 CHAPTER XIII. Rand found Gladys alone in the library. As she rose to greet him, he came close to her, gesturing for silence with finger on lips. There's a perfect hell of a mess, he whispered. Somebody murdered Arnold Rivers last night. She looked at him in horror. Murdered? Who was it? How did it? I haven't time to talk about that right now, he told her. Stephen Gresham and Pierre Gérard are on their way here, and I'd like you to keep the servants, and particularly Walters, out of earshot of the gun room while they're here. It seems that a number of the best pistols have been stolen from the collection, sometime between the death of Mr. Fleming and the time I saw the collection yesterday. Stephen and Pierre are going to help me find out just what's been taken. I have an idea they might have been sold to Rivers. That may have been why he was killed, to prevent him from implicating the thief. You think somebody here? The servants? She asked. I can't see how it could have been an outsider. The stuff wasn't all taken at once. It must have been moved out a piece at a time, and worthless pistols moved in and hung on the racks to replace valuable pistols taken. He had left the library door purposely open. When the door brawl rang, he heard it. I'll let them in, he said. You go and head Walters off. Ran hurried to the front door and admitted Gresham and Pierre, hustling them down the hall into the library, and up the spiral to the gun room, while Gladys went to the foot of the front stairs. Through the open gun room door, Ran could hear her speaking to Walters, as though sending him on some errand to the rear of the house. He closed the door and returned to the others. We'll have to make it fast, he said. Mrs. Swimming can't hold the butler off all day. Let's start over here and go around the racks. They began at the left, with the wheel locks. Pierre put his finger immediately on the shabby and disreputable specimen Ran had first noticed. Phew! Is that one a stinker, he said? What used to be there was a nice late 16th or early 17th century North Italian pistol, all covered with steel filigree work, a real beauty much better than average. Those Turkish atrocities Gresham pointed out, they're filling in for a pair of lasarino Kamenazo snap hounces that Lane Fleming paid several hundred for, back in the mid-30s, and didn't pay ascent too much for even then. Worth an easy thousand now. Remember the pair of Kamenazo flint locks illustrated in Pollard's short history of firearms? These were even better, and snap hounces. Well, you go over the collection, Ran told them. Note down anything you find missing. He handed them a pad of paper and a pencil from the desk. I have something else to do for a few minutes. With that he left them scrutinizing the pistols on the wall and went to the workbench in the corner, drawing the 36 Colt from under his waistband. Working rapidly he dismounted it, taking off the barrel and cylinder, and cleaned it thoroughly before putting it together again. Pierre and Gresham had just started on the Colts when he slipped the revolver out of sight and rejoined them. It took over a half hour to finish. When they had gotten completely around the collection Ran had a list of 26 missing items, including four cased sets. At a conservative estimate the missing pistols were worth ten to twelve thousand dollars, dealer's list value. The stuff that had been moved in to replace them might have a value of two or three hundred, but no serious collector would buy any of it at any price. There had been no attempt to replace the cased items. The cases had been merely rearranged on the table to avoid any conspicuous vacancies. See that thing? Pierre asked, tapping a small 25 Webly and Scott automatic with his finger. Ran looked at it. It had been fitted with an English-made silencer. That thing, Pierre said, is the one illustrated in Pollard's book, the identical pistol. It used to be in the Pollard collection. Ran had a lot of stuff from some famous collections, Gresham said. Pollard collection, Sawyer collection, Fred Hines collection, Meeks collection, even the old Mark Field collection. That was sold at Libby Galleries in 1911. His own could rank with any of them. Think you can get any of this stuff back? I hope so. By the way, where does this fellow, Om Holtz, the fabricator of spurious Whitneyville walker cults hang out? I believe he ought to be looked into. Say, that's an idea, Pierre ejaculated. He might have bought the pistols instead of rivers, why he has a gun shop in Kingsville on Route 22, about fifteen miles west of here, just this side of the village. He had a big sign along the road, and his shop's in the barn behind the house. I'll have to check up on him, but first I want to see if any of this stuff's at Rivers shop. I won't ask you to come along, he told Gresham. No use you sticking your head into the lion's mouth. I've talked the state police temporarily off your trail, but I still have Farnsworth to worry about. He'd like to prosecute a big corporation lawyer, if he thought he had any chance of getting a conviction, Pierre said. Make a nice impression on the proletarian vote in the south end of the county. You're a member of the Mohawk club in New Belfast, aren't you? Rand asked Gresham. Well, go there and stay there for a couple of days, till the heat's off. Pierre, you can come with me to Rivers, I'll run you home in my car when we're through. Gresham let himself out the front door, Pierre and Rand went out through the garage and got into Rand's car. You have any idea so far about who could have killed Rivers, the ex-Marine asked, as they coasted down the drives of the highway? I haven't even the start of an idea, Rand said. He ran briefly over what he knew, or at least those items which were likely to become public knowledge soon. From what I've observed at the shop, and from what I know of Rivers' character, I'd think he'd been in some kind of crooked deal with somebody, and got double-crossed. Or else the other man caught Rivers double-crossing him. Or else Rivers and somebody else had some secret in common, and the other man wanted a monopoly on it and killed Rivers as a security measure. Think it might be the Fleming pistols? That depends. I'll have to see whether any of the Fleming pistols turn up anywhere in Rivers' form or possession. Personally, I've about decided that the man who was drinking with Rivers killed him. There aren't any indications that anybody else was in the shop afterward. If that's the case, I doubt that the killer was Walters. You know what a snobbish guy Rivers was, and from what I know of him he seems to have had a thoroughly, aristotelian outlook. He identified individuals with class labels. Walters of course would be identified with the label Butler, and I can't imagine Rivers sitting down and drinking with a Butler. He would only drink with people whom he thought of as his equals, that is people whom he identified with class labels of equal social importance to his own labels of Antiquarian and Businessman. That sounds like Korzybski, Pierre said, as they turned onto Route 19 in the village and headed east. You've read Science Insanity? Ran nodded. Yes, I first read it in the 1933 edition back about 1936. I've been rereading it every couple of years since. The principles of general semantics come in very handy in my business, especially in criminal investigation work like this. A consciousness of abstracting, a realization that we can only know something about a thin film of events on the surface of any given situation, and a habit of thinking structurally and of individual things, instead of verbally and of categories, saves a lot of blind alley chasing, and they suggest a great many more avenues of investigation than would be evident to one whose thinking is limited by intentional, verbal categories. Yes, I find general semantics helpful in my work too, Pierre said. I can use it in plotting a story. Uh-oh. The gentleman of the press, Ran said, looking ahead as the car approached the river's house and shop. There hasn't been a good sensational murder story for some time. This is a gift from the gods. A swarm of cars were parked in front and beside the red brick house. Among them ran spotted a gold-lettered green sedan of the New Belfast dispatch and Evening Express, a black coop bearing the blazonry of the New Belfast Mercury. Carved from a couple of papers at Lewisburg, the state capital, and carves from papers as far distant as Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and Cincinnati. In front of the shop a motley assemblage of journalists was interviewing and photographing an undersized runt in a tan Chesterfield topcoat and a gray Hamburg hat, whom they were addressing as Mr. Farnsworth. The district attorney of Scott County had a mustache which failed miserably to make him look like Tom Dewey. He impressed Ran as the sort of offensive little squirt who compensates for his general insignificance by bad manners and loudmouth self-assertion. Corporal Cavalene standing in the doorway of the shop caught sight of Ran and his companion as they got out of the car and came to meet them, hustling them around the crowd and into the shop before anybody could notice and recognize them. That was a good tip about the telephone, he said softly. Checked at the Rosemont Exchange, Rivers got a long-distance call from Topeka last night, 10.15 to 10.17. We got the night long-distance operator out of bed and she confirmed it. Rivers took the call himself. He gets a lot of long-distance calls in the evenings. She knew his voice. He corrected himself, shifting to the past tense and glancing as he did at the chalk outline on the floor, now scuffed by many feet and the dried bloodstains. You say this puts Gresham in the clear? Absolutely, ran to short him. He was at home from 9.22 on. He introduced Pierre Jauret and explained their mission. You find anything except what's here in the shop? Only Rivers owned 38 Smith and Weston in his room and a lot of pistols out in the garage that look like junk to me, Cavalene said. I'll show them to you. Ran nodded. Pierre, you look around the shop. I'll see what this other stuff is. He followed Cavalene through a door at the rear of the shop, the same one through which Cecil Gillis had carried the Kentucky Rifle the afternoon before. Beside Rivers' car there was a long workbench in the garage and piles of wood and cardboard cartons and stacks of newspapers and a barrel full of Excelsior, all evidently used in preparing arms for shipment. There was also a large pile of old pistols and a number of long arms. Ran to pod among the pistols. They were, as the state police corporal had said, all junk. The sort of things a dealer has to buy at times in order to get something really good. Many of them had been partially dismantled for parts. When he was certain that the heap of junk weapons didn't conceal anything of value, he returned to the shop. Pierre was waiting for him by Rivers' desk. He shook his head. Not a thing, he reported. I found a couple of out-and-out fakes and about ten or fifteen that had been altered in one way or another, and a lot of re-blued stuff, but nothing from Fleming's collection. What did you find? Ran laughed. I found Rivers' scrap heap and some pistols that probably contributed parts to some of the other stuff you found, he said. Of course all we can say is that the stuff isn't here. Rivers could have bought it and stored it outside somewhere, but even so, I'm not taking the Fleming butler too seriously as a suspect for the murder. What's this about Fleming's butler, a voice broken? Have you been withholding information from me? Ran turned to find that Farngeworth had left the press conference in front and Crep sold up on him from behind. I withheld the theory, which seems to have come to nothing, he replied. Javaleen told the DA who Ran was. He's cooperating with us, he added. Sergeant McKenna instructed us to give him every consideration. It seems that a number of valuable pistols were stolen from the collection of the late Lane Fleming, Ran said. We suspected that the butler had stolen them and sold them to Rivers. I thought it possible that he might also have killed Rivers to silence him about the transaction. One of the stolen items had turned up here so there is nothing to connect the thefts with the death of Rivers. Good heavens, you certainly didn't suspect a prominent and respected citizen like Mr. Rivers of receiving stolen goods, Farngeworth demanded, aghast. Who respects him, Ran hooded. Rivers was a notorious swindler. He had that reputation among arms collectors all over the country. He was expelled from membership in the National Rifle Association for misrepresentation and fraud. Why he even swindled Lane Fleming on a pair of fake pistols a week or so before Fleming's death. And the very reason why your man Olsen was inclined to suspect Steven Gresham was that he had had trouble with Rivers about a crooked deal Rivers had put over on him. Fortunately Mr. Gresham has since been cleared of any suspicion, but who says he's been cleared, Farngeworth snapped. He's still a suspect. Sergeant McKenna says so, Corporal Javaleen declared. He has been cleared. I guess we just didn't get around to telling you about that. He went on to explain about the long distance call that had furnished Steven Gresham's alibi. And Gresham was at home from 922 on, Rand added. There are eight witnesses to that. His wife and daughter, myself, Captain Jarre here, and his fiance, Miss Lawrence, Philip Cabot, Adam Treehearn, Colin McBride, Farngeworth looked bewildered. Why wasn't I told about that, he demanded, softly. Sergeant McKenna's been too busy and I didn't think of it, Cavaleen said insolently. I'm not supposed to report to you anyhow. Why didn't your man Olsen tell you? He was with us when we checked with the telephone company. Farngeworth tried to ignore that by questioning Pierre about the time of Gresham's arrival home, then turned to Rand and wanted to know what the latter's interest in the case was. I told him about his work in connection with the Fleming collection, producing Humphrey Good's letter of authorization. Farngeworth seemed impressed in about the same way as the coroner, Kirchner. But he was still puzzled. But I understood that you had been retained by Steven Gresham to investigate this murder, he said. So you did talk to Olsen after I saw him, Rand pounced. Odd, he didn't mention this telephone thing. Why, yes, that's true. My agency handles all sorts of business. The two operations aren't mutually exclusive. For a while I even thought they might be related, but now, he shrugged. Well, you believe now that Rivers had nothing to do with the pistols you say were stolen from the Fleming collection, Farngeworth asked. Rand shook his head ambiguously. Farngeworth took that for a negative answer to his question, as he was intended to. And you say Mr. Gresham has been completely cleared of any suspicion of complicity in this murder? Mr. Rand's helping us. We want him to stick around till the case is closed, Corporal Cavalene threw in, perceiving the drift of Farngeworth's questions. He and Sergeant McKenna have worked together before. He's given us a lot of good tips. You understand, Rand took over, Mr. Gresham didn't retain me merely to help him clear himself. I don't accept that kind of retainers. I was retained to find the murderer of Arnold Rivers, and I intend to continue working on this case until I do. I hope that the same friendly spirit of mutual cooperation will exist between your office and my agency, as exists between me and the state police. I certainly don't want to have to work at cross purposes with any of the regular law enforcement agencies. Oh, certainly, of course. Farngeworth didn't seem to like the idea, but there was no apparent opening for objection. He and Rand exchanged mendacious compliments, pledged close cooperation, and did practically everything but draw up and sign a treaty of alliance. Then Farngeworth and Corporal Cavalene accompanied Rand and Pierre Jauré to the front door. Some of the reporters who were ravening outside must have spotted Rand as he had entered. They were all waiting for him to come out and set up a monstrous eulolation when he appeared in the doorway. And Farngeworth, beaming approval, ran to assure the press that he was no more than a mere spectator, that the state police and the efficient district attorney of Scott County had the situation well in hand and that an arrest was expected within a matter of hours. Then he and Pierre hurried to his car and drove away. CHAPTER XIV Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then, after they had left the criminological journalistic uproar at the river's place behind, and were approaching the village of Rosemont, Pierre turned to Rand. You know, he said. For disciple of Korsypsky, you came pretty close to confusing orders of abstraction a couple times back there. You showed that Stephen was at home while Rivers was taking that phone call, a little after ten. Aren't you overlooking the possibility that he came back to Rivers after you and Philip Cabot left the Gresham place? Rand eased the foot pressure on the gas and spared young Jarre a side glance before returning his attention to the road ahead. Understand, Pierre hastened to add, I don't believe that Stephen was full enough to kill Rivers over that fake northen chainie, but weren't you producing inferences that hadn't been abstracted from any descriptive data? Pierre, when I'm working on a case like this, any resemblance between my opinions and the statements I may make is purely due to conscious considerations of policy, Rand told him. I don't want Farnsworth or Mick McKenna going around bitching this operation up for me. If they feel justified in eliminating Gresham on the strength of that phone call, I'm satisfied, regardless of the semantics involved. Right now the thing that's worrying me is the ease with which I seem to have talked Farnsworth into laying off Gresham. He and Olsen both have singletrack minds. They may just dismiss that telephone alibi, such as it is as mere error of the mortal mind, and go right ahead building some kind of ramshackle case against Gresham. Since they picked him for their entry, they won't want to have to scratch him. Damn, I wish I could think of where Walters could have sold those pistols. Well, if Rivers wasn't involved somehow, why was he killed? Pierre wondered. Hey, maybe Walters sold the pistols to Umholtz. He's just as big a crook as Rivers was. Only not quite so smart. Ran not a thoughtfully. Maybe so, and suppose Rivers found out about it and tried to declare himself in on it. That stuff would be worth at least ten thousand. I doubt if whoever bought it paid Walters more than two. In the Umholtz River's income bracket the difference might be worth killing for. That's right, and Umholtz was in the infantry, in the other war. He served in the twenty-eighth division. He was trained to use a bayonet, and he'd pick that short Mauser. It has about the same weight and balance as a 1903 Springfield. Well, you know, the killer wouldn't need to have been trained to use a bayonet, Ran pointed out. Mick McKenna made that point this afternoon. There'd been a lot of war movies that showed bayonet fighting. Pretty nearly everybody knows about the technique that was used. And against an unarmed and probably unsuspecting victim, McRivers, a great deal of proficiency, wouldn't be needed. He slowed the car. Up this road, he asked. Yes, that's my place, over there. Pierre pointed to a white-walled red-roofed house that lay against the hillside, about a mile ahead, making a vivid spot on the dull grays and greens of the early April landscape. It consisted of a square two-story block, with one-story wings projecting to give it an L-shaped floor plan. They reminded Ran of farmhouses he had seen in Sicily during the war. Come on in and see my stuff if you have time, Pierre invited, as Ran pulled to a stop in the driveway. I think I told you what I collect, personal combat arms, both firearms and edge weapons. They entered the front door, which opened directly into a large parlor, a brightly colored, cheerful room. A woman rose from a chair where she had been reading. She was somewhere between forty-five and fifty, but her figure was still trim, and she retained much of what in her youth must have been great beauty. Mother, this is Colonel Ran, Pierre said. Jeff, my mother. Ran shook hands with her and said something polite. She gave him a smile of real pleasure. Pierre has been telling me about you, Colonel, she said. There was a faint trace of French accent in her voice. I suppose he brought you here to show you his treasures. Yes, I collect arms, too. Pistols, Ran said. She laughed. You gun collectors, you're like women looking at somebody's new hat. Will you stay for dinner with us, Colonel Ran? Why, I'm sorry, I can't. I have a great many things to do, and I'm expected for dinner at the Flemmings. I really wish I could, Mrs. Jarre. Maybe some other time. We chatted for a few minutes, then Pierre guided Ran into one of the wings of the house. This is my workshop, too, he said. Here's where I do my writing. He opened the door and showed Ran into a large room. On one side the wall was blank, on the other it was pierced by two small casement windows. The far end was a window for its entire width, from within three feet of the floor almost to the ceiling. There were bookcases on either long side, and on the rear end, and over them hung Pierre's weapons. Ran went slowly around the room, taking everything in. Very few of the arms were of issue military type, and most of these showed alterations to suit individual requirements. As Pierre had told him the evening before, the emphasis was upon weapons which illustrated techniques of combat. At the end of the room, lighted by the wide windows, was a long desk which was really a writer's assembly line, with typewriter, reference books, stacks of notes and manuscripts, and a big dictionary on a stand beside a comfortable swivel chair. What are you writing? Ran asked. Science fiction. I do a lot of stories for the pulps, Pierre told him. Space trails, and other worlds, and wonder stories. Mags like that. Most of it's standardized formula stuff, what's known to the trade as space operas. My best stuff goes to astonishing. Paranthetically, you mustn't judge any of these magazines by their names. It seems to be a convention to use hyperbolic names for science fiction magazines, a heritage from what might be called an earlier and ruder day. What I do for astonishing is really hard work, and I enjoy it. I'm working now on one for them based on J. W. Dune's Time Theories. If you know what they are. I think so, Ran said. Polydimensional time, isn't it? Based on an effect Dune observed and described. Dreams obviously related to some waking event, but preceding rather than following the event to which they are related. I read Dune's experiment with time some years before the war, and once when I had nothing better to do, I recorded Dreams for about a month. I got a few doubtful to fair examples and two unmistakable Dune effect Dreams. I never got anything that would help me pick a race winner or spot a rise in the stock market, though. Well, you know, there's a case on record of a man who had a dream of hearing a radio narration of the English Derby of 1933, including the announcement that Hyperion had won, which he did, Pierre said. The dream was six hours before the race, and tallied very closely with the phraseology used by the radio narrator. Here. He picked up a copy of Tyrell's Science and Psychical Phenomena and leafed through it. Did this fellow cash in on it? Ran asked. No, he was a Quaker, and violently opposed to betting. Here. He handed the book to Ran, Case 12. Ran sat down on the edge of the desk and read the section indicated about three pages in length. Well, I'll be damned, he said as he finished. The idea of anybody passing up a chance like that to enrich himself literally smote him to the vitals. I see the British Society for Psychical Research check that case, and got verification from a couple of independent witnesses. If the SPR vouches for a story, it must be the McCoy. Here the toughest-minded gang of confirmed skeptics anywhere in Christendom. They take an attitude towards evidence that might be advantageously copied by most of the district attorneys I've met, the one in this county being no exception. What's this story you're working on? Oh, it's based on Dune's precognition theories, plus a few ideas of my own, plus a theory of alternate lines of time sequence for alternate probabilities, Pierre said. See, here's the situation. Half an hour later they were still arguing about a multi-dimensional universe when Ran remembered Dave Ritter, who should be at the Rosemont Inn by now. He looked at his watch, saw that it was 545 and inquired about a telephone. Yes, of course, out here. Pierre took him back to the parlor where he dialed the inn, and inquired if a Mr. Ritter from New Belfast were registered there yet. He was. A moment later, he was speaking to Ritter. Jeff, for God's sake, don't come here, Ritter advised. This place is six deep with reporters. The bar sounds like the second act of the front page. Tony Ash and Steve Drake from the Dispatch and Express, Harry Bentz from the Mercury, Joe Rawlings, the AP man from Lewisburg. Christ only knows who all. The standthing's going to turn into another Hall-Mills case. Look, meet me at the beer joint about two miles on the New Belfast side of Rosemont, on Route 19. The white with red trimmings plays with the big pap sign out in front. I'll try to get there without letting a couple of reporters hide in the luggage trunk. Okay, see you directly. Ran hung up, spent the next few minutes breaking away from Pierre and his mother, and went out to his car. Trust Dave Ritter, he thought, to pick some place where malt beverages were sold for a rendezvous. Dave's coop was parked inconspicuously behind the red-trimmed roadhouse. Opening his glove box, Ran took out the two percussion revolvers and shoved them under his trench coat, one on either side, pulling up the belt to hold them in place. As he went into the roadhouse, he felt like Damon Runyon's 12-gun tweeny. He found Ritter, in the last booth, engaged in finishing a bottle of beer. Ran ordered bourbon and plain water, and Ritter ordered another beer. I had the stuff tip left with Kathy, Ritter said, taking out a couple of closely typed sheets and handing them across the table. He said this was the whole business. Ran glanced over them. Tipton had neatly and concisely summarized the provisions of Lane Fleming's will, and had also listed all Fleming's life insurance policies with beneficiaries, including a partnership policy on the lives of Fleming, Dunmore, and Anton Varsik, paying each of the survivors twenty-five thousand dollars. I see Gladys, and Geraldine, and Nelda each get a third of Fleming's premixed stock, Ran commented, but before they can have the certificates transferred to them, they have to sign over their voting power to the board of directors. Evidently, Fleming didn't approve of the feminine touch in business. Yeah, isn't that a dandy, Ritter asked? The directors are elected by a majority vote of the stockholders. They now have the voting power of a majority of the stock. That makes the present board self-perpetuating and responsible only to each other. So it does, but that wasn't what I was thinking of. According to Tib, the board is one hundred percent in favor of the merger with national milling and packaging. We'll have to suppose Fleming knew that. There must have been considerable intramural acrimony on the subject while he was still alive. Now, since he opposed the merger, if he had intended committing suicide, he would have made some other arrangement, wouldn't he? At least one would suppose so. Well then, Rand asked, why, since he is so worried about these suicide rumors, doesn't good use the one argument which would utterly disprove them? Or is there some reason why he doesn't want to call attention to the fact that Fleming's death is what makes the merger possible? Well, that would be calling attention to the fact that the merger made Fleming's death necessary, Ritter pointed out. He poured more beer into his glass. While we're on it, what's the angle on this butler's livery I was supposed to bring? I brought my tux and I borrowed a striped vest from the theatrical property exchange, and I brought that dego 380 of yours. But what makes you think that Fleming's are going to be needing a new butler? You going to poison the one they have? The one they have has been exceeding his duties, Rand said. He was supposed to clean the pistol collection, not content with that he's been cleaning it out. I know it was the butler. You went, at length, into his reasons for thinking so, and described the modus operandi of the thefts. Now, all this is just theory so far, but when I'm able to prove it, I'm going to put the arm on this Walters, if it's right in the middle of dinner and he only has the roast half served. And I want you ready to step into the vacancy, thus created. I'm going to be busy as a pup in a fire plug factory, and I'll need some checking-upting done inside the Fleming household. He went on, in meticulous detail, to explain about the river's murder. I'll have some work for you before you're ready to start buddling, too. Disencumbering himself of the two percussion revolvers, he laid them on the table. I want you to take these and show them to this barbecue man. Get from him a positive statement, preferably in writing, as to which, if either, he sold to Lain Fleming. You might show your agency card and claim to be checking up on some stolen pistols that have been recovered. Then, if he identifies the Legion Rigdon, take the colt and show it to Elmer Umholtz. You want to be careful how you handle him. We may want him for puncturing rivers, though I'm inclined to doubt that as of now. Get him to tell you, yes or no, whether he re-blued it and replated the backstrap and trigger guard, and if he did it for rivers, and if so, when. I know that's been done. The bluing is too dark for civil war period job. The frame, which ought to be case-hardened in colors, has been blued like the barrel and cylinder. The cylinder engraving is almost obliterated, and you can see a few rust pits that have been blued over. But I want to know if this gun was ever in Rivers' shop. That's the important thing. Uh-huh. Got the addresses? Rand furnished them, and Ritter noted them down. The waitress wandered back to see if they wanted anything else. She gave a small squeak of surprise when she saw the two big six-shooters on the table. Rand and Ritter repeated their orders, and when she brought back the drinks, the colt and the leech rigged in were out of sight. The way I see it, everybody who's within a light-year of this river's killing, is trying to pin the metal on somebody else, Ritter was saying. The large girl was afraid young Gérée had done it. Right away she sicked you onto Gilles. Gilles didn't lose any time putting McKenna and Farntworth onto Gresham. Gresham's the only one who didn't have a patsy ready. You're supposed to dig one up for him. And Gérée, the first chance he gets, introduces umholz. He stared into his beer as though he thought ultimate verity might be lurking somewhere under the suds. Do you think it might be possible that rivers bumped Fleming off in spite of his getting killed later? He asked. Anything's possible, Rand replied. Except where some structural contradiction is involved, like scoring 13 with one throw of a pair of dice. Yes, he could have. The way the Fleming's leave their garage open as long as any of the cars are out, anybody could have sneaked into the house from the garage, and gone up to the library or to the gun room. The only question in my mind is whether rivers would have known about that. That lawsuit and criminal action that Fleming was going to start, and that's been verified from sources independent of good, was a good sound motive. And say he took the Legion rigged in away after leaving the cold in Fleming's hand. Selling it to some collector who'd put it in with a hundred or so other pistols would be a good way of disposing of it. And I can understand his trying to buy the cold to get it out of circulation. Rand sits his bourbon. But that leaves us with a question of who killed Rivers and why. Well, because Fleming is dead, and it doesn't matter whether he was murdered or died of old age, Walter starts robbing the collection. He sells the pistols to Rivers, writer reconstructed. And as Rivers doesn't want them around his shop till they've had time to cool off, he stores them with this Umhultz character who seems to have been in plenty of cricket deals with Rivers in the past. The pistols are worth about ten grand and nobody knows where they are but Rivers and Umhultz. And if Rivers drops dead all of a sudden, nobody will know where they are except Umhultz, and in a couple of years he can get them sold off and have the money all to himself. Yes, Dave, that's good sound murder too. And Rivers would sit down and drink with Umhultz, and Umhultz could take that Mauser out of the rack right in front of Rivers, and Rivers wouldn't suspect the thing till it was too late. Of course, it depends upon two unverified assumptions. One, that the pistols were sold to Rivers, and two, that Rivers stored them with Umhultz. And three, that Walter stole the pistols in the first place, writer added. You know, it's possible that somebody else in that house might have stolen them. Yes, as I said, anything's possible within structural limits, but possibilities exist on different orders of probability. We can't try to consider all the possibilities in any case because they are indefinitely numerous. The best we can do is screen out all the low-order probabilities, list the high-order probabilities, and revise our list when and as new data comes to light. Well, I've told you why I think Walter's is a good suspect. From what I've seen of that household, I think Walter's was personally loyal to Lane Fleming, and I don't believe he feels any loyalty to anybody else there, with the exception of Gladys Fleming. He might keep quiet about the missing pistols if she were the thief. If done more or varsic, or either of the girls had done the stealing, he'd tell Gladys, and she'd pass it on to me. She would be glad of anything that could be used against any of the others, and if, on the other hand, she had stolen the pistols herself, she wouldn't have wanted me poking around and wouldn't have brought me in, at least not to handle the collection. Rand looked regretfully at his empty glass and decided against ordering another. Dave, I just thought of something, he said. How do you think this would work? He told Ritter what he had thought of. Ritter drank beer slowly and meditatively. And just my work, he considered. I've seen that gag work a hundred times. Hell, I've used something like that myself at least fifty times, and so have you. And I don't think Walters would be familiar enough with dick practice to see what you were doing. But, if it turns out that Walters didn't sell the pistols to rivers at all, what then? Well, if he sold them to Umholtz, Pierre Jaure's theory is still valid until disproved, Rand said, and if he didn't sell them either to rivers or Umholtz, we'll have to conclude that rivers and plumbing were killed by the same person, the river's killing being a security measure. That is unless we find that rivers was killed by Pierre Jaure, which is a sort of medium high order probability. Jaure and the girl left Gresham's early enough for him to have killed rivers. They were both pretty hard hit by that twenty-five grand blockbuster rivers had dropped on them. Give me back that cult, Dave. All you have to do is get an identification on the leech and rigged in from the barbecue man. I'm going to let Nick McKenna handle Umholtz one way or another after we've concluded the Walters experiment. Until then, we don't want to stir Umholtz up. At all. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Murder in the Gunroom This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Murder in the Gunroom by H. Beam Piper Chapter 15 Parking in the drive, Rand entered the Fleming House by the front door. The butler must have been busy with his pre-dinner tasks in the rear. It was Gladys herself who admitted him. Stay out of there, she warned him, taking his arms and guiding him away from the parlor doorway. Nelda and Geraldine are in there, ignoring each other. If you go in, they'll start talking to you, and then they'll start talking at each other through you, and the air will be full of tomahawks and a jiffy. Let's go up in the gunroom. That's out of the battle zone. What started the hostilities this time, Rand asked, going up the stairway with her. Oh, Geraldine lost Nelda's place marker out of the Kinsey Report or something, she shrugged. Mainly reaction to River's death. That was a great blow to all of us. $25,000 worth of a blow. It was a blow to me too, but I'm not letting it throw me. What were you doing all afternoon? Trying to keep the rest of our prospects out of jail. This 16th Witted District Attorney you have in this county had the idea he could charge Steven Gresham with the killing. I had a time talking him out of it, and I'm still not sure how far I succeeded, and I was trying to get a line on where those pistols got to. They reached the top of the stairs and Rand saw Walters approaching down the hall. It was Colonel Rand, Walters. I let him in myself. Are Mr. Varsik and Mr. Dunmore here yet? Mr. Dunmore is in the library, ma'am, and Mr. Varsik is upstairs in his laboratory. Dinner will be ready in three quarters of an hour. Have you mixed the cocktails? You'd better do that, serve them in about 20 minutes, and you'd better grow up and warn Mr. Varsik not to become involved in anything messy before dinner. Walters just mammed her and started toward the attic stairway. Rand and Gladys went into the gun room. Rand turned to the left, picked the pistol from the wall, and carried it with him as he guided Gladys towards the desk in the corner. You think Walters stole them, she asked. So far I'm inclined to. Have you told any of the others yet? Oh, Lord, no. They'd all be sure that I stole them myself. I'm counting on you to get them back with as little fuss as possible. Do you think that was why Rivers was killed? After all, when a lot of valuable pistols disappear and a crooked dealer is murdered, I'd expect there to be a connection. There could be. Did you ever hear any stories about Mrs. Rivers and this young fellow Gillis who works in Rivers' shop? Gladys laughed. Is that rearing its ugly head in public now? She asked. Well, there's nothing like a good murder to shake the skeletons out of the closets. Not that this particular skeleton was ever exactly hidden. The stories are numerous, and somewhat repetitious. Cecil and Mrs. Rivers would be seen together at roadhouses and so on, at what they imagined was a safe distance from Rosemont. And it was said that when Rivers was away overnight, Cecil was never seen to leave the Rivers' place in the evenings. Might this be relevant to Rivers' sudden demise? It could be. Rand was keeping an eye on the hall door and the other on the head of the spiral stairway. Don't mention outside what I told you about Farnsworth having this brainstorm about Stephen Gresham. If it got out, it might hurt Gresham professionally. The fact is, Gresham has just retained me to investigate the Rivers' murder for him. That won't interfere to any great extent with the work I'm doing here. If necessary, I'll bring a couple of my men in from New Belfast to help me on the Rivers' operation. He broke off abruptly, catching a movement at the head of the spiral, and lifted the pistol in his hand, as though showing it to Gladys. See, he went on. It has two hammers and two nipples, but only one barrel. It was loaded with two charges, one on top of the other. The bullet of the rear charge acted as the breach plug for the front charge. Oh, Walters! He affected to catch sight of the butler for the first time. Bring me that 36-Walk revolver, will you? Yes, sir. Walters, crossing the room, veered to the right and went to the middle wall, bringing a revolver over to the desk. It was a percussion weapon with an abnormally long cylinder. The cocktails are served, he announced. We'll be down in a moment. You can put these back where they belong when you find time, ran told him. Now here, he said to Gladys. This is the same idea in a revolver. Six chambers, two charges, and each. In theory, it was a good idea, but in actual practice, Walters went out the hall door, presumably to call Varsik. Rand continued talking about the superposed load principle, as used in the Lindsey pistol and the Wallach revolver, until he was sure the butler was out of hearing. Gladys was looking at him in appreciative, if slightly punch-drunk delight. I wondered why you brought that thing over here with you, she said. Brother, was that a quick shift? You're really sure he's the one? I'm not really sure of anything, except of my own existence and eventual extinction, ran told her. It pretty nearly has to be somebody inside this house. I don't think anybody else here, yourself included, would know enough about arms to rob this collection, as selectively as it has been robbed. Did you see what just happened here? I asked him for one of the most uncommon arms here, and he went straight and got it. He knows this collection as well as your husband did, and I assume he knows values almost as well. And of course there was a musket, too. Mr. Fleming didn't collect long arms, or he'd have had one. It embodied the same principle as the pistol. The legend is that this man Lindsey's brother was a soldier. He was supposed to have been killed by Indians who drew the fire of the detail he was with, and then charged them when their muskets were empty. Ran shrugged. Actually, this superposed load principle is ancient. There's a 16th century wheel lock pistol in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, firing two shots from the same barrel. Varsik and the butler who had entered by the hall door went across the gun room and down the spiral. Ran laid down the pistol and escorted Gladys after them. Dunmore and Geraldine were in the library when they went down. Geraldine, mildly potted, was reclining in a chair sipping her drink. Dunmore was still radiating his synthetic cheerfulness. Get many of the pistols listed, Colonel? He hailed Ran with jovial condescension. No. Ran poured two cocktails, handing one to Gladys. I went to Arnold River's place this morning, on a little unfinished business, and Dan near tripped over River's corpse. I spent the rest of the day getting myself disinvolved from the ensuing uproar, he told Dunmore. You heard about it, of course. Yes, of course. Horrible business. I hope you didn't get mixed up in it any more than you had to. After all, you're working for us, and if the police knew that, we'd be bothered, too. Look here, you don't think some of these other people who were after the collection might have killed Rivers to keep him from outbidding them? Nelda, entering from the hallway, caught the last part of that. Good God, Fred, she shrieked at him. Don't say things like that. Maybe they did, but wait till they've bought the collection and paid for it before you start accusing them. I'm not accusing anybody, Dunmore growled back at her. I don't know enough about it to make any accusations. All I'm saying is, well, don't say it then. If you don't know what you're talking about, his wife retorted. In spite of this start, dinner passed in relative quiet. For the most part, they talked about the remaining chances of selling the collection, about which nobody was optimistic. Rand tried to build up morale with pictures of large museums and important dealers, all fairly slovering to get their fangs into the Fleming Collection, but to little avail. A pall of gloom had settled, and he was forced to concede that he had, at last, found somebody who had a valid reason to mourn the sudden and violent end of Arnold's rivers. The dinner finished, he went up to the gun room and began compiling his list. He found a yardstick and thumb-tacked it to the edge of the desk to get overall and barrel lengths, and used a pair of inside calipers and a decimal inch rule from the workbench to get calibers. Sticking a sheet of paper into the portable, he began on the wheel locks, leaving spaces to insert the description of the stolen pistols when recovered. When he had finished the wheel locks, he began on the snot palances, then did the migulet locks. He had begun on the true flint locks when Walters, who had finished his own dinner, came up to help him. Rand put the butler to work, fetching pistols from the racks and replacing those he had already listed. After a while, Dunmore strolled in. You say you found River's body yourself, Colonel Rand, he asked. Rand nodded, finished what he was typing, and looked up. Why, yes, there were a few details I wanted to clear up with him, and I called at his shop this morning. I found him lying dead inside. He went on to describe the manner in which Rivers had met his death. The radio and newspaper accounts were accurate enough in the main. There were a few details emitted at the request of the police, of course. Well, you didn't get involved in it, though, Dunmore inquired anxiously. I mean, you're not taking any part in the investigation. After all, we don't want to be mixed up in anything like this. In that case, Mr. Dunmore, let me advise you not to discuss the matter of River's offer to buy this collection with anybody outside, Rand told him. So far, the police and the District Attorney's Office both seem to think that Rivers was killed by somebody whom he'd swindled in a business deal. Of course, they know about the collection being for sale and Rivers offering to buy it. They do? Dunmore asked sharply. Did you tell them that? Naturally, I had to account for my presence at Rivers' shop this morning, Rand replied. I don't know if the idea has occurred to them that somebody might have killed Rivers to eliminate a rival bidder for this collection or not. I wouldn't say anything if I were you that might give them the idea. The extension phone rang shrilly. Walters picked it up, spoke into it, and listened for a moment. Yes, Miss Lawrence, he's right here. You wish to speak to him? He handed the phone across the desk to Rand. Miss Karen Lawrence for you, Colonel Rand. Rand took the phone. Before he had time to say hello, the antique shop girl demanded of him. Colonel Rand, you must tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with Pierre Gérés being arrested? What? Rand barked. Then he softened his voice. No, on my honor, Miss Lawrence, I knew nothing about it until this moment. Who did it, Olson? I don't know what his name was. He was a state police sergeant, she replied. He and another state policeman came to the Gérés house about half an hour ago, charged Pierre with the murder of Arnold Rivers, and took him away. His mother phoned me about it a few minutes ago. That goddamn two-faced Jesuitical bastard, Rand exploded. Where are you now? Here at my shop. Mrs. Gérés is coming here. She's afraid the reporters will be coming out to the house as soon as they hear about it, and she doesn't want to talk to them. All right, I'll be there as soon as I can. If there's anything I can do to help you, you can count on me for it. He hung up and turned to Walters. Is my car still up front, he asked. It is? Good, I'll be gone for a while. Tell the others I have something to attend to. What's happened now? Dunmore asked sourly. Just what I was speaking about, the Gestapo gathered up Pierre Gérés. They seem to have gotten the idea now that the motive may have been competition for the collection. Next thing, Farnsworth will think he has a case against Carl Gwynett, and he'll land in the jug too. I hope you realize that every time something like this happens, it peels a thousand or so off the price I'll be able to get for you people for these pistols. Dunmore didn't try to ask how that would happen, for which Rand was duly thankful. He accepted the statement uncritically. Walters was staring at Rand in horrors saying nothing. Rand picked up the outside phone and dialed the same number he had called from the river's place that morning. Is Sergeant McKenna about? He is fine, I'd like to speak to him. Oh hello, Mick, Jeff Rand. McKenna chuckled out of the receiver. Should've slipped one over on you, didn't I? He gloated. Why, I was checking up on those people who were at the Greshams last evening, and they all agreed that young Gérés and this Lawrence girl had left the party about 10. So I had to talk with Miss Lawrence, and she tried to tell me that Gérés was with her at her apartment over the antique shop, from about 10.15 until about 12, when another girl she rooms with got home from a date. I'd have took that too, only right across the street from the antique shop, there's one of those old hens like you find in every neighborhood, the kind that keeps their nose flattened on the window between the curtains, checking up on the neighbors. I spotted her when I came out of the antique shop, so I slipped around to see her, and she told me that young Gérés went into the apartment with the girl at about quarter past 10. Stayed inside for about 20 minutes, then came out and drove away. She says Gérés came back in about half an hour and stayed till this girl who shares the Lawrence girl's apartment, a Miss Dupont, who teaches sixth grade at Thaddeus Stevens School, got home about 12. So there you are. Uh-huh. Dave Ritters said this was going to turn into another whole mill's case. Well, now you have your pig woman, Rand said. Miss Lawrence shouldn't have lied to you, Mick. I suppose she got worried when you started asking questions, and there's nothing like a good murder in the neighborhood to make liars out of people. And damn well I know that, McKenna agreed. But that isn't all. It seems our cruise car crew spotted Gérés' car standing in Rivers Drive, about 11, just when he was away from the antique shop, and about when the ME figures Rivers was getting the business. Did they get the number, Rand asked? Or how did they identify the car? Oh, they knew it. See, our boys shoot a lot with the Scott County Rifle and Pistol Club, and they've all seen Gérés' car at the range, different times, McKenna said. A gray 1947 Plymouth Coupe. Like I say, they knew the car and they knew Gérés collects guns, and the lights were on inside the shop, and the shades were drawn, so they didn't think anything of it at the time. See, they went to bed about 10 this morning and didn't get up till after five, so I didn't find out about it till after supper. Rand shrugged and managed to get some of the shrug into his voice. Can be it then, he said. I hope you're not making a mistake, Mick. If you are, his lawyer's going to crucify you. What are you using for motive? Rivers was outbidding this crowd, Gérés and this girl were in with. They all told me about that, McKenna said. And he and the girl were planning to use their end of the collection to go into the arms business after they got married. Rivers got in the way. McKenna at the other end of the line must have shrugged too. After all, for about four years they'd been training Gérés to overcome resistance with the bayonet. So he did just that. Maybe so. You find out anything about that other matter I was interested in? You mean the pistols? Uh-uh. We went over Rivers' place with a fine-toothed comb and questioned young Gérés about it and we didn't get a thing. You sure those pistols went to Rivers? I'm not sure of anything at all, Rand replied, looking at his watch. You going to be in, say, in a couple of hours? I want to have a talk with you. Sure, I'll be around all evening, McKenna assured him. If we don't have another murder, Rand hung up. He pulled the sheet out of the typewriter, laid it face down on the other sheets he had finished, and laid a long 17th-century Flemish flintlock on top for a paperweight, memorizing the position of the pistol relative to the paper under it. Put those pistols back on the wall, he told Walters, indicating several he had laid aside after listing. Leave the others there. I'm not finished with them yet. I'll be back before too long, if I don't find any more bodies. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Murder in the Gunroom. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Murder in the Gunroom by H. B. Piper. Chapter 16. It was raining again as Rand parked his car about a hundred yards up the street from Karen Lawrence's antique shop. The windows were dark, but Karen was waiting inside the door for him. He entered quickly, mindful of the all-seeing eye across the street, and followed her to a back room where Mrs. Jarre and Dorothy Gresham were. All three women regarded him intently, as though trying to decide whether he was friend or enemy. There was a long silence before Mrs. Jarre spoke, and when she did, her words were almost the same as Karen's when she had spoken over the phone. Colonel Rand, she began, obviously struggling with herself. You must tell me the truth. Did you have anything to do with my son's being arrested? Rand shook his head. Absolutely nothing, Mrs. Jarre, he told her, unbuckling the belt of his raincoat and taking it off. I have never seriously suspected your son of the river's murder. I had no idea that McKenna was contemplating arresting him, and if I had, I would have advised him against it. Besides causing annoyance to innocent people, McKenna's made a serious tactical error. He was misled by appearances, and he was afraid I'd break this case before he did, which I intended to do. He turned to Karen Lawrence. I talked to McKenna after you called me. He as much as admitted making that arrest to get in ahead of me. I told you, dart the aggression flashed at the others. I knew Jeff wouldn't stoop to anything as contemptible as pretending to be Pierre's friend, and then getting him arrested. Rand permitted himself a rye inwards smile. He hoped she would not have an opportunity to observe his stooping capabilities before he had finished his various operations at Rosemont. I certainly hoped not. I certainly hoped not. Mrs. Jarret relaxed, smiling faintly at Rand. Pierre likes you, Colonel. I hated the thought that you might have betrayed him. Are you working on the river's case too? Rand nodded again, turning to dart Gresham. Your father retained me to make an investigation, he said. After that trouble he had with rivers about that spurious north and Cheney, he wanted the murderer caught before somebody got around to accusing him. You mean there's a chance dad might be suspected? Dot was scared. Rand nodded. The girl was beginning to look suspiciously at Karen and Mrs. Jarret. Getting ready to toss Pierre to the wolves if her father were in danger, Rand suspected. He hastened to reassure her. Rivers was still alive when your father reached home last evening, he told her. That's been established. She breathed her obvious relief. If Gresham had left home after Rand's departure with Philip Cabot, she didn't know it. Karen, on the other hand, was growing more and more worried. Look, Colonel, she began. They didn't just pull Pierre's name out of a hat. They must have had something to suspect him about. Yes, you shouldn't have lied to McKenna. He checked up on your story. The woman across the street told them about seeing Pierre leave here a little before eleven and come back about half an hour later. I was afraid of that, Karen said. I forgot all about that old hag. There's nothing that can go on around here that she doesn't know about. Pierre calls her Mrs. G2. And then, Rand continued, McKenna claims that a car like Pierre's was seen parked in Rivers Drive about the time Pierre was away from here. Mrs. Jarre moans softly. Her face already haggard became positively ghastly. Karen gassed in fright. They only identified it as to model and make. They didn't get the license number. Where did Pierre go while he was away from here? He went out for cigarettes, Karen said. When he came here from Gresham's, we made some coffee and then sat and talked for a while and then we found out that we were both out of cigarettes and there weren't any here. So Pierre said he'd go out and get some. He was gone about half an hour. When he came back he had a carton and some hot pork sandwiches. He'd gotten them at the same place as the cigarettes. Aren't Igo's lunch stand? Could Igo verify that? It wouldn't help if he did. Igo's place isn't a five minute drive from Rivers, farther down the road. Has Pierre a lawyer, Rand asks? No, not yet. We were just talking about that. Dad would defend him, Dot suggested. Of course he's not a criminal lawyer. Carter tipped in in New Belfast, Rand told him. He's my lawyer. He's gotten me out of more jams than you can shake a stick at. Where's the telephone? I'll call him now. You think he'd defend Pierre? Unless I'm badly mistaken, Pierre isn't going to need any trial defense, Rand told them. He will need somebody to look after his interests and will try to get him out on a rid as soon as possible. He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to nine. It was hard to say where Carter tipped in would be at the moment. His manservant would probably know. Karen showed him the phone and he started to put through a person-to-person call. It was eleven o'clock before he backed his car into the Fleming garage and the rain had returned to a wet, sticky snow. All the Fleming's cars were in, but Rand left the garage doors open. He also left his hat and coat in the car. After locating and talking to Tipton and arranging for him to meet Dave Ritter at the Rosemont Inn, he had gone to the State Police substation where he had talked at length with Mick McKenna. He had been compelled to tell the State Police sergeant a number of things he had intended keeping to himself. When he was through, McKenna went so far as to admit that he had been a trifle hasty in arresting Pierre Gérée. Rand suspected that he was mentally kicking himself with hob-nailed boots for his premature act. He also submitted, for McKenna's approval, the scheme he had outlined to Dave Ritter and obtained a promise of cooperation. When he entered the Fleming library en route to the gun-room, he found the entire family assembled there. With them was Humphrey Good. As he came in, they broke off what had evidently been an acrimonious dispute and gave him their undivided attention. Geraldine, relaxed in a chair, was smoking. For once, she didn't have a glass in her hand. GLaDOS occupied another chair. She was smoking a cigarette. NELDA had been pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. At Rand's entrance, she turned to face him and Rand wondered whether she thought he was Clyde Beatty or a side of beef. Good and Dunmore sat together on the sofa, forming what looked like a bilateral offensive and defensive alliance, and Varsic, looking more than ever like Rudolph Hest, stood with folded arms in one corner. Now see here, Rand—Dunmore began as soon as the detective was inside the room. We want to know just exactly for whom you are working around here, and I demand to know where you've been since you left here this evening. And I, Good piped up, must protest most strongly against your involvement in this local murder case. I am informed that, while in the employ of this family, you accepted a retainer from another party to investigate the death of Arnold Rivers. That's correct, Rand informed him. Then he turned to GLaDOS. Just for the record, Mrs. Fleming, do you recall any stipulation to the effect that the business of handling this pistol collection should have the exclusive attention of my agency? I certainly don't recall anything of the sort. No, of course not, she replied. As long as the collection is sold to the best advantage, I haven't any interest in any other business of your agency, and have no right to have. She turned to the others. I thought I made that clear to all of you. You didn't answer my question, Dunmore yelled at him. I don't intend to. You aren't my client, and I'm not answerable to you. Well, you carry my authorization, Good supported him. I think I have a right to know what's being done. As far as the collection is concerned, yes. As for the river's murder, or my armored car service, or any other business of the Tri-State agency, no. Well, you made use of my authorization to get that revolver from Kirchner, could begin. Ah, Rand cried. So that concerns the river's murder, does it? Well, when did you find that out now? When Kirchner called you, you had no objection to his giving me that revolver. What changed your mind for you? Didn't you know that river's was dead then? Rand watched Good trying to assimilate that. Or didn't you think I knew? Good clearness throat noisily, twisting his mouth. The others were looking back and forth from him to Rand in Obvious v. Wilderman. They realized that Rand had pulled some kind of rabbit out of a hat, but they couldn't understand how he'd done it. What I mean is that since then you have allowed yourself to become involved in this murder case. You have let it be publicly known that you are a private detective working for the Fleming family, good or rated. How long then will it be before it will be said, by all sorts of irresponsible persons, that you are also investigating the death of Lane Fleming? Well, Rand asked patiently. Are you afraid people will start calling that a murder too? Gladys was looking at him apprehensively, as though she were watching him juggle four live hand grenades. Is anybody saying that now? Varsic asked sharply. Not that I know of, Rand lied. But if Good keeps on denying it, they will. You know perfectly well, Good exploded, that I am alluding to these unfounded and mischievous rumors of suicide, which are doing the premix company so much harm. My God, Mr. Rand, can't you realize? Oh, come off it, Good, Varsic broke in amusedly. We all, Colonel Rand included, know that you started those rumors yourself. Very clever to start a rumor by denying it. But scarcely original. Dr. Goebbels was doing it almost twenty years ago. My God, is that true? Nelda demanded. You mean he's been going around starting all these stories about Father committing suicide? She turned on Good like an enraged panther. Why, you lying old son of a bitch, she screamed at him. Of course. He wants to start a selling run on premix, Varsic explained to her. He's buying every share he can get his hands on. We all are. He turned to Rand. I'd advise you to buy some, if you can find any, Colonel Rand. In a month or so is going to be a really good thing. I know about the merger. I am buying, Rand told him. But are you sure of what Good's been doing? Of course, Glad is putting contemptuously. I always wondered about this suicide talk. I couldn't see why Humphrey was so perturbed about it. Anything that lowered the market price of premix at this time would be to his advantage. She looked at Good as though he had six legs and a hard shell. You know, Humphrey, I can't say I exactly thank you for this. Did you know about it, Nelda demanded of her husband? You did! My God, Fred, you are a filthy specimen. Oh, you know anything to turn a dishonest dollar, Geraldine piped up. Like the late Arnold Rivers' ten thousand offer. Say, I wonder if that might not be what Rivers died of, raising the price and leaving Fred out in the cold. Dunmore simply stared at her, making a noise like a chicken choking on a piece of string. Well, all this isn't my pigeon, Rand said to Gladus. I only work here. Deo gratis, and I still have some work to do. With that, he walked past Good in Dunmore and ascended the spiral stairway to the gun room. Even at the desk, in the far corner of the room, he could hear them going at it, hammer and tongs in the library. Sometimes it would be Nelda's strident shrieks that would dominate the bedlam below. Sometimes it would be Fred Dunmore roaring like a bull. Now and then, Humphrey Good would rumble something, and once in a while he could hear Gladus' trained and modulated voice. Usually any remarks he made would be followed by outraged shouts from Good in Dunmore, like the crash of falling masonry after the whip-crack of a tank gun. At first, Rand eavesdropped shamelessly, but there was nothing of more than comic interest. It was just a routine parade and guard mount of the older and more dependable family skeletons, with special emphasis on Humphrey Good's business and professional ethics. When he was satisfied that he would hear nothing having any bearing on the death of Lane Fleming, Rand went back to his work. After a while, the tumult gradually died out. Rand was still typing when Gladus came up the spiral and perched on the corner of the desk, picking up a long brass-barreled English flintlock and hefting it. You know, I sometimes wonder why we don't all come up here, break out the ammunition, pick our weapons, and settle things, she said. It never was like this when Lane was around. Oh, Nelda and Geraldine would bear their teeth at each other once in a while, but now this place has turned into a miniature Iwo Jima. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to take it. I'm developing combat fatigue. It's snowing, Rand mentioned. Let's throw them out into the storm. I can't. I have to give Nelda and Geraldine a home as long as they live, she replied. Terms of the will. Oh well, Geraldine will drink herself to death in a few years and Nelda will elope with a prize fighter sometime. Why don't you have the house haunted? The Tri-State Agency has an excellent house-haunting department. Anything you want, poltergeist, apparitions, cold, climbing hands in the dark, footsteps in the attic, clanking chains in eldritch screams, banshees, any three for the price of two. It wouldn't work. Geraldine is so used to polka-dotted dinosaurs and little green men from Mars that she wouldn't mind an ordinary ghost. And Nelda'd probably try to drag it into bed with her. She laid down the pistol and slid off the desk. Well, pleasant dreams. I'll see you in the morning. After she had left, the gun room, Rand looked at his watch. It was a very precise instrument, a Swiss military watch with a sweep second hand and two timing dials. It had formally been the property of an Obergruppenführer of the SS and Rand had appropriated it to replace his own, broken while choking the Obergruppenführer to death in an alley in Palermo. He zeroed the timing dials and pressed the star button. Then he stood for time over the old cobbler's bench, mentally reconstructing what had been done after Lane Fleming had been shot, after which he hurried down the spiral and along the rear hall to the garage, where he snatched his hat and coat from the car. He threw the coat over his shoulders like a cloak and went on outside. He made his way across the lawn to the orchard, through the orchard to the lawn of Humper Good's house, and across this to Good's side door. He stood there for a few seconds, imagining himself opening the door and going inside. Then he stopped the timing hands and returned to the Fleming house, locking the garage doors behind him. In the garage he looked at the watch. It had taken exactly six minutes and twenty-two seconds. He knew that he could move more rapidly than the dumpy lawyer, but to balance that he had been moving over more or less unfamiliar ground. He left his hat and trench coat in the car and went upstairs. Undressing he went into the bathroom in his dressing-down, spent about twenty minutes shaving and taking a shower, and then returned to his own room. When he rose the next morning Rand noticed something which had escaped his eye when he had gone to bed the night before. His thirty-eight special and its shoulder holster was lying on the dresser. He had not bothered putting it on when he had gone to see rivers the morning before, and it had lain there all the previous day. He distinctly remembered having moved it shortly after dinner when he had gone to his room for some notes he had made on the collection. However, between that time and the present it had managed to flop itself over. The holster was now lying back up. Intrigued by such remarkable accomplishment in an inanimate object, Rand crossed the room in the dress of nature in which he slept and looked more closely at it, receiving a second and considerably more severe surprise. The revolver in the holster was not his own. It was, to be sure, a thirty-eight cult detective special, and it was in his holster, but it was not the detective special he had brought with him from New Belfast. His own gun was of the second type, with the corners rounded off the grip. This one was of the original issue, with the Square Police positive grip. His own gun had seen hard service. This one was in practically new condition. There is a discrepancy of about thirty thousand in the serial numbers. His gun had been loaded in six chambers with the standard 158 grain loads. This one was loaded in only five with 148 grain mid-range wide-cutter loads. Rand stood for some time looking at the revolver. The worst of it was that he couldn't be exactly sure when the substitution had been made. It might have happened at any time between eight o'clock and twelve, when he had gone to bed. He rather suspected that it had been accomplished while he had been in the bathroom, however. Dumping out the five rounds in the cylinder, he inspected the changelin carefully. It was, he thought, the revolver Lane Fleming had kept in the drawer of the gun room desk. There was no obstruction in the two inch barrel. The weapon had not been either fired or cleaned recently. The firing pin had not been shortened. The mainspring showed the proper amount of tension, and the mechanism functioned as it should. There was a chance that somebody had made up five special hand loads for him using nitroglycerin instead of powder, but that didn't seem likely as it would not necessitate a switch of revolvers. There were four or five other possibilities, all of them disquieting. He would have been a great deal less alarmed if somebody had taken a shot at him. Getting a box of cartridges out of his Gladstone, he filled the cylinder with 158 grain loads. When he went to the bathroom, he took the revolver in his dressing-gown pocket. When he dressed, he put on the shoulder holster and pocketed a handful of spare rounds. Anton Varsik was loitering in the hall when he came out. He gave Rand good morning, and fell into step with him as they went toward the stairway. Colonel Rand, I wish you wouldn't mention this to anybody, but I would like a private talk with you, the cheque said, after Fred Dunmore has left for the plant. Would that be possible? Yes, Mr. Varsik, I'll be in the gun room all morning working. They reached the bottom of the stairway where Gladys was waiting. Understand, Rand continued, I never really studied biology. I was exposed to it in school, but at that time I was preoccupied with the so-called social sciences. Varsik took the conversational shift and stride. Of course, he agreed, but you are trained in the scientific method of thought. That at least is something. When I have opportunity to explain my ideas more fully, I believe you'll be interested in my conclusions. They greeted Gladys and walked with her to the dining room. As usual Geraldine was absent. Dunmore and Nelda were already at the table, eating in silence. Both of them seemed self-conscious after the pitched battle of the evening before. Rand broke the tension by offering Humphrey good in the role of whipping-boy. He had no sooner made a remark in derogation of the lawyer than Nelda and her husband broke into a duet of vitreporation. In the end everybody affected to agree that the whole unpleasant scene had been entirely Good's fault, and a pleasant spirit of mutual cordiality prevailed. Finally Dunmore got up, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Well, it's about time to get to work, he said. We might as well save gas and both use my car. Coming Anton? I'm sorry Fred, I can't leave yet. I have some notes upstairs I had to get in order. I was working on this new egg powder last evening and I want to continue the experiments at the plant laboratory. I think I know how we'll be able to cut production costs on it, about five percent. And boy can we stand that, Dunmore grunted. Well, I'll be seeing you at the plant. Rand waited until Dunmore had left, then went across to the library and up to the gun room. As soon as he entered the room above he saw what was wrong. The previous thefts had been masked by substitutions, but whoever had helped himself to one or more of the recent metallic cartridge specimens the night before hadn't bothered with any such precaution, and a pair of vacant screw hooks disclosed the removal. A second look told Rand what had been taken. The little twenty-five Webly and Scott from the Pollard Collection, with the silencer. The pistol-trade which had been imposed on him had disquieted him. Now he had no hesitation in admitting to himself he was badly scared. Whoever had taken that little automatic had had only one thought in mind. Noiseless and stealthy murder. Very probably with one Colonel Jefferson Davis Rand in mind as the prospective course. He sat down at the desk and started typing, at the same time trying to keep the hall door and the head of the spiral stairway under observation. It was an attempt which was responsible for quite a number of typographical errors. Finally Anton Varsa came in from the hallway, approached the desk and sat down in an armchair. Colonel Rand, he began in a low voice. I have been thinking over a remark you made last evening. Were you serious when you alluded to the possibility that Lane Fleming had been murdered? Well, the idea had occurred to me, Rand, understated, keeping his right hand close to his left coat lapel. I take it you have begun to doubt that it was an accident? I would doubt a theory that a skilled chemist would accidentally poison himself in his own laboratory, Varsa replied. I would not, for instance, pour myself a drink from a bottle labeled HNO3 in the belief that it contained vodka. I believe that Lane Fleming should be credited with equal caution about firearms. Yet you were the first to advance the theory that the shooting had been an accident, Rand pointed out. I have a strong dislike for firearms. Varsa looked at the pistols on the desk as though they were so many rattlesnakes. I have always feared an accident with so many in the house. When I saw him lying dead with a revolver in his hand, that was my first thought. First thoughts are so often illogical, emotional. And you didn't consider the possibility of suicide? No, absolutely not. The check was emphatic. The idea never occurred to me then or since. Lane Fleming was not the man to do that. He was deeply religious, much interested in church work. And aside from that, he had no reason to wish to die. His health was excellent, much better than that of many men twenty years his junior. He had no business worries. The company is doing well, we had large government contracts during the war, and no reconversion problems afterward. We now have more orders than we have plant capacity to fill, and Mr. Fleming was consulting with architects about plant expansion. We have been spared any serious labor troubles, and Mr. Fleming's wife was devoted to him, and he to her. He had no family troubles. Rand raised an eyebrow over the last. No, he inquired. Varsa flushed. Please, Colonel Rand, you must not judge by what you have seen since you came here. When Lane Fleming was alive such scenes as that in the library last evening would have been unthinkable. Now this family is like a ship without a captain. And since you do not think that he shot himself either deliberately or inadvertently, there remains the alternative that he was shot by somebody else, either deliberately or very improbably by inadvertence, Rand said. I think the latter can be safely disregarded. Let's agree that it was murder, and go on from there. Varsa nodded. You are investigating it as such? He asked. I am appraising in selling this pistol collection, Rand told them wearily. I am curious about who killed Fleming, of course, for my own protection I like to know the background of situations in which I am involved. But do you think Humphrey Good would bring me here to stir up a lot of sleeping dogs that might awake and grab him by the pants seat? Or did you think that uproar in the library last evening was just a prearranged act? I had not thought of Humphrey Good. It was my understanding that Mrs. Fleming brought you here. Mrs. Fleming wants her money out of the collection as soon as possible, Rand said. To reopen the question of her husband's death and start a murder investigation wouldn't exactly expedite things. I am just a more or less innocent bystander who wants to know whether there is going to be any trouble or not. Now you came here to tell me what happened on the night of Lane Fleming's death, didn't you? Yes. We had finished dinner at about seven, Barsak said. Lane had been up here for about an hour before dinner, working on his new revolver. He came back here immediately after he was through eating. A little later, when I had finished my coffee, I came upstairs by the main stairway. The door of this room was open and Lane was inside sitting on that old shoemaker's bench working on the revolver. He had it apart and he was cleaning a part of it. The round part, where the loads go. The drum is it? Cylinder. How was he cleaning it, Rand asked? He was using a small brush, like a test tube brush. He was scrubbing out the holes, the chambers. He was using a solvent that smelled something like banana oil. Rand nodded. He could visualize the progress Fleming had made. If Barsak was telling the truth and he remembered what Walters had told him, the last flicker of possibility that Lane Fleming's death had been accidental vanished. I talked with him for some ten minutes or so, Barsak continued, about some technical problems at the plant. All the while he kept on working on this revolver, and finished cleaning out the cylinder and also the barrel. He was beginning to put the revolver together when I left him and went up to my laboratory. About fifteen minutes later I heard the shot. For a moment I debated with myself as to what I had heard, and then I decided to come down here. But first I had to take a solution off a Bunsen burner, where I had been heating it and take the temperature of it, and then wash my hands because I had been working with poisonous materials. I should say all this took me about five minutes. When I got down here the door of his room was closed and locked. That was most unusual and I became really worried. I pounded on the door and called out but I got no answer. Then Fred Dunmore came out of the bathroom attached to his room, with nothing on but a bathrobe. His hair was wet and he was in his bare feet and making wet tracks on the floor. From there on Barsak's story tallied closely with what Rand had heard from Gladys and from Walters. Everybody's story tallied where it could be checked up on. You think the murderer locked the door behind him when he came out of here? Barsak asked. I think somebody locked the door sometime. It might have been the murderer, or it might have been Fleming at the murderer's suggestion. But why couldn't the murderer have left the gun room by that stairway? Barsak looked around furtively and lowered his voice. Now he looked like Rudolf Hess, discussing what to do about Ernst Röhm. Colonel Rand, don't you think that Fred Dunmore could have shot Lane Fleming and then have gone to his room and waited until I came downstairs, he asked? Here we go again, Rand thought. Just like the river's case, everybody putting the finger on everybody else. And have undressed and taken a bath while he was waiting, he inquired. You came down here only five minutes after the shot. In that time Dunmore would have had to wipe his fingerprints off the revolver, leave it in Fleming's hand, put that oily rag in his other hand, set the dead latch across the hall, undress, get into the bathtub, and start bathing. That's pretty fast work. But who else could have done it? Well, you for one. You could have come down from your lab, shot Fleming, faked the suicide, and then gone out locking the door behind you and made a demonstration in the hall until you were joined by Dunmore and the ladies. Then, with your innocence well established, you could have waited until your wife prompted you, as she or somebody else was sure to, and then have gone down to the library and up the spiral, Rand said. That's about as convincing, no more and no less as your theory about Dunmore. Farsick agreed, sadly. And I cannot prove otherwise, can I? You can advance your Dunmore theory to establish reasonable doubt, Rand told him. And if Dunmore's accused, he can do the same with the theory I've just outlined. And as long as reasonable doubt exists, neither of you could be convicted. This isn't the Third Reich or the Soviet Union. They wouldn't execute both of you to make sure of getting the right one. Both of you had a motive in this Milpak merger that couldn't have been negotiated while Fleming lived. One or the other of you may be guilty. On the other hand, both of you may be innocent. Then who? Farsick had evidently bet his role on Dunmore. There is no one else who could have done it. The garage doors were open, if I recall, Rand pointed out. Anybody could have slipped in that way, come through the rear hall to the library and up the spiral, and have gone out the same way. Some of the French maquis I worked with during the Cold War could have wiped out the whole family, one after the other, that way. A look of intense concentration settled upon Farsick's face. He nodded several times. Yes, of course, he said, his thought-chain complete. And you spoke of motive. From what you must have heard last evening, Humford Good was no less interested in the merger than Fred Dunmore or myself. And then there's your friend Gresham. He is quite familiar with the interior of this house, and who knows what terms national milling and packaging may have made with him, contingent upon his success in negotiating the merger. I'm not forgetting either of them, Rand said. Or Fred Dunmore, or you. If you did it, I'd advise you to confess now. It'll save everybody, yourself included, a lot of trouble. Farsick looked at him, fascinated. Why, I believe you regard all of us just as I do my fruit flies, he said at length. You know, Colonel Rand, you are not a comfortable sort of man to have around. He rose slowly. Naturally, I'll not mention this interview. I suppose you won't want to, either? I'd advise you not to talk about it at that, Rand said. The situation here seems to be very delicate and rather explosive. Oh, as you go out, I'd be obliged to you for sending Walters up here. I still have this work here, and I'll need his help. After Farsick had left him, Rand looked in the desk drawer, verifying his assumption that the thirty-eight he had seen there was gone. He wondered where his own was at the moment. When the butler arrived, he was put to work, bringing pistols to the desk, carrying them back to the racks, taking measurements and the like. All the while, Rand kept his eye on the head of the spiral stairway. Finally, he caught a movement and saw what looked like the top of a peak crowned, gray-felt hat between the spindles of the railing. He eased the detective's special out of its holster and got to its feet. All right, he sang out, come on up! Walters looked, obviously, startled at the revolver that had materialized in Rand's hand, and at the two men who were emerging from the spiral. He was even more startled, it seemed, when he realized that they were the uniform of the state police. What's the meaning of this, sir? he demanded of Rand. You're being arrested, Rand told him. Just stand still now. He stepped around the desk and frisked the butler quickly, wondering if he were going to find a 25 Webly and Scott automatic or his own 38 special. When he found neither, he holstered his temporary weapon. If this is your idea of a joke, sir, permit me to say that it isn't, it's no joke, son, Sergeant McKenna told him. In this country, a police officer doesn't have to recite any incantation before he makes an arrest, any more than he needs to read any riot act before he can start shooting. But it won't hurt you to warn you that anything you say can be used against you. At least I must insist upon knowing why I'm being arrested, Walters said, I sleep. Oh, don't you know, McKenna asked, why you're being arrested for the murder of Arnold's Revers. For a moment the butler retained his professional glacial disdain, and then the bottom seemed to drop suddenly out of him. Rand suppressed the smile at this minor verification of his theory. Walters had been expecting to be accused of larceny, and was prepared to treat the charge with contempt. Then he had realized, after a second or so, what the state police sergeant had really said. Good God, gentlemen! He looked from Nick McKenna to Corporal Cavalene to Rand, and back again in the Wildermen. You surely can't mean that. We can, and we do, Rand told him. You stole about twenty-five pistols from this collection after Mr. Fleming died, and sold them to Arnold's Revers. Then when I came here and started checking up on the collection, you knew the game was up. So last evening you took out the station wagon and went to see Revers, and you killed him to keep him from turning state's evidence and incriminating you. Or maybe you killed him in a quarrel over the division of the loot. I hoped for your sake that it was the latter, and if it was you may get off with second-degree murder, but if you can't prove that there was no premeditation you're tagged for the electric chair. But I didn't kill Mr. Revers, Walter stammered. I barely knew the gentleman. I saw him once or twice when he was here to see Mr. Fleming, but outside of that, outside of that you sold him about twenty-five of these pistols, and got a like number of junk pistols from him for replacements. He took the list Pierre Gérée and Stephen Gresham had compiled out of his pocket and began reading. Italian wheel lock pistol, late sixteenth or early seventeenth century, pair Italian snap-hounds pistols by Lazzarino-Caminazzo. He finished the list and put it away. I think we've missed one or two, but that'll do for the time. But I didn't sell those pistols to Mr. Revers, Walter expostulated. I sold them to Mr. Carl Gwynett. I can prove it. That, Rand had not expected. Go on, he jeered. I suppose you have receipts for all of them. Fences always do that, of course. But I did sell them to Mr. Gwynett. I can take you to his house if you get a search warrant and show you where he has them hidden in the garret. He was afraid to offer them for sale until I, through this collection, had been broken up and sold. He still has every one of them. McKenna spat out an obscenity. Aren't we ever going to have any luck? he demanded. Gérée out on a writ this morning and now this. But he ain't in the clear, Cavalene argued. Maybe he didn't sell Revers the pistols, but maybe he did kill him. Dope! McKenna abused his subordinate. If he didn't sell Revers the pistols, why would he kill him? He's only said he sold them to Gwynett, Rand pointed out. Then he turned to Walters. Look here, if we find those pistols in Gwynett's possession, you're clear on this murder charge. There's still a slight matter of larceny, but that doesn't involve the electric chair. You take my advice and make a confession now, and then accompany these officers to Gwynett's place and show them the pistols. If you do that, you may expect clemency on the theft charge, too. Oh, I will, sir. I'll sign a full confession, and take those police officers and show them every one of the pistols. Rand put paper and carbon sheets in the typewriter. As Walters dictated, he typed. The butler listed every pistol which Gresham and Pierre Jauré had found missing, and a cased presentation pair of 44 Colt 1860s that nobody had missed. He signed the triplicate copies willingly. He didn't seem to mind signing himself into jail, as long as he thought he was signing himself out of the electric chair. The book in which Fleming had recorded his pistols he still had. He had removed them from the gun room and was keeping it in his room. He said he would get it, along with the things he would need to take to jail with him. When it was finished, they all went down the spiral stairway into the library. Nelda was standing at the foot of it. Evidently she had been listening to what had been going on upstairs. You dirty sneak, she yelled, catching sight of Walters. After all we've done for you, you turn around and rob us. I hope they give you twenty years. Walters turned to McKenna. Sergeant, I am willing to accept the penalty of the law for what I have done, but I don't believe, sir, that it includes being yapped at by this vulgar bitch. Nelda let out an inarticulate howl of fury and sprang at him, nails raking. Corporal Cavalene caught a wrist before she could claw the prisoner. That's enough, you, he told her. You stop that or you'll spend a night in jail yourself. She jerked her arm loose from his grasp and flung out of the library. As she went out, Gladys entered. Rand, who had been bringing up in the rear, stepped down from the stairway. He confessed, he said softly. We had to bluff it out of him, but he came across. Sold the pistols to Carl Gwyneth. We're going now to pick up Gwyneth and the pistols. I'm glad you found the pistols, she told him. But what are we going to do over the weekend for a butler? Rand snapped his fingers. Damn it, I never thought of that. He allowed his brow to furrow with thought. I won't promise anything, but I may be able to dig up somebody for you for a day or so. Some of my friends are visiting their son in the Naval Hospital on the West Coast, and their butler may be glad for a chance to pick up a little extra money. Shall I call him and find out? Oh, Colonel Rand, would you? I'd be eternally grateful. It was just as easy as that. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Murder in the Gunroom This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Murder in the Gunroom by H. Beam Piper Chapter 18 Dave Ritter, driving his small coupe, kept his eye on the White State police car ahead. Rand, who had come away from the Fleming House in the White Car, had called Ritter from the Office of the Justice of the Peace, while waiting for Walters to put up bail after his hearing. Now, en route to Gwyneth's, he was briefing his assistant on what had happened. So everything set, he concluded. Mrs. Fleming jumped at it. She knows you're coming in your own car, which you may keep in the garage there. You've left New Belfast about now. If you show up around three, you'll be safe on the driving time. Your name is Davies. I decided on that in case I suffer a lapsus lingui and call you Dave in front of somebody. Yeah, I'll have to watch and not call you Jeff, Colonel Rand. Sir? You nodded toward the glovebox. That leech and rigged in's in there. You'd better get it out before I go to the Fleming's. The guy at the drive-in made a positive identification. It's the one he sold Fleming. I saw the rest of the pistols he has there. Don't waste time looking him up about them. They stink, and I saw a tip this morning. He got young Jarrett sprung on a rid. He thought for a moment, what does this do to the rivers and Fleming murders? We can look for one man for both jobs now, Rand said. Probably the motive for Fleming was that merger he was so violently opposed to, and the river's killing must have been a security measure of some sort. There, that must be Gwyneth's now. The state police car had pulled up in front of a large three-story frame house with faded and discolored paint and a jigsaw scroll work around the cornices, standing among a clump of trees beside the road. McKenna and Cavalene got out, with Walters between them, and started up the path to the front steps. Ritter stopped behind the White Sedan, and he and Rand got out. By that time, Walters and the two policemen were on the front porch. Suddenly, Ritter turned and sprinted around the right side of the house. Rand stood looking after him for a moment, then started to follow more slowly, as he did a shot slammed in the rear. Jerking out the changeling 38 Special, he whirled and ran around the left side of the house, arriving at the rear in time to see Gwyneth standing on a boardwalk between the house and the stable garage behind, with his hands raised. There was a fresh bullet scar on the boardwalk at his feet. Ritter was covering him from the corner of the house with the 380 Beretta. Rand strolled over to Gwyneth, frisked him, and told him to put his hands down. Nice, Dave, he complimented. I thought of that too, about a minute too late. As soon as he saw Walters coming up the walk with police, he knew what had happened. Come on, Gwyneth, we'll go through the house and let them in. Gwyneth's eyes started from side to side, like the eyes of a trapped animal. I don't know what you're talking about, he said, stiff-lipped. What is this, a stick up? Nobody bothered to tell him to stop kidding. They marched him through the kitchen, where a negro girl, her arms white with flour, was dithering in fright, and into the front hall. A woman in a faded house dress had just admitted the two officers and the former Flemingbutlers. You goddamn rat, Gwyneth yelled at Walters as soon as he saw him. For God's sake, Carl, the woman begged, don't make things any worse than they are, keep quiet. All right, Gwyneth, McKenna said. We're arresting you, receiving stolen goods and accessories of larceny. We have a search warrant. Want to see it? So you have a search warrant, Gwyneth said. So go ahead and search. If you don't find anything, you'll plant something. I want to call my lawyer. That's your right, McKenna told him. Arvo, take him to a phone. Let him call the White House if he wants to. He turned to Walters. Now, where would he have this stuff stashed? In the garret, sir, I know the way. As Cavalene accompanied Gwyneth to the phone, Walters started upstairs. Rand and McKenna followed, with Mrs. Gwyneth bringing up the rear. During the search of the attic, she stood to one side, watching the ex-butler dig into a pile of pistols. This is one gentleman, Walters said, producing a Springfield 1818 model flintlock. And here's the Walker Colt and the 40-caliber Colt Patterson and the Hall. Eventually, he had them all assembled, including the five cased sets. Rand found a couple of empty bushel baskets and laid the pistols in them, between layers of old newspapers. He picked up one, and McKenna took the other, while Walters piled the five flat hardwood cases into his arms like cordwood. Still saying nothing, her eyes stony with hatred, the woman followed them downstairs. The rest of the afternoon was consumed with formalities. Gwyneth was given a hearing, at which he was represented by a lawyer straight out of a B-grade gangster picture. Rand had a heated argument with an overzealous justice of the peas, who wanted to impound the pistols and jackknife marked them for identification. But after hurling bloodthirsty threats of a damaged suit for an astronomical figure, he managed to retain possession of the recovered weapons. Ritter left a little past three to report for duty in the Fleming household. Rand rode with McKenna and Cavalene to the State Police substation, where the pistols were transferred to McKenna's personal car, in which they and Rand were to be transported back to the Fleming place. It was five o'clock before Rand had finished telling the sergeant and the corporal everything he felt they ought to know. When we get to the Fleming's, I'll give you that revolver I got from the coroner, he finished. One of your boys can take it to this fellow umholz and get him to identify it. He might also want to show it to young Gillis and see what he knows about it. Gillis might even give you a name for who got it from Rivers. I'm not building any hopes on that, and the reason I'm not is that Gillis is still alive. If he knew, I don't think he would be. Yeah, I can see that, McKenna nodded. Fact is, I can see everything now except one thing. This pistol switch somebody gave you. What's the idea of that? Why, that's because I'm on the spot, Rand told him. I'm to be killed and somebody else is to be killed along with me. The 25 automatic will be used on me, and the 38 will be used on the other fellow. And we'll be found dead about five feet apart, and I'll be holding my own gun, and the other fellow will be holding the 25, and it will look as though we shot it out and scored a double knockout. That way, my mouth will be shut about what I've learned since I came here, and the man who's supposed to have killed me will take the rap for Fleming and Rivers both. Nothing to stop an investigation like a couple of corpses who can't tell their own story and can take the blame for everything. Seize us! Cavalene's eyes widened. That must be just it. Well, you got your nerve about you, I'll say that, McKenna commented. You sit there and talk about it like it was something that was going to happen to Joe Dokes and Oscar Zilch. Looked at Rand intently. You want us to keep an eye on you? Rand leaned over and spat into the brass cuspidor. A gesture of braggadocio he had picked up among the French maquis. Hell no, that's the last thing I do want, he said. I want him to try it. You realize, don't you, that all this is pure assumption and theory. We don't have a single fact as it stands that proves anything. We could go and pick this fellow up and he's one of three men, so we could grab all three of them and even if we found the 25 Webly and Scott and my 38 in his pockets, we couldn't charge him with anything. Fact is, right now we can't even prove that Lane Fleming's death was anything but the accident it's on the books as being. But let him take a shot at me. And then you'll have another nice clear case of self-defense, McKenna Fround. God dammit, Jeff, you've had to defend yourself too many times already. This'll be, well, how many will it be? Counting Germans, Rand grinned. Hell I don't know, I can't remember all of them. One thing, Cavalene said solemnly, you never hear of any lawyers springing people out of cemeteries on writs. Look, Jeff, McKenna said at length. If it's the way you think, this guy won't dare kill you instantly, will he? Seems to me the way the script reads. This other guy shoots you and you shoot back and kill him, and then you die, isn't that it? Rand nodded. I'm banking on that. He'll try to give me a fatal but not instantly fatal wound, and that means he'll have to take time to pick his spot. The reason I've managed to survive these people against whom I've had to defend myself has been that I just don't give a damn where I shoot a man. A lot of good police officers have gotten themselves killed because they tried to wing somebody, and took a second or so longer about shooting than they should have. Something in that too, McKenna agreed. But what I'm getting at is this. I think I know a way to give you a little more percentage. He rose. Wait a minute, I'll be right back. End of Chapter 18.