better let me pick you up a little pre-mix. There's still some lying around. You'll make a little less than four for one on it. I'd had that in mind when I asked you about the merger, Rand said. I have about two thousand with you, haven't I? He did a moment's mental arithmetic, then got out his checkbook. Pick me up about a hundred shares, he told the broker. I've been meaning to get in on this ever since I heard about it. I don't see how you did hear about it, Cabot said. For obvious reasons it's being kept pretty well under the hat. Rand grinned. Quote, usually well-informed sources, unquote, not the sources mentioned above. Jeff, you know this damn thing's worrying me, Cabot told him, writing a receipt, exchanging it for Rand's check. I've been trying to ignore it, but I simply can't. Do you really think Lane Fleming was murdered by somebody who wanted to see this merger consummated, and who knew that this was an impossibility as long as Fleming was alive? Philip, I don't know. And furthermore, I don't give a damn, Rand lied. If somebody wants me to look into it, and pays me my possibly exaggerated idea of what constitutes fair compensation, I will. And I'll probably come up with Fleming's murderer, dead or alive. But until then, it is simply no epidermis off my scrotum, and I advise you to adopt a similar attitude. They changed the subject then to the variety of pistols developed and used by the opposing nations in World War II, and the difficulties ahead of Cabot in assembling even a fairly representative group of them. Rand promised to mail Cabot a duplicate copy of his list of the letter code symbols used by the Nazis to indicate the factories manufacturing arms for them, as well as copies of some old wartime intelligence dope on enemy small arms. At a little past one, he left Cabot's home and returned to the Fleming residence. There were four cars in the garage. The Packard sedan had not been moved, but the station wagon was facing in the opposite direction. The grey Plymouth was in the space for which Rand had driven earlier in the evening, and a Black Chrysler Imperial had been run in on the left of the Plymouth. He put his own car in on the right of the station wagon, made sure that the Legion rigged in was locked in his glove box, and closed and locked the garage doors. Then he went up into the house, through the library, and by the spiral stairway to the gun room. The garage had been opened, he recalled, at the time of Lane Fleming's death. The availability of such an easy means of undetected ingress and egress through the suspect field wide open. Anybody who knew the habits of the Fleming household could have slipped up to the gun room, while Varsik was in his lab, Dunmore was in the bathroom, and Gladys and Geraldine were in the parlor. As he passed the hall to his own room, Rand was thinking of how narrowly Arnold Rivers had escaped the disastrous lawsuit and criminal action by the death of Lane Fleming. CHAPTER X When Rand came down to breakfast the next morning, he found Gladys, Nelda, and a man whom he decided by elimination, must be Anton Varsik, already at the table. The latter rose as Rand entered, and bowed jerkily as Gladys verified the guests with an introduction. He was about Rand's own age and height, yet a smooth shaven, tight-mouthed face adorned with bushy eyebrows, each of which was almost as heavy as Rand's mustache. It was a face that seemed tantalizingly familiar and Rand puzzled for a moment. Then nodded mentally. Of course he had seen a face like that hundreds of times in newsreels, and news photos, and once in pre-war Berlin. It's living double. Rudolph hest. He wondered how much deeper the resemblance went and tried not to let it prejudice him. Nelda greeted him with a trowel full of sweetness and a dash of bedroom bait. Gladys waved him to a vacant seat at her right and summoned the maid who had been serving breakfast. After Rand had indicated his preference of fruit and found out what else there was to eat, he inquired where the others were. Oh, Fred's still dressing. He'll be down in a minute, Nelda told him. And Geraldine won't. She never eats with her breakfast. Varsik went slightly at this and shifted the subject by inquiring if Rand were a professional antiques expert. No, I'm a lily pure amateur, Rand told him, or was until I took this job. I have a collection of my own and I'm supposed to be something of an authority. My business is operating a private detective agency. But you are here only as an arms expert, Varsik inquired. You are not making any sort of detective investigation. That's right, Rand assured him. This is practically a paid vacation for me. First time I ever handled anything like this. It's a real pleasure to be working at something I really enjoy for a change. Varsik nodded. Yes, I can understand that. My own work, for instance. I would continue with my research even if I were independently wealthy and any sort of work were unnecessary. Tell Colonel Rand what you're working on now, Nelda urged. Varsik gave a small, mirthless laugh. Oh, Colonel Rand would be no more interested than I would be in his pistols, he objected, then turned to Rand. It is a series of experiments having to do with the chemical nature of life, he said. Another perfunctory chuckle. No, I'm not trying to recreate Frankenstein's monster. The fact is, I'm working with fruit flies. Something about heredity, Rand wanted to know. Varsik laughed again with more amusement. So, one says, fruit flies and immediately another thinks heredity. It is practically a standard response. Only in this case, I am investigating the effect of diet changes. I use fruit flies because of their extreme adaptability. If I find that I am on the right track, I shall work with mice next. Fred Dunmore mentioned a packaged diabetic ration you'd developed, Rand mentioned. Oh, yes, Varsik shrugged. Yes, something like an army field ration for a diabetics to carry when traveling, or wherever proper food may be unobtainable. That is for the company. Soon, we put it on the market and make lots of money. But this other, that is my own private work. Dunmore had come in while Varsik was speaking and had seated himself beside his wife. Don't let him kid you, Colonel, he said. Anton's just as keen about that dollar as the rest of us. I don't know what he's cooking up up there in the attic, but I'll give ten to one we'll be selling it in twenty-five cent packages inside a year, and selling plenty of them. Oh, and speaking about that dollar, how did you make out with Gresham and his friends? I didn't. They'd expected to pay about twenty thousand for the collection. River's offer has them stopped, and even if they could go over twenty-five, I think River's would raise them. He's afraid to let them get the collection. Pierre Jarre and Karen Barnes intended using their share of it to go into the old arms business in competition with him. Uh-huh, that's smart, Dunmore approved. It's always better to take a small loss stopping competition than to let it get too big for you. You save a damn sight bigger loss later. How soon do you think the pistols will be sold? Gladys asked. Oh, in about a month at the outside, Ran said, continuing to explain what had to be done first. Well, I'm glad of that, Varsic commented. I never liked those things, and after what happened, the sooner they can be sold the better. Breakfast finally ended, and Varsic and Dunmore left for the premix plant. Ran debated for a moment the wisdom of speaking to Gladys about the missing pistols, then decided to wait until his suspicions were better verified. After a few minutes in the gun room, going over Lane Fleming's arms books on the shelf over the workbench, without finding any trace of the book in which he had cataloged his collection, he got his hat and coat, went down to the garage, and took out his car. It had stopped raining for the time being, the dingy sky showed broken spots like bits of bluing on a badly rusted piece of steel. As he got out of his car in front of Arnold River's red brick house, he was wondering just how he was going to go about what he wanted to do. After all, the door of the shop was unlocked and opened with a slow clanging of the door-chart, but the interior was dark. All the shades had been pulled, and the lights were out. For a moment Ran stood in the doorway, adjusting his eyes to the darkness within and wondering where everybody was. Then, in the path of light that fell inward from the open door, he saw two feet in tan shoes, toes up, at the end of tweed-trousered legs on the floor. An instant later he stepped inside, pulled the door shut after him, and was using his penlight to find the electric switch. For a second or so after he snapped it, nothing happened, and then the darkness was broken by the flickering of fluorescent tubes. When they finally lit, he saw the shape on the floor, arms outflung, the inverted rifle above it. For a seemingly long time he stood and stared at the crotesquely transfixed body of Arnold River's. The dead man lay on his back, not three feet beyond the radius of the door, in a pool of blood that was almost dried and gave the room a sickly sweet butcher's shop odor. Under the back of Ran's hand, River's cheek was cold. His muscles had already begun to stiffen in rigor mortis. Ran examined the dead man's wounds. His coat was stained with blood and gashed in several places, driven into his chest by a downward blow, the bayonet of a short German service mouser pinned into the floor, like a specimen on a naturalist's card. Beside the one in which the weapon remained, there were three stab wounds in the chest, and the lower part of the face was disfigured by what looked like a butt blow. Bending over Ran could see the imprint of the mouser butt plate on River's jaw. On the butt plate itself were traces of blood. The rifle, a regulation German infantry weapon, the long familiar Gewehr 98 in its most recent modification, was a Nazi product, bearing the eagle and encircled swastika of the Third Reich, and the code letters LZA, the symbol of the mouser work AG plant at Karlsruhe. It had doubtless been sold to River's by some returned soldier. In a rack beside the door were a number of other bolt action military rifles, a Krag, a couple of Arasakas, a long German infantry rifle of the First World War, a Greek manlacher, a Mexican mouser, a British short model Lee Enfield. All had fixed bayonets. Between the Lee Enfield and one of the Arasakas there was a vacancy. Rivers carved ivory cigarette holder was lying beside the body, crushed at the end as though it had been stepped on. A half-smoked cigarette had been in it. It too was crushed. There was no evidence of any great struggle, however. The attack which had ended the arms dealer's life must have come as a complete surprise. He had probably been holding the cigarette holder in his hand when the butt blow had been delivered, and had dropped it and flung up his arms instinctively. Thereupon the assailant had reversed his weapon and driven the bayonet into his chest. The first blow no doubt had been fatal. It could have been any of the three stabs in the chest, but the killer had given him two more, probably while he was on the floor. Then grasping the rifle in both hands he stood over his victim and pinned the body to the floor. That last blow could only have been inspired by pure anger and hatred. Yet, apparently, Rivers had been unaware of his visitor's murderous intentions, even while the rifle was being taken from the rack. Ranch strolled back through the shop, looking about. Someone had been here with Rivers for some time. The dealer and another man had sat by the fire, drinking and smoking. On the low table was a fifth of Hagen Hague, a siphon, two glasses, a glass bowl containing water that had evidently melted from ice cubes, and an ashtray. In the ashtray were a number of Rivers' cigarette butts, all holder crimped and a quantity of ash, some of it cigar ash. There was no cigar butt and no band or cellophane wrapper. The fire on the hearth had burned out and the ashes were cold. They were not all wood ashes, a considerable amount of paper. No cardboard had been burned there also. Poking gently with the point of a sword he took from a rack, Rand discovered that what had been burned had been a number of cards, about six inches by four, one of which had somehow managed to escape the flames, with nothing more than a charred edge. Improvising tweezers from a pipe cleaner, he picked this up and looked at it. It had been typewritten. 4850. English screw barrel, FL pocket pistol. Queen Anne type, side hammer with pen attached to barrel, steel barrel and frame, marked Wilson, Mineries, London. Silver mask butt cap, hallmarked for 1723. Four and a half inch barrel, nine and one quarter inch, OA. Cow, about 44. Taken in trade, 321.38 from V. Sparling for Kentucky, number 2538, along with 4851, 4852, 4853. Approximate cost, RLSS replacement due, NLSS, OSSS, LSSS. To this had been added in pen, sold R. Kingsley, St. Louis, Missouri. Mail order, 1220.42, OSSS. Rand laid the card on the cocktail table along with the drinking equipment. At least he knew what had gone into the fire. Arnold Rivers card index purchase and sales record. He doubted very strongly if that would have been burned while its owner was still alive. Going over to the desk, he checked. The drawer from which he had seen Cecil Gillis get the card for the leech and riggedon had been cleaned out. Picking up the phone in an awkward unnatural manner, he used the pencil from his pocket to dial a number with which he was familiar, a number that meant the same thing on any telephone exchange in the state. State police, Corporal Cavalene, a voicing sawned out the receiver. My name is Rand, he identified himself. I am calling from Arnold Rivers antique arms shop on Route 19, about a mile and a half east of Rosemont. I am reporting a homicide. Yeah, go ahead. Hey, did you say homicide? The other voice asks sharply. Who? Rivers himself. I called at his shop a few minutes ago, found the front door open, and walked in. I found Rivers lying dead on the floor just inside the door. He had been killed with a Mauser rifle, not shot, clubbed with the butt, and bayoneted. The body is cold, beginning to stiffen. A pool of blood on the floor is almost completely dried. That's a good report, Mr., the Corporal approved. You stick around, we'll be right along. You haven't touched anything, have you? Not around the body. How long will it take you to get there? About ten minutes, I'll tell Sergeant McKenna right away. Rand hung up and glanced at his watch, 10-22. He gave himself seven minutes and went around the room rapidly, looking only at pistols. He saw nothing that might have come from the Fleming collection. Finally, he opened the front door just as a white-state police car was pulling up at the end of the walk. Sergeant Ignatius Loyola McKenna, customarily known and addressed as Mick, piled out almost before it had stopped. The driver, a stocky blue-eyed fin with a corporal's chevrons, followed him, and two privates got out from behind, dragging after them a box about the size and shape of an army footlocker. McKenna was halfway up the drive before he recognized Rand, then he stopped short. Well, Jesus, me beads! He turned suddenly to the corporal. My God, Arvo, you said his name was Grant. That's what I thought he said, Rand recognized the sing-song accent he had heard on the phone. You know him? Know him. McKenna stepped aside quickly to avoid being overrun by his two privates with the equipment box. He sighed resignedly. Arvo, this is the notorious Jefferson Davis Rand, tri-state agency and new Belfast. He gestured towards the fin. Corporal Arvo Cavalene, he introduced, and privates Skinner and Jameson. Well, where is it? Right inside. Rand stepped backward, gesturing them in. Careful, it's just inside the doorway. McKenna and the corporal entered. The two privates sat down their box outside and followed. They all drew up in a semicircle around the late Arnold Rivers and looked at him critically. Jesus! Cavalene pronounced the J sound as though it were ZH. He gave all his syllables and equally accented intonation. Say, somebody gave him a good job. Somebody's been seeing too many war movies. McKenna got a cigarette out of his tunic pocket and lit it in Rand's pipe bowl. Want to confess now or do you insist on a third degree with all the trimmings? Cavalene looked wide-eyed at Rand, then at McKenna, and then back at Rand. Rand laughed. Now, Mick, he reproved, you know I never kill anybody unless I have a clear case of self-defense and a flock of witnesses to back it up. McKenna nodded and reassured his corporal. That's right, Arvo. When Jeff Rand kills anybody, it's always self-defense. And he doesn't generally make messes like this. He gave the body a brief scrutiny, then turned to Rand. You looked around, of course. What do you make of it? Last night sometime, Rand reconstructed, Rivers had a visitor. A man who smoked cigars. He and Rivers were on friendly, or at least sociable terms. They sat back there by the fire for some time, smoking and drinking. The shades were all drawn. I don't know whether that was standard procedure, or because this conference was something clandestine. Finally, Rivers' visitor got up to leave. Now, of course, he could have left and somebody else could have come here later. Been admitted and killed Rivers. That's a possibility, Rand said. But it's also an assumption without anything to support it. I'd rather like the idea that the man who sat back there drinking and smoking with Rivers was the killer. If so, Rivers must have gone with him to the door and was about to open it when this fellow picked up that rifle. Probably from that rack over there and clipped him on the jaw with the butt. Then he gave him the point three times. The second and third probably while Rivers was down. Then he swung it up and slammed down with it, and left it sticking through Rivers and the floor. McKenon nodded. Lights on when you got here, he asked. No, I put them on when I came in. The killer must have turned them off when he left. But the dead latch on the door wasn't said, and he doesn't seem to have bothered checking on that. Think he left right after he killed Rivers? Rand shook his head. No, that was just the first part of it. After he'd finished Rivers, he went back to that desk and got all the card Rivers used to record his transactions on. An individual card for every item. He destroyed a lot of them, or at least most of them, in the fireplace. Now I'm only guessing here, but I think he took out a card or cards in which he had some interest, and then dumped the rest in the fire to prevent anybody from being able to determine which ones he was interested in. I am further guessing that the cards which the killer wanted to suppress were in the sold file. But I'm not guessing about the destruction of the record file. I found a fireplace full of ashes, found one card that had escaped unburned. You can be sure that one wasn't important, and found the drawer where the record system was kept empty. Think he might have stolen something and covered up by burning the cards? McKenna asked. Rand shook his head again. I was here yesterday, bought a pistol from Rivers. That's how I noticed this card index system. Of course I didn't look at everything while I was here, but I can't see where any quantity of arms had been removed, and Rivers didn't have any single item that was worth a murder. Fact is, no old firearm is. There are only a very few old arms that are worth over a thousand dollars, and most of them are well known, unique specimens that would be unsalable because every collector would know where it came from. We can check possible thefts with Rivers' clerk when he gets here, McKenna said. Now suppose you show me these things you found back at the rear. Arvo, you and the boys, start taking pictures. He told the corporal, then he followed Rand back through the shop. He tested the temperature of the water in the ice bowl with his finger. He looked at the ashtray and bent over and sniffed at each of the two glasses. I see one of them's been emptied out, he commented. Want to bet it hasn't been wiped clean, too? Huh-uh, Rand smiled slightly. Even the tiny tots wiped off the cookie jar, after they've raided it, he said. A flash bulb lit the front of the shop briefly. Corporal Cavalene said something to the others. McKenna picked up the card Rand had found by the edges and looked at it. What in the hell's this all about, Jeff, he asked? Rivers made it out for one of his pistols, an English flintlock pocket pistol. I can show you one almost like it up front. He'd got NID and three others back in 1938 in trade for a Kentucky rifle. The numbers are reference numbers. The letters are Rivers' private price code. Those three at the end are, respectively, what he absolutely had to get for it, what he thought was a reasonable price, and the most he thought the traffic would stand. He sold it in 1942 for his middle price. There was another flash by the door, then Cavalene called out. Hey, Mick, we've got two of the Stiffs now. All right if we pull out the bayonet for a close-up of his chest? Sure, better chocolate at first, you'll move things jerking that bayonet out. He turned back to Rand. You think, then, that maybe some card in that file would have gotten somebody in trouble, and he had to croak Rivers to get it, and then burn the rest of the cards for a cover-up? That's the way it looks to me, you Rand agreed. Just because I can't think of any other possibilities, though, doesn't mean there aren't any others. Hey, you think he might have been selling modern arms to criminals without reporting the sale? Mick and I asked. I wouldn't put it past him, Rand considered. There was very little that I would put past that fellow, but I wouldn't think he'd be stupid enough to carry a record of such sales in his own file, though. Mick had to rub the butt of his thirty-eight reflectively, that seemed to be his substitute for head-scratching, as an aid to cerebration. You said you were here yesterday and bought a pistol, he began. All right, I know about that collection of yours, but why were you back here, right and early this morning? You working on Rivers for somebody? If so, give. Rand told him what he was working on. Rivers wants to buy the Fleming collection. That was the reason I saw him yesterday. But the reason I came here this morning is that I find that somebody has stolen about two dozen of the best pistols out of the collection since Fleming's death, and tried to cover up by replacing them with some junk that Lane Fleming wouldn't have allowed inside his house. For my money, it's the butler. Now that Fleming's dead, he's the only one in the house who knows enough about arms to know what's worth stealing. He has constant access to the gun room. I caught him in a lie about a book Fleming kept a record of his collection in, and now the book has vanished. And furthermore, and most important, if he'd been on the level, he would have spotted what was going on long ago and squawked about it. That's a damn good circumstantial case, Jeff, McKenna nodded. Nothing you could take to a jury, of course, but might have good grounds for suspicion. You think Rivers could have been the fence? He could have been. Whoever was hydrating the collection had to have an outlet for his stuff, and he had to have a source of supply for the junk he was infiltrating into the collection as replacements. The crooked dealer is the answer to both, and Arnold Rivers was definitely crooked. You know that, McKenna inquired. For sure? Another flash lit the front of the shop. Rand nodded. For damn good and sure, I can show you half a dozen firearms in this shop that have been altered to increase their value. I don't mean legitimate restorations, I mean fraudulent alterations. He went on to tell McKenna about Rivers' expulsion from membership in the National Rifle Association, and I know that he sold a pair of pistols to Lane Fleming about a week before Fleming was killed that were outright fakes. Fleming was going to sue the ears off Rivers about that. The fact is, until this morning, I had been wondering if that might have been why Fleming had that sour-looking accident. If he had lived, he'd have run Rivers out of business. Hell, I didn't know that! McKenna seemed worried. Fleming used to target shoot with our gang, and he knew too much about Gats to pull a rush Colombo on himself. I didn't like that accident at the time, but I figured he'd pulled the Dutch, and the family were making out it was an accident. We never were called in. The whole thing was handled through the coroner's office. You really think Fleming could have been bumped? Yes, I think he could have been bumped, Rand understated. I haven't found any positive proof, but... He told McKenna about his purchase from Rivers, of the revolver that had been later identified as the one brought home by Fleming on the day of his death. I still don't know how Rivers got a hold of him, he continued. Until I walked in here not half an hour ago and found Rivers dead on the floor, I'd had a suspicion that Rivers might have sneaked into the Fleming house, shot Fleming with another revolver, left it in Fleming's hand, and carried away the one Fleming had been working on. The motive, of course, would have been to stop a lawsuit that would have put Rivers out of business, and not inconceivably in jail. But now... He looked toward the front of the shop where another photo flash glared for an instant, and don't suggest that Rivers got conscience-stricken and killed himself. Aside from the technical difficulties of pinning himself to the floor after he was dead, that explanation's out. Rivers had no conscience to be stricken with. Well, let's skip Fleming for a minute, McKenna suggested. You think this butler at the Fleming place was robbing the collection, and you say he could have sold the stuff he stole to Rivers? Well, when the family gets you into work on the collection, G's, or whatever his name is, realizes that you're going to spot what's been going on, and will probably suspect him. He knows you're no ordinary arms expert, you're an agency dick, so he gets scared. If you catch up with Rivers, Rivers will talk. So, he comes over here last night and kills River off before you can get to him. And while Rivers may not keep a record of the stuff he's got from Jeeves, or whatever his name is... Walters, Rand replied. Walters, then. While he may not keep a record of what he bought from Walters, the chances are he does keep a record of the stuff Walters got from him, to use for replacements. So the card file goes into the fire. How's that? The flare of another flash bulb made distorted shadows dance over the walls. That would hang together now, Rand agreed. Of course, I haven't found anything here except the revolver I bought yesterday that came from the Fleming place. But I'll add this. As soon as Rivers found out I was working on the Fleming family, he tried to get that revolver back from me, offered me seventy-five dollars worth of credit on anything else in the shop if I'd give it back to him. Not twenty minutes after I paid him sixty for it. C. McKenna pounced. Look, suppose you had a lot of hot stuff in a place like this. You might take a chance on selling something that had gotten mixed in with your legitimate stuff, but would you want to sell it right back to where it had been stolen from? No, I wouldn't. And if I were a butler who'd been robbing a valuable collection, and an agency man moved in and started poking around, I might get in a panic and do something extreme. That all hangs together, too. While Rand was talking to McKenna, Private Jameson wandered back through the shop. Hey, Sarge, is there any way to get into the house from here? he asked. The outside doors are all locked, and I can't raise anybody. Rand pointed out the flight of steps beside the fireplace. I saw Rivers come out of the house that way yesterday, he said. The state policeman went up the steps and tried the door. It opened, and he went through. Chances are, Mrs. Rivers is away, McKenna said. She's away a lot. They have a colored girl who comes in by the day, but she doesn't generally get here before noon. And the clerk doesn't get here till about the same time. You seem to know a lot about this household, Rand said. Yeah, we have this place marked up as a bad burglary and stick a hazard. We keep an eye on it. Rivers has all these guns, he does a big cash business, he always has a couple of hundred to a thousand on him. It's a wonder somebody hasn't made a try at this place long ago. Tell you what, Jeff, say you check up on this butler at the Fleming Place for us, and we'll check up here and see if we can find any of the stuff that was stolen. We can get together and compare notes. Maybe one or another of us may run across something about that accident in the Fleming's too. Suits me. I'll be glad to help you, and I'll be glad for any help that you can give me in recovering those pistols. I haven't made any formal report on that yet because I'm not sure exactly what's missing, and I don't want any of that kind of publicity while I'm trying to sell the collection. It may be that the two matters are related. There are some points of similarity, which may or may not mean anything. And, of course, I just may find somebody who'll make it worth my time to get interested in this killing while I'm at it. McKenna chuckled. That must hurt hell out of you, Jeff, you said. A nice classy murder like this and nobody to pay you to work on it. It does, Rand admitted. I feel like an undertaker watching a man being swallowed by a shark. You want to stick around till this clerk of rivers gets here? McKenna asked. He should be here in about an hour and a half. No, I'd just as soon not be seen taking too much of an interest in this right now. Fact is, I'd just as soon not have my name mentioned at all in connection with this. You can charge the discovery of the body up to our old friend, Anonymous Tip, can't you? Sure. McKenna accompanied Rand to the front door, past the white chalked outline that marked the original position of the body. The body itself, with ink blackened fingertips, laid on one side out of the way. Corporal Cavalene was going through the dead man's pockets, and Skinner was working on the rifle with an insult flater. Well, we can't say it was robbery anyhow, Cavalene said. He had eight C's in his billfold. My God, Sarge! Is this damn rifle ever lousy with Prince, Skinner complained? A lot of rivers and everybody else's who's been fooling with it around here, and half the Wormacht. Swell, swell, McKenna enthused. Maybe we can pass the case off on the war crime's commission. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Of Murder in the Gunroom This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Murder in the Gunroom by H. Beam Piper Chapter 11 Nick McKenna had put his finger right on the sore spot. It did hurt Rand like hell. A nice sensational murder and no money in it for the tri-state agency. Obviously somebody would have to be persuaded to finance an investigation, preferably some innocent victim of unjust suspicion. Somebody who could best clear himself by unmasking the real villain. For villain, Rand mentally substituted public benefactor. He was running over a list of possible suspects as he entered Rosemont. Passing the little antique shop, he slowed, backed, read the name Karen Lawrence on the window, and then pulled over to the curb and got out. Crossing the sidewalk, he went up the steps to the door, entering to the jangling of a spring-mounted cowbell. The girl dealer was inside with a visitor, a shallow-faced, untidy-looking man of indeterminate age who was opening newspaper-wrapped packages on a tabletop. Karen greeted Rand by name and military rank. Rand told her he'd just look around till she was through. She tossed him a look of comic reproach as though she had counted on him to rid her of the man with the packages. Now, just you look at this here, Ms. Lawrence, the man was enthusing, undoing another package. Here's something I know you'll want. I think this here is real quaint. Just look now. He displayed some long, narrow, dark object holding it out to her. Ain't this here an interesting item now, Ms. Lawrence? Ooh! What in heaven's name is that thing she demanded? That there's a sword, a real African native sword. Look at that scabbard now, made out of real crocodile skin. A whole young crocodile, head, feet, and all. I tell you, Ms. Lawrence, that their item is unique. It's revolting. It's the most repulsive object that's ever been brought into the shop, which is saying quite a lot. Colonel Rand, if you don't have a hangover this morning, will you please come here and look at this thing? Rand laid down the Merrill Carbine he had been examining and walked over beside Karen. The man, whom Rand judged to be some rural freelance antique prospector, extended the object of the girl's repugnance. It was an African sword, all right, with a plain iron hilt and cross guard. The design looked berber, but the workmanship was low grade and probably attributable to some even more barbarous people. The scabbard was what was really surprising, if you like that kind of surprises. It was an infant crocodile, rather indifferently smoke-cured. The sword simply went in between the creature's jaws and extended the length of the body and into the tail. Either end of a moldy green leather thong had been fastened to the two front paws for a shoulder baldrick. When new, Rand thought it must have given its wearer a really distinctive aroma, even for Africa. He drew the blade gingerly, looked at it, and sheathed it with caution. East African, Denakil or Somali, or something like that, he commented. Be damn good and careful not to scratch yourself on that. If you do, you'll need about a gallon of the anti-Tetanus shots. You think it might be poisoned? The man with the dirty neck and month old hair cut inquired eagerly. See, Miss Lawrence, what I told you, a real African native sword. I got that there from Hen Sourbaugh over at Feltonville. His uncle, the Reverend Sourbaugh, that used to preach at Hemlock Gap Church, brung it from Africa himself about fifty years ago. He used to be a missionary in his younger days. I can make you an awful good price on that there, Ida Miss Lawrence. God forbid, she exclaimed. All my customers are heavy drinkers. I wouldn't want to answer for what might happen if some of them saw that thing suddenly. Oh, well, how about that their little amethyst bottle then? Well, I would give you seven dollars for that, she grudged. You would? Well, it's yours then. And how about them their salt-sellers, and that their knife-box? Rand wandered back to examining firearms. Eventually, after buying the knife-box, Karen got rid of the man with the antiques. When he had gone, she found a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Rand, and lit one for herself. Well, now you see why girls leave home and start antique shops, she said. Never a dull moment. Wasn't that sword the awfulest thing you ever saw, though? Well, one of the ten awfulest, Rand conceded. I just stopped in to give you some good news. You won't need to consider that offer of Arnold Rivers any more. He is no longer interested in the Fleming Collection. He isn't. An eager, happy light danced up in her eyes. He saw him again this morning. What did he say? He didn't say anything. He isn't talking any more, either. Fact is, he isn't even breathing any more. He—you mean he's dead? She was surprised, even shocked. The shock was probably a concession to good taste, but the surprise looked genuine. When did he die? It must have been very sudden. I saw him a few days ago. And he looked all right. Of course, he's been having trouble with his lungs, but— It was very sudden. Sometime last night, some person or persons unknown gave him a butt and bayonet job with a German Mauser out of Iraq in his shop. A most unpleasantly thorough job. I went to see him this morning, hoping to badger something out of him about those pistols that are missing from the Fleming Collection and found the body. I notified the state police and just came from there. For God's sake! The shock was genuine, too, now. Have the police any idea? Not the foggiest. If some of the Fleming pistols turn up at his place, I might think that had something to do with it. So far, though, they have it. I gave the shop a once-over lightly before the cops arrived, and couldn't find anything. She tried to take a puff from her cigarette and found that she had broken it in her fingers. She let a new one from the mangled butt. When did it happen? She tried to make the question sound casual. That I couldn't say either. Around midnight would be my guess. They might be able to fix it no earlier time. An idea occurred to him, and he smiled. But that's dreadful! She really meant that. It's a terrible thing to happen to anybody being killed like that. She stopped just short of adding even rivers. Instead, she continued. But I can't say I'm really very sorry he's dead, Colonel. Outside of maybe his wife and the gunsmith who made his fake Walker Colts and North and Cheney Flintlocks, who is, he countered. Oh yes, Cecil Gillis. He's about due for induction into the army of the unemployed, unless Mrs. Rivers intends carrying on the business. Karen's eyes widened. Cecil Gillis, she exclaimed softly. I wonder now if he has an alibi for last night. Think he might need one, Vrand asked. Of course I only saw him once, but he didn't strike me as a possible candidate. I can't seem to see young Gillis doing a messy job like this was, or going to all that manual labor when he could have used something neat, like a pistol or a dagger. Well, Cecil isn't quite the languishing flower he looks, Karen told him. He does a lot of swimming, and he's one of the few people around here who can beat me a tennis. And he has a motive, maybe two motives. Such as, Vrand prompted. Maybe you think Cecil is a, you know, one of those boys, she euphemized. Well, he isn't. He takes a perfectly normal and even slightly wolfish interest in the female of his species. And while Arnold Rivers may have been a good provider from a financial standpoint, he wasn't quite up to his wife's requirements in another important respect. And Rivers was away a lot on buying trips and so on. And when he was, nobody ever saw Cecil leave the Rivers place in the evenings. At least that's the story. Personally, I wouldn't know. Of course, where there's smoke, there may be nothing more than somebody with a stogie, but then there may be a regular conflagration. That would be a perfectly satisfactory motive under some circumstances, Vrand admitted, and the other. Cecil might have been doing funny things with the books, and Rivers might have caught him. That would also be a good enough motive. It would also, Vrand, thought, furnish an explanation for the burning of Rivers' record cards. I'll mention it to Mick McKenna. He's hard up for a good, usable suspect. And by the way, the news of this killing will be out before evening, but in the meantime I wish you wouldn't mention it to anybody, or mention that I was in here to tell you about it. I won't. I'm glad you told me, though. Do you think there may be a chance that we can get the collection now? I wouldn't know why not. Rivers' offer was pretty high. There aren't many other dealers who would be able to duplicate it. Well, don't take any Czechoslovakian stiegel. He moved his car down the street to the Rosemont Inn, where he went into the combination bar and grill, and had a bourbon and water at the bar. Then he ordered lunch, and while waiting for it went into a phone booth and dialed the number of Stephen Gresham's office in New Belfast. I had hoped to catch you before you left for lunch, he said, when the lawyer answered. There's been a new development in the Fleming business. He had decided to follow the same line as with Karen Larnes. You'd needn't worry about Arnold Rivers' offer any more. Ha! So he backed out? He was shoved out, ran corrected. On the sharp end of a Mauser bayonet sometime last night. I found the body this morning when I went to see him and notified the state police. They call it murder, but of course they're just prejudiced. I'd call it a nuisance abatement project. Look here, are you kidding? Gresham demanded. I never cared about those who have passed on, ran denied piously. Then he recited the already hackneyed description of what had happened to Rivers with careful attention to all the gruesome details. So I called Copper directly. Sergeant McKenna is up a stump about it and looking in all directions for suspect. Gresham was silent for a moment, then swore softly. My God, Jeff, this is going to raise all kinds of hell. He was silent for a moment. Look here, can you see me at my home about two thirty this afternoon? I want to talk to you about this. Ran smiled happily. This looked like what he had been angling for. Maybe Arnold Rivers hadn't died in vain after all. Why, yes, I can make it, he replied. Good, see you there then. Ran assured him that he would be on hand. When he returned to his table he found his lunch waiting for him. He sat down and ate with a good appetite. After finishing he had another drink and sat sipping it slowly and smoking his pipe. Going over the story Gladys Fleming had told him and the gossip he had gotten from Carter Tipton and the other statements which had been made to him by different people about the death of Lane Fleming and the conclusions he had reached about the theft of the pistols and the killing of Arnold Rivers. Sorting out the inferences from the descriptions and the descriptive statements of others from the things he himself had observed. When his glass was empty and his pipe burned out he left the tip beside the ashtray, paid his check and went out. He had two hours until his meeting with Stephen Gresham. He knew exactly where to spend them. The county seat was a normal twenty minutes drive from Rosemont but with the road relatively free from traffic he was able to cut that to fifteen. Parking his car in front of the courthouse he went inside. The coroner won Jason Kirchner with a Casper milk toast mustache and an underslung jaw. He wore an Elk's watch arm, an odd fellow's ring, and a Knights of Pytheus lapel pin. He looked at Rand's credentials including the letter Humphrey Good had given him with some bewilderment. You're working for Mr. Good, he asked rather needlessly. Yes, I see, handling the sale of Mr. Fleming's pistols for the estate. Yes. That must be interesting work, Mr. Rand. Now what can I do for you? Why, I understand you have an item from that collection here in your office, Rand said, the pistol with which Mr. Fleming shot himself. Regardless of its unpleasant associations, that pistol is a valuable collector's item and one of the assets of the estate. If I'm to get full value for the collection for the heirs, I'll have to have that to sell it with the rest of the weapons. Well, now look here, Mr. Rand, Kirchner, started to argue. That revolver is a dangerous weapon. It killed one man already. I don't know, as I ought to let it get out where it might kill somebody else. Rand estimated that this situation called for a modified version of his hard-boiled act. You think you can show cause why that revolver shouldn't be turned over to the Fleming estate? He demanded. Well, if I don't get it right away, Mr. Good will get a court order for it. You had no right to impound that revolver in the first place. You removed it from the Fleming home illegally in the second place, since you had no intention of holding any formal inquest, and you're holding it illegally now. A court order might not be all we could get, either, he added menacingly. Now, if you have any reason to suspect that Mr. Fleming committed suicide, or was murdered, for instance... Oh, my heavens, no! Kirchner cried, horrified. It was an accident, pure and simple. I so certified it. Death by accident due to inadvertence of the deceased. Well then, Rand said, you have no right to hold that revolver, and I wanted. Right now. As Mr. Good's agent, I'm responsible for that collection, of which the revolver you're holding is a part. That revolver is too valuable an asset to ignore. You certainly realize that. Well, I don't have any intention of exceeding my authority, of course. Kirchner disclaimed hastily. And I certainly wouldn't want to go against Mr. Good's wishes. Unfree Good must pull considerable weight around the courthouse, Rand surmised. But you realize that revolver is still loaded. Oh, that's not your worry. I'll draw their charges, or better, fire them out. It stood one shot, it can stand the other five. Well, would you mind if I called Mr. Good on the phone? Rand did, decidedly. However, he shook his head negligently. Certainly not. Go ahead and call him, by all means. The coroner went away. In a few minutes he was back, carrying a revolver in both hands. Evidently Good had given him the green light. He approached, handling the weapon with a caution that would have been excessive for a mill's grenade. After warning Rand again that it was loaded, he laid it gently on his desk. It was a thirty-six colt, one of the 1860s series, with the round barrel and the so-called creeping ramming lever. Somebody had wound a piece of wire around it, back of the hammer, and threw the loading aperture in front of the cylinder. As the hammer was down, on a fire chamber, there was no way in God's world short of throwing the thing into a furnace in which it could be discharged. But Kirchner was shrinking away from it as though it might jump at his throat. I put the wire on, the coroner said. I thought it might be safer that way. It'll be a lot safer after I've emptied it into the first clay bank outside town, Rand told him. Sorry, I had to be a little short with you, Mr. Kirchner, but you know how it is. I'm responsible to Mr. Good for the collection, and this gun's part of it. Oh, that's all right. I shouldn't have taken the attitude I did, Kirchner met him halfway. After I talked to Mr. Good, of course, I knew it was all right, but... You see, I've been bothered a lot by that pistol lately. Yes. Rand succeeded in being negligent about it. Oh, my, yes. The newspaper people wanted to take pictures of me holding it, and then there was an antique dealer who was trying to buy it. Who is that, Arnold Rivers? Why, yes, do you know him? He has an antique shop on the other side of Rosemont. He doesn't sell anything but guns and swords and that sort of thing, Kirchner said. He was here making inquiries about it, and my clerk showed it to him, and then he started making offers for it. First ten dollars, and then fifteen, and then twenty. He got up as high as sixty dollars. I suppose it's worth a couple of hundred. It was probably worth about thirty-five. Rand was intrigued by this second instance of an unrivers-like willingness to spare no expense to get a possession of a thirty-six-caliber percussion revolver. Did he have it in his hands, he asked. Oh, yes, he looked it over carefully. I suppose he thought he could get a lot of money for it because of the accident, and Mr. Fleming being such a prominent man, Kirchner suggested. Rand allowed himself to be struck by an idea. Say, you know, that would make it worth more at that, he exclaimed. What do you know? I never thought of that. Look, Mr. Kirchner, I'm supposed to get as much money for these pistols for the errors as I can. How would you like to give me a letter vouching for this, as the pistol Mr. Fleming killed himself with? Put in how you found it in his hand and mentioned the serial numbers, so that whoever buys it will know it's the same revolver. He picked up the colt and showed Kirchner the serials on the butt and in the front of the trigger guard. See, here it is, two-four, four-four. Kirchner would be more than willing to oblige Mr. Good's agent. He typed out the letter himself, looked twice at the revolver to make sure of the number, took Rand's word for the make, model, and caliber, signed it, and even slammed his seal down on it. Rand thanked him profusely, put the letter in his pocket, and stuck the colt down his pants leg. About two miles from the county seat, Rand stopped his car on a deserted stretch of road and got out. Unwinding the wire Kirchner had wrapped around the revolver, he picked up an empty beer can from the ditch, set it against an embankment, stepped back about 30 feet and began firing. The first shot kicked up dirt a little over the can. Rand never could be sure just how high any percussion colt was sighted, and the other four hit the can. He carried the revolver back to the car and put it into the glove box with the leech and riggedon. After starting the car, he snapped on the radio, in time for the 215 news broadcast from the new Belfast station. As he had expected the murder was out, the daily budget of strikes and congressional investigations and international turmoil was enlivened by a more or less imaginative account of what had already been christened the Rosemont Bayonet murder. Rand resigned himself to the inevitable influx of reporters. Then he swore as the newscaster continued. District Attorney Charles P. Farnsworth of Scott County, who has taken charge of the investigation, says and we quote, There is strong evidence implicating certain prominent persons whom we are not as yet prepared to name, and if the investigation, now underway and making excellent progress, justifies, they will be apprehended and formally charged. No effort will be spared and no consideration of personal prominence will be allowed to deter us from clearing up this dastardly crime. Rand swore again, with weary bitterness, wondering how much trouble he was going to have with the District Attorney Charles P. Farnsworth as he pulled to a stop in Stephen Gresham's driveway. CHAPTER XII Gresham must have been waiting inside the door. As soon as Rand came up onto the porch, he opened it and motioned the detective inside. Beyond a hasty greeting as Rand passed the threshold, he did not speak until they were seated in the gun room upstairs. Then he came straight to the point. Jeff, can you spare the time from this work you're doing at the Flemings to investigate this river's business, he asked? And how much would an investigation cost me? It's got to be a blitz job. I'm not interested in getting anybody convicted in court, I just want the case cleared up in a hurry. Well... Rand puffed at the cigar Gresham had given him, watching the ash form on the end. I don't work by the day, Stephen. I take a lump sum fee, and, of course, it's to my interest to get a case cleared up as soon as I can. But I can't set any time limit on a job like this. This river's killing has more angles than nude descending a staircase. I don't know how much work I'll have to do, or even what kind. Well, it'll have to be fast, Gresham told emergently. Look, I didn't kill Arnold Rivers. I hated his guts, and I think whoever did it ought to get a medal and a testimonial dinner. But I did not kill him. You believe me? I'm inclined to, Rand replied. In your law practice, you know what a lying client is letting himself in for. As my client, you wouldn't lie to me. You seem to think you may be suspected of purging Rivers. But why? Is there any reason, aside from that homemade northen chain he sold you, why anybody would think you'd killed him? Great God, yes, Gresham exclaimed. Now look, I'm not worried about being railroaded for this. I didn't do it, and I can beat any case that half-assed ex-ambulance chaser Farnsworth could dream up against me. But I can't afford even to be mentioned in connection with this. You know what that would do to me in town. I just can't get mixed up in this at all. I want you to see to it that I don't. That sounds like a large order. The ash was growing on Rand's cigar. He took another heavy drag at it. But why necessarily you? Rivers had plenty of other enemies. Yes, but damn it they weren't all in his shop last evening. Just me, and one other, the one who killed him. On your way out from town, Rand inquired. Yes, I stopped at his place about a quarter to nine. I was sore as hell about the hooking he gave me on that North and Cheney, falsely so-called, and I decided to stop and have it out with him. We had words most of them unpleasant. I told him, for one thing, that Lane Fleming's death hadn't pulled his bacon off the fire, that I was going to start the same sort of action against him on my own account. But that isn't the point. The point is that when I was going in, this Lottida clerk of his, Cecil Gillis, was coming out. He got into his car and drove away, leaving me alone with Rivers. He'll be the first one the police talk to, and he'll tell them all about it. That does put you back of the eight-ball. Rand dropped the ash into a tray and looked at it curiously. It looked like the sort of ash he had seen at Rivers' shop, but he couldn't be sure. But if it can be proved that Rivers was alive after 920, when you got here, you'll be in the clear. I don't want to have to clear myself, Gresham insisted. I don't want anything to do with it at all. Here, I'll pay you a thousand down and two more when you have the case completed. I want you to get the murder cleared up before I can be publicly involved in it. I say publicly because this Dan Gillis has probably involved me with the police already. Well, Gillis isn't exactly in a state of pure sanctity himself, Rand commented. As a suspect, the smart handicappers are figuring him to run well inside the money. For instance, you know, there have been stories about him and Mrs. Rivers. Gresham snapped his fingers. Damned if there haven't now, he said. You talked to Adam Treehearn. He did business with Rivers. There wasn't much in his line. Rivers and Unmholz were able to fake. And different times he's gone to Rivers' shop and there'd be nobody around. And then Gillis would come in from the house smelling of Chanel number five. Mrs. Rivers uses Chanel number five. Maybe you have something there. If Cecil thought he could marry the business with Rivers out of the way, you'll take the case, won't you, Jeff? Oh, certainly, Rand assured him. Now, all they have on you is that there was ill-feeling between you and Rivers about that fake North and Cheney and that you were in Rivers' shop yesterday evening? Rand's new client grimaced. I wish that were all, he said. The worst part of it is the way Rivers was killed. See, back in Kaiser Willie's War, before I was assigned a company of my own, I was Regimental Bayonet Instruction Officer. And after we got to France, I always carried a rifle and bayonet at the front. Hell, I must have killed close to a dozen crouts, just the way Rivers was killed. And during Shucklegruber's War, I volunteered as Bayonet Instructor for the local home guard. My God, Rand made a rye face. There must be close to a hundred people around here who'd know that. And all of them are probably convinced that you killed Rivers, and are expressing that opinion at the top of their voices to all comers. You don't want a detective, you want a magician. He took another drag at the cigar and blew smoke through a circular gun rack beside him. What sort of character is this Farnsworth anyhow, he asked. Before the war, I had all the DA's in the state typed and estimated, but since I got back, Gresham slandered the county prosecutor's legitimacy. God damn headline-hunting little egotist, he's running for reelection this year too. One way, that could be bad. On the other hand, it might be easy to throw a scare into him. Steven, when you were at Rivers, were you smoking a cigar? Gresham shook his head. No, I threw my cigar away when I got out of the car, and I didn't light another one till I got home. If you remember, I was lighting it when I came in here. Yes, so you were. Well, I don't suppose, in view of the state of relations between you and Rivers, that you had a drink with him either? I wouldn't drink that guy's liquor if I were dying of snakebite, and he wouldn't offer me a drink if he knew I was, Gresham declared. Well, did you notice back near the fireplace a low table with a fifth of Hague and Hague pinch bottle and a couple of glasses, and a siphon and so on on it? I saw the table, there was an astray on it, and a book, I think it was Gluckman's United States Marshal pistols and revolvers, but no bottle or siphon or glasses. All right then, it was the killer. Rand explained about the drinks and the cigar ashes. He went on to tell about the destruction of Rivers' record cards. I don't get that, Gresham was puzzled. Unless it was Young Gillis, after all, he could have been knocking down on Rivers and Rivers caught him at it. I'd thought of that, Rand admitted, but I doubt if Rivers would sit down and drink with him while accusing him of theft, and I can't seem to find anything around Rivers' place that looks as though it might have been stolen from the Fleming Collection either. Oh, and that reminds me. If you have time this afternoon, I wonder if you'd come along with me to the Fleming's and see just what's missing. I'll have to know that, in any case, and there's a good possibility that the thefts from the Collection and the killing of Rivers are related. Yes, of course, Gresham agreed, and suppose we take Pierre Jarre along with us, he knows that Collection as well as I do, he'll spot anything I miss. He works at home, I'll call him now. We can pick him up before we go to the Fleming's. They went into Gresham's bedroom, where there was a phone, and Gresham talked to Pierre Jarre. It was arranged that he should pick Jarre up with his car and come to the Fleming's, while Rand went there directly. Then Rand used the phone to call his office in New Belfast. He talked to Dave Ritter, explaining the situation to date. I'm going to need some help, he continued. I want you to come here and get a room at the Rosemont Inn under your own name. I'll see you there about 5.30. And bring with you a suit of Butler's livery and a reasonable fax simile. I believe there will be a vacancy in the Fleming household tomorrow or the next day, and I want you ready to take over. And bring a small gun with you, something you can wear, under said livery. That 357 cult of yours is a little too conspicuous. You'll find a 380 Beretta in the top right hand drawer of my office desk with a box of ammunition and a couple of spare clips. Right, I'll be at Rosemont Inn at 5.30, were it I promised. And say, tip was in this morning with a lot of dope on the Fleming estate. Want me to let you have it now or shall I give it to you when I see you? You have notes? Bring them along. I'll be seeing you in a couple of hours. He parted from Gresham, going out and getting in his car. As Gresham got his own car out of the garage and drove off toward Pierre Jarre's house, Rand started in the opposite direction towards Rosemont. About a half mile from Gresham's, he caught an advancing gleam of white on the highway ahead of him and pulled to the side of the road, waiting until the state police car drew up and stopped. In it were Mick McKenna, Arvo Cavalene, and a third man, a Nordic type in an untidy brown suit. I, Jeff, McKenna greeted him as Rand got out of his car and came across the road. This is Gus Olsen, investigator for the DA's office. Jeff Rand, tri-state agency, he introduced. Hey, Olsen yelled. We've been looking for you. Where have you been? Rand raised an eyebrow at McKenna. You just came from where we're going, the state police sergeant surmised. Was Gresham at home? He was. He's gone now, Rand said. He and another man are going to help me check up on what's missing from the Fleming Collection. Hey, Olsen exploded. What I told you now, he run ahead of us with a tip-off. Gresham skipped out now. What is all this, Rand wanted to know? What's he screaming about, Mick? Like he don't know, Olsen vociferated. He tipped off Gresham so as he could skip out. I'll bet he's in it with Gresham. Pay no attention, McKenna advised. He doesn't know what the score is. Hell, he doesn't even know what teams are playing. Now you look here, Olsen bald. We'll see what Mr. Farnsworth has to say about this. You're supposed to cooperate with us, not go fraternizing with a lot of suspects. Why, as plain as anything, him and Gresham's in it together. I bet that was why you'd come around the first thing in the morning to find the body. Cavalene, behind the wheel, turned around and began jabbering at Olsen, in the back seat, in something that sounded like Swedish. Most Finns can speak Swedish, and Rand was wishing he could understand it. The corporal's remarks ran into about a paragraph, and must have been downright incendiary. At least Olsen seemed to catch fire from them. He rose in his seat, waving his arms, and howling back in the same language. Shut up, goddammit, shut up, McKenna bellowed into his face. Shut up before I sling your ass to hell out of this car. I'm talking, and I don't want any goddamn jaw from you, Olsen. You either, he barked at Cavalene, winking at him at the same time. Silence fell with a heavy thump in the car. Well, now that the international crisis seems to have been averted, how's about letting me in on it too, Rand asked. For instance, what about Gresham? What's he supposed to be a suspect for? Ah, Olsen suspects him of chopping rivers up, McKenna replied, weirdly. See, we questioned the Cecil Gillis, and he told us that last evening, as he was leaving rivers, he saw Stephen Gresham drive up and go into the shop. I wanted to talk to him myself. I thought he might account for the cigar ashes and the drink fixings on that table. But when Farnsworth heard about the killing, he sent Olsen around. And when Olsen heard that Gresham had been there, he tried him and convicted him on the spot. Oh, obscenity. Is that what it's about? Rand exclaimed in disgust. Yes, Gresham told me about that. He didn't have the drink, and he wasn't smoking a cigar in the shop. And he left a little after nine. He got home at nine twenty-two. I can testify to that myself. I was there at the time, and so were seven other people. Rand named him. They dribbled away at different times during the evening, but Philip Cabot and I stayed till around eleven. He mentioned the approximate time at which the others had left. What time was Rivers killed, or hasn't the time been fixed? The M.E. says around ten to two, McKenna said. He could be wrong, them guys only guess half the time, Olsen argued. And besides, Gresham had it in for Rivers. And that ain't all, neither. He knew how to use a bayonet, too. I seen him myself during the war, showing the home guard how to do it, just the way Rivers was killed, he produced triumphantly. McKenna used the dirty word. So what? Anybody who's ever had infantry training knows that buttstroke and lunge, he retorted. I learned it myself when I was a kid, in twenty-four and twenty-five, in CMTC. Hell, anybody who's ever seen a war movie. If you hadn't lambed out of Sweden when you were sixteen, to duck conscription, you'd have known it too. Well, maybe Olsen, or his boss, can explain why Gresham threw those record cards in the fire, Rand contributed. You know why Olsen says Gresham had it in for Rivers? Rivers sold Gresham a fake antique, a flintlock navy pistol that had been worked over into something else. Gresham was going to subpoena those records when he brought suit against Rivers, Rand lied. But I can explain why Cecil Gillis might have destroyed them after killing Rivers, if he'd been cheating Rivers and Rivers caught him at it. Yeah, and that might explain why Gillis was in such a hurry to sick us on to Gresham, too, McKenna added. I thought of something like that, and this high-brown girl that works for Rivers says that Gillis and Mrs. Rivers played all kinds of games together when Rivers was away. Well, who's in charge of the investigation, Rand wanted to know? I heard on the radio, you're liable to hear anything on the radio, including slanders on Bing Crosby's horses. But for the record, I am in charge of this investigation. And don't anybody forget it either, he added, in the direction of the rear seat. That's what I thought. Well, Stephen Gresham has just retained me to make an independent investigation, Rand said. It is not that he lacks confidence in the state police, or in you. He is afraid that other parties might get into the act and try to make political capital out of it, which appears to have happened. Well, if Gresham retained you, I'm satisfied, McKenna said. You can take care of that end of it. Glad you're in with us. Well, I ain't satisfied, Olsson began yelling again, and Mr. Farnsworth won't be neither. Why, this here private dick is like is not working for the very men that kill Rivers. McKenna turned slowly in his seat to face Olsson. One time, ten years ago, he began, Jeff Rand had a client who was guilty of the crime he hired Jeff to investigate. It was an arson case. This guy set fire to his own factory and then got Jeff to run down a lot of fake clues he'd planted. I know about that. I was on the case myself. That's where I first met Jeff, and he saved me from making a jackass out of myself. And what happened to this guy who'd hired Jeff was something that oddened to happen even to Molotov, and it happened because Jeff fixed it to happen. If anybody hires Jeff Rand, he's one of two things. He's either innocent, or else he's out of luck. I don't know why the hell I bother telling you this. Ten to two, you say, Rand considered. Look, a couple of days ago, Rivers put out a new priceless to his regular customers. A lot of them in different parts of the country ordered by telephone, and some of them live in the West, where there's a couple of hours' time difference. One of them calling at, say, eight o'clock local time would get his call in at ten Eastern Standard. If you check the long-distance calls to Rivers' number last night now, you might get something. Yeah, and if you took a call after 9.22, that would let Gresham even Farnsworth could figure that out. Sure, I'll check right away. Who is at Rivers now? Skinner and Jameson of our gang, and Farnsworth and some of his outfit. And the hell's own slew of reporters, of course, McKenna said. Arvo's going back there in a little. We're still trying to locate Mrs. Rivers, we haven't been able to yet. The maid says she went to New York day before yesterday. I'll probably be around at Rivers later in the day. I want to check on that Fleming angle. Uh-huh. I'll be there in half an hour, Corporal Cavalene said. Be seeing you. They exchanged the lungs and Cavalene backed and made a U-turn, moving off in the direction of Rosemont. Olson's voluble protest drifted back as the car receded. Rand returned to his own car and followed. End of chapter 12.