“Uh-huh, that’s smart,” Dunmore approved. “It’s always better to take a small loss stopping competition than to let it get too big for you. You save a damn-sight bigger loss later.”
“How soon do you think the pistols will be sold?” Gladys asked.
“Oh, in about a month, at the outside,” Rand said, continuing to explain what had to be done first.
“Well, I’m glad of that,” Varcek commented. “I never liked those things, and after what happened… The sooner they can be sold, the better.”
Breakfast finally ended, and Varcek and Dunmore left for the Premix plant. Rand debated for a moment the wisdom of speaking to Gladys about the missing pistols, then decided to wait until his suspicions were better verified. After a few minutes in the gunroom, going over Lane Fleming’s arms-books on the shelf over the workbench without finding any trace of the book in which he had catalogued his collection, he got his hat and coat, went down to the garage, and took out his car.
It had stopped raining for the time being; the dingy sky showed broken spots like bits of bluing on a badly-rusted piece of steel. As he got out of his car in front of Arnold Rivers’s red-brick house, he was wondering just how he was going to go about what he wanted to do. After all…
The door of the shop was unlocked, and opened with a slow clanging of the door-chime, but the interior was dark. All the shades had been pulled, and the lights were out. For a moment Rand stood in the doorway, adjusting his eyes to the darkness within and wondering where everybody was.
Then, in the path of light that fell inward from the open door, he saw two feet in tan shoes, toes up, at the end of tweed-trousered legs, on the floor. An instant later he stepped inside, pulled the door shut after him, and was using his pen-light to find the electric switch.
For a second or so after he snapped it nothing happened, and then the darkness was broken by the flickering of fluorescent tubes. When they finally lit, he saw the shape on the floor, arms outflung, the inverted rifle above it. For a seemingly long time he stood and stared at the grotesquely transfixed body of Arnold Rivers.
The dead man lay on his back, not three feet beyond the radius of the door, in a pool of blood that was almost dried and gave the room a sickly-sweet butchershop odor. Under the back of Rand’s hand, Rivers’s cheek was cold; his muscles had already begun to stiffen in rigor mortis. Rand examined the dead man’s wounds. His coat was stained with blood and gashed in several places; driven into his chest by a downward blow, the bayonet of a short German service Mauser pinned him to the floor like a specimen on a naturalist’s card. Beside the one in which the weapon remained, there were three stab-wounds in the chest, and the lower part of the face was disfigured by what looked like a butt-blow. Bending over, Rand could see the imprint of the Mauser butt-plate on Rivers’s jaw; on the butt-plate itself were traces of blood.
The rifle, a regulation German infantry weapon, the long-familiar Gewehr ’98 in its most recent modification, was a Nazi product, bearing the eagle and encircled swastika of the Third Reich and the code-letters lza—the symbol of the Mauserwerke A.G. plant at Karlsruhe. It had doubtless been sold to Rivers by some returned soldier. In a rack beside the door were a number of other bolt-action military rifles—a Krag, a couple of Arisakas, a long German infantry rifle of the first World War, a Greek Mannlicher, a Mexican Mauser, a British short model Lee-Enfield. All had fixed bayonets; between the Lee-Enfield and one of the Arisakas there was a vacancy.
Rivers’s carved ivory cigarette-holder was lying beside the body, crushed at the end as though it had been stepped on. A half-smoked cigarette had been in it; it, too, was crushed. There was no evidence of any great struggle, however; the attack which had ended the arms-dealer’s life must have come as a complete surprise. He had probably been holding the cigarette-holder in his hand when the butt-blow had been delivered, and had dropped it and flung up his arms instinctively. Thereupon, his assailant had reversed his weapon and driven the bayonet into his chest. The first blow, no doubt, had been fatal—it could have been any of the three stabs in the chest—but the killer had given him two more, probably while he was on the floor. Then, grasping the rifle in both hands, he had stood over his victim and pinned the body to the floor. That last blow could have only been inspired by pure anger and hatred.
Yet, apparently, Rivers had been unaware of his visitor’s murderous intentions, even while the rifle was being taken from the rack. Rand strolled back through the shop, looking about. Someone had been here with Rivers for some time; the dealer and another man had sat by the fire, drinking and smoking. On the low table was a fifth of Haig & Haig, a siphon, two glasses, a glass bowl containing water that had evidently melted from ice-cubes, and an ashtray. In the ashtray were a number of River’s cigarette butts, all holder-crimped, and a quantity of ash, some of it cigar-ash. There was no cigar-butt, and no band or cellophane wrapper.
The fire on the hearth had burned out and the ashes were cold. They were not all wood-ashes; a considerable amount of paper—no, cardboard—had been burned there also. Poking gently with the point of a sword he took from a rack, Rand discovered that what had been burned had been a number of cards, about six inches by four, one of which had, somehow, managed to escape the flames with nothing more than a charred edge. Improvising tweezers from a pipe-cleaner, he picked this up and looked at it. It had been typewritten:
4850:
English Screw-Barrel F/L Pocket Pistol. Queen Anne type, side hammer with pan attached to barrel, steel barrel and frame. Marked: Wilson, Minories, London. Silver masque butt-cap, hallmarked for 1723. 4-1/2” barrel; 9-1/4” O.A.; cal. abt .44. Taken in trade, 3/21/’38, from V. Sparling, for Kentuck #2538, along with 4851, 4852, 4853. App. cost, RLss; Replacement, do. NLss, OSss, LSss.
To this had been added, in pen:
Sold, R. Kingsley, St. Louis, Mo., Mail order, 12/20/’42, OSss.
Rand laid the card on the cocktail-table, along with the drinking equipment. At least, he knew what had gone into the fire: Arnold Rivers’s card-index purchase and sales record. He doubted very strongly if that would have been burned while its owner was still alive. Going over to the desk, he checked; the drawer from which he had seen Cecil Gillis get the card for the Leech & Rigdon had been cleaned out.
Picking up the phone in an awkward, unnatural manner, he used a pencil from his pocket to dial a number with which he was familiar, a number that meant the same thing on any telephone exchange in the state.
“State Police, Corporal Kavaalen,” a voice singsonged out of the receiver.
“My name is Rand,” he identified himself. “I am calling from Arnold Rivers’s antique-arms shop on Route 19, about a mile and a half east of Rosemont. I am reporting a homicide.”
“Yeah, go ahead—Hey! Did you say homicide?” the other voice asked sharply. “Who?”
“Rivers himself. I called at his shop a few minutes ago, found the front door open, and walked in. I found Rivers lying dead on the floor, just inside the door. He had been killed with a Mauser rifle—not shot; clubbed with the butt, and bayoneted. The body is cold, beginning to stiffen; a pool of blood on the floor is almost completely dried.”
“That’s a good report, mister,” the corporal approved. “You stick around; we’ll be right along. You haven’t touched anything, have you?”
“Not around the body. How long will it take you to get here?”
“About ten minutes. I’ll tell Sergeant McKenna right away.”
Rand hung up and glanced at his watch. Ten twenty-two; he gave himself seven minutes and went around the room rapidly, looking only at pistols. He saw nothing that might have come from the Fleming collection. Finally, he opened the front door, just as a white State Police car was pulling up at the end of the walk.
Sergeant Ignatius Loyola McKenna—customarily known and addressed as Mick—piled out almost before it had stopped. The driver, a stocky, blue-eyed Finn with a corporal’s chevrons, followed him, and two privates got out from behind, dragging
after them a box about the size and shape of an Army footlocker. McKenna was halfway up the drive before he recognized Rand. Then he stopped short.
“Well, Jaysus-me-beads!” He turned suddenly to the corporal. “My God, Aarvo; you said his name was Grant!”
“That’s what I thought he said.” Rand recognized the singsong accent he had heard on the phone. “You know him?”
“Know him?” McKenna stepped aside quickly, to avoid being overrun by the two privates with the equipment-box. He sighed resignedly. “Aarvo, this is the notorious Jefferson Davis Rand. Tri-State Agency, in New Belfast.” He gestured toward the Finn. “Corporal Aarvo Kavaalen,” he introduced. “And Privates Skinner and Jameson.… Well, where is it?”
“Right inside.” Rand stepped backward, gesturing them in. “Careful; it’s just inside the doorway.”
McKenna and the corporal entered; the two privates set down their box outside and followed. They all drew up in a semicircle around the late Arnold Rivers and looked at him critically.
“Jesus!” Kavaalen pronounced the J-sound as though it were Zh; he gave all his syllables an equally-accented intonation. “Say, somebody gave him a good job!”
“Somebody’s been seeing too many war-movies.” McKenna got a cigarette out of his tunic pocket and lit it in Rand’s pipe-bowl. “Want to confess now, or do you insist on a third degree with all the trimmings?”
Kavaalen looked wide-eyed at Rand, then at McKenna, and then back at Rand. Rand laughed.
“Now, Mick!” he reproved. “You know I never kill anybody unless I have a clear case of self-defense, and a flock of witnesses to back it up.”
McKenna nodded and reassured his corporal. “That’s right, Aarvo; when Jeff Rand kills anybody, it’s always self-defense. And he doesn’t generally make messes like this.” He gave the body a brief scrutiny, then turned to Rand. “You looked around, of course; what do you make of it?”
“Last night, sometime,” Rand reconstructed, “Rivers had a visitor. A man, who smoked cigars. He and Rivers were on friendly, or at least sociable, terms. They sat back there by the fire for some time, smoking and drinking. The shades were all drawn. I don’t know whether that was standard procedure, or because this conference was something clandestine. Finally, Rivers’s visitor got up to leave.
“Now, of course, he could have left, and somebody else could have come here later, been admitted, and killed Rivers. That’s a possibility,” Rand said, “but it’s also an assumption without anything to support it. I rather like the idea that the man who sat back there drinking and smoking with Rivers was the killer. If so, Rivers must have gone with him to the door and was about to open it when this fellow picked up that rifle, probably from that rack, over there, and clipped him on the jaw with the butt. Then he gave him the point three times, the second and third probably while Rivers was down. Then he swung it up and slammed down with it, and left it sticking through Rivers and in the floor.”
McKenna nodded. “Lights on when you got here?” he asked.
“No; I put them on when I came in. The killer must have turned them off when he left, but the deadlatch on the door wasn’t set, and he doesn’t seem to have bothered checking on that.”
“Think he left right after he killed Rivers?”
Rand shook his head. “No, that was just the first part of it. After he’d finished Rivers, he went back to that desk and got all the cards Rivers used to record his transactions on—an individual card for every item. He destroyed the lot of them, or at least most of them, in the fireplace. Now, I’m only guessing, here, but I think he took out a card or cards in which he had some interest, and then dumped the rest in the fire to prevent anybody from being able to determine which ones he was interested in. I am further guessing that the cards which the killer wanted to suppress were in the ‘sold’ file. But I am not guessing about the destruction of the record-file; I found the fireplace full of ashes, found one card that had escaped unburned—you can be sure that one wasn’t important—and found the drawer where the record-system was kept empty.”
“Think he might have stolen something, and covered up by burning the cards?” McKenna asked.
Rand shook his head again. “I was here yesterday; bought a pistol from Rivers. That’s how I noticed this card-index system. Of course, I didn’t look at everything, while I was here, but I can’t see where any quantity of arms have been removed, and Rivers didn’t have any single item that was worth a murder. Fact is, no old firearm is. There are only a very few old arms that are worth over a thousand dollars, and most of them are well-known, unique specimens that would be unsaleable because every collector would know where it came from.”
“We can check possible thefts with Rivers’s clerk, when he gets here,” McKenna said. “Now, suppose you show me these things you found, back at the rear… Aarvo, you and the boys start taking pictures,” he told the corporal, then he followed Rand back through the shop.
He tested the temperature of the water in the ice-bowl with his finger. He looked at the ashtray, and bent over and sniffed at each of the two glasses.
“I see one of them’s been emptied out,” he commented. “Want to bet it hasn’t been wiped clean, too?”
“Huh-unh.” Rand smiled slightly. “Even the tiny tots wipe off the cookie-jar, after they’ve raided it,” he said.
A flash-bulb lit the front of the shop briefly. Corporal Kavaalen said something to the others. McKenna picked up the card Rand had found by the edges and looked at it.
“What in hell’s this all about, Jeff?” he asked.
“Rivers made it out for one of his pistols. An English flintlock pocket-pistol; I can show you one almost like it, up front. He’d gotten it and three others, back in 1938, in trade for a Kentucky rifle. The numbers are reference-numbers; the letters are Rivers’s private price-code. Those three at the end are, respectively, what he absolutely had to get for it, what he thought was a reasonable price, and the most he thought the traffic would stand. He sold it in 1942 for his middle price.”
There was another flash by the door, then Kavaalen called out:
“Hey, Mick; we got two of the stiffs, now. All right if we pull out the bayonet for a close-up of his chest?”
“Sure. Better chalkline it, first; you’ll move things jerking that bayonet out.” He turned back to Rand. “You think, then, that maybe some card in that file would have gotten somebody in trouble, and he had to croak Rivers to get it, and then burned the rest of the cards for a cover-up?”
“That’s the way it looks to me,” Rand agreed. “Just because I can’t think of any other possibility, though, doesn’t mean that there aren’t any others.”
“Hey! You think he might have been selling modern arms to criminals, without reporting the sale?” McKenna asked.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Rand considered. “There was very little that I would put past that fellow. But I wouldn’t think he’d be stupid enough to carry a record of such sales in his own file, though.”
McKenna rubbed the butt of his .38 reflectively; that seemed to be his substitute for head-scratching, as an aid to cerebration.
“You said you were here yesterday, and bought a pistol,” he began. “All right; I know about that collection of yours. But why were you back here bright and early this morning? You working on Rivers for somebody? If so, give.”
Rand told him what he was working on. “Rivers wants to buy the Fleming collection. That was the reason I saw him yesterday. But the reason I came here, this morning, is that I find that somebody has stolen about two dozen of the best pistols out of the collection since Fleming’s death, and tried to cover up by replacing them with some junk that Lane Fleming wouldn’t have allowed inside his house. For my money, it’s the butler. Now that Fleming’s dead, he’s the only one in the house who knows enough about arms to know what was worth stealing. He has constant access to the gunroom. I caught him in a lie about a book Fleming kept a record of his collection in, and now the book has vanis
hed. And furthermore, and most important, if he’d been on the level, he would have spotted what was going on, long ago, and squawked about it.”
“That’s a damn good circumstantial case, Jeff,” McKenna nodded. “Nothing you could take to a jury, of course, but mighty good grounds for suspicion.… You think Rivers could have been the fence?”
“He could have been. Whoever was higrading the collection had to have an outlet for his stuff, and he had to have a source of supply for the junk he was infiltrating into the collection as replacements. A crooked dealer is the answer to both, and Arnold Rivers was definitely crooked.”
“You know that?” McKenna inquired. “For sure?”
Another flash lit the front of the shop. Rand nodded.
“For damn good and sure. I can show you half a dozen firearms in this shop that have been altered to increase their value. I don’t mean legitimate restorations; I mean fraudulent alterations.” He went on to tell McKenna about Rivers’s expulsion from membership in the National Rifle Association. “And I know that he sold a pair of pistols to Lane Fleming, about a week before Fleming was killed, that were outright fakes. Fleming was going to sue the ears off Rivers about that; the fact is, until this morning, I’d been wondering if that mightn’t have been why Fleming had that sour-looking accident. If he’d lived, he’d have run Rivers out of business.”
“Hell, I didn’t know that!” McKenna seemed worried. “Fleming used to target-shoot with our gang, and he knew too much about gats to pull a Russ Columbo on himself. I didn’t like that accident, at the time, but I figured he’d pulled the Dutch, and the family were making out it was an accident. We never were called in; the whole thing was handled through the coroner’s office. You really think Fleming could have been bumped?”
“Yes. I think he could have been bumped,” Rand understated. “I haven’t found any positive proof, but—” He told McKenna about his purchase, from Rivers, of the revolver that had been later identified as the one brought home by Fleming on the day of his death. “I still don’t know how Rivers got hold of it,” he continued. “Until I walked in here not half an hour ago and found Rivers dead on the floor, I’d had a suspicion that Rivers might have sneaked into the Fleming house, shot Fleming with another revolver, left it in Fleming’s hand and carried away the one Fleming had been working on. The motive, of course, would have been to stop a lawsuit that would have put Rivers out of business and, not inconceivably, in jail. But now…” He looked toward the front of the shop, where another photo-flash glared for an instant. “And don’t suggest that Rivers got conscience-stricken and killed himself. Aside from the technical difficulties of pinning himself to the floor after he was dead, that explanation’s out. Rivers had no conscience to be stricken with.”
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 220