“Why, I understand you have an item from that collection, here in your office,” Rand said. “The pistol with which Mr. Fleming shot himself. Regardless of its unpleasant associations, that pistol is a valuable collector’s item, and one of the assets of the estate. If I’m to get full value for the collection, for the heirs, I’ll have to have that, to sell with the rest of the weapons.”
“Well, now, look here, Mr. Rand,” Kirchner started to argue, “that revolver’s a dangerous weapon. It’s killed one man, already. I don’t know as I ought to let it get out, where it might kill somebody else.”
Rand estimated that this situation called for a modified version of his hard-boiled act.
“You think you can show cause why that revolver shouldn’t be turned over to the Fleming estate?” he demanded. “Well, if I don’t get it, right away, Mr. Goode will get a court order for it. You had no right to impound that revolver, in the first place; you removed it from the Fleming home illegally in the second place, since you had no intention of holding any formal inquest, and you’re holding it illegally now. A court order might not be all we could get, either,” he added menacingly. “Now, if you have any reason to suspect that Mr. Fleming committed suicide…or was murdered, for instance…”
“Oh, my heavens, no!” Kirchner cried, horrified. “It was an accident, pure and simple; I so certified it. Death by accident, due to inadvertence of the deceased.”
“Well, then,” Rand said, “you have no right to hold that revolver, and I want it, right now. As Mr. Goode’s agent, I’m responsible for that collection, of which the revolver you’re holding is a part. That revolver is too valuable an asset to ignore. You certainly realize that.”
“Well, I don’t have any intention of exceeding my authority, of course,” Kirchner disclaimed hastily. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to go against Mr. Goode’s wishes.” Humphrey Goode must pull considerable weight around the courthouse, Rand surmised. “But you realize, that revolver’s still loaded.…”
“Oh, that’s not your worry. I’ll draw the charges, or, better, fire them out. It stood one shot, it can stand the other five.”
“Well, would you mind if I called Mr. Goode on the phone?”
Rand did, decidedly. However, he shook his head negligently.
“Certainly not; go ahead and call him, by all means.”
The coroner went away. In a few minutes he was back, carrying a revolver in both hands. Evidently Goode had given him the green light. He approached, handling the weapon with a caution that would have been excessive for a Mills grenade; after warning Rand again that it was loaded, he laid it gently on his desk.
It was a .36 Colt, one of the 1860 series, with the round barrel and the so-called “creeping” ramming-lever. Somebody had wound a piece of wire around it, back of the hammer and through the loading-aperture in front of the cylinder; as the hammer was down on a fired chamber, there was no way in God’s world, short of throwing the thing into a furnace, in which it could be discharged, but Kirchner was shrinking away from it as though it might jump at his throat.
“I put the wire on,” the coroner said. “I thought it might be safer that way.”
“It’ll be a lot safer after I’ve emptied it into the first claybank, outside town,” Rand told him. “Sorry I had to be a little short with you, Mr. Kirchner, but you know how it is. I’m responsible to Mr. Goode for the collection, and this gun’s part of it.”
“Oh, that’s all right; I really shouldn’t have taken the attitude I did,” Kirchner met him halfway. “After I talked to Mr. Goode, of course, I knew it was all right, but… You see, I’ve been bothered a lot about that pistol, lately.”
“Yes?” Rand succeeded in being negligent about it.
“Oh my, yes! The newspaper people wanted to take pictures of me holding it, and then, there was an antique-dealer who was here trying to buy it.”
“Who was that—Arnold Rivers?”
“Why yes! Do you know him? He has an antique-shop on the other side of Rosemont; he doesn’t sell anything but guns and swords and that sort of thing,” Kirchner said. “He was here, making inquiries about it, and my clerk showed it to him, and then he started making offers for it—first ten dollars, and then fifteen, and then twenty; he got up as high as sixty dollars. I suppose it’s worth a couple of hundred.”
It was probably worth about thirty-five. Rand was intrigued by this second instance of an un-Rivers-like willingness to spare no expense to get possession of a .36-caliber percussion revolver.
“Did he have it in his hands?” he asked.
“Oh, yes; he looked it over carefully. I suppose he thought he could get a lot of money for it, because of the accident, and Mr. Fleming being such a prominent man,” Kirchner suggested.
Rand allowed himself to be struck by an idea.
“Say, you know, that would make it worth more, at that!” he exclaimed. “What do you know! I never thought of that.… Look, Mr. Kirchner; I’m supposed to get as much money for these pistols, for the heirs, as I can. How would you like to give me a letter, vouching for this as the pistol Mr. Fleming killed himself with? Put in how you found it in his hand, and mention the serial numbers, so that whoever buys it will know it’s the same revolver.” He picked up the Colt and showed Kirchner the serials, on the butt, and in front of the trigger-guard. “See, here it is: 2444.”
Kirchner would be more than willing to oblige Mr. Goode’s agent; he typed out the letter himself, looked twice at the revolver to make sure of the number, took Rand’s word for the make, model, and caliber, signed it, and even slammed his seal down on it. Rand thanked him profusely, put the letter in his pocket, and stuck the Colt down his pants-leg.
About two miles from the county seat Rand stopped his car on a deserted stretch of road and got out. Unwinding the wire Kirchner had wrapped around the revolver, he picked up an empty beer-can from the ditch, set it against an embankment, stepped back about thirty feet and began firing. The first shot kicked up dirt a little over the can—Rand never could be sure just how high any percussion Colt was sighted—and the other four hit the can. He carried the revolver back to the car and put it into the glove-box with the Leech & Rigdon.
After starting the car, he snapped on the radio, in time for the two fifteen news-broadcast from the New Belfast station. As he had expected, the murder was out; the daily budget of strikes and Congressional investigations and international turmoil was enlivened by a more or less imaginative account of what had already been christened the “Rosemont Bayonet Murder.” Rand resigned himself to the inevitable influx of reporters. Then he swore, as the newscaster continued:
“District Attorney Charles P. Farnsworth, of Scott County, who has taken charge of the investigation, says, and we quote: ‘There is strong evidence implicating certain prominent persons, whom we are not, as yet, prepared to name, and if the investigation, now under way and making excellent progress, justifies, they will be apprehended and formally charged. No effort will be spared, and no consideration of personal prominence will be allowed to deter us from clearing up this dastardly crime.…’”
Rand swore again, with weary bitterness, wondering how much trouble he was going to have with District Attorney Charles P. Farnsworth, as he pulled to a stop in Stephen Gresham’s driveway.
CHAPTER 12
Gresham must have been waiting inside the door; as soon as Rand came up onto the porch, he opened it, and motioned the detective inside. Beyond a hasty greeting as Rand passed the threshold, he did not speak until they were seated in the gunroom upstairs. Then he came straight to the point.
“Jeff, can you spare the time from this work you’re doing at the Flemings’ to investigate this Rivers business?” he asked. “And how much would an investigation cost me? It’s got to be a blitz job. I’m not interested in getting anybody convicted in court; I just want the case cleared up in a hurry.”
“Well—” Rand puffed at the cigar Gresham had given him, watching the ash form on the end. �
��I don’t work by the day, Stephen. I take a lump-sum fee, and, of course, it’s to my interest to get a case cleared up as soon as I can. But I can’t set any time limit on a job like this. This Rivers killing has more angles than Nude Descending a Staircase; I don’t know how much work I’ll have to do, or even what kind.”
“Well, it’ll have to be fast,” Gresham told him urgently. “Look. I didn’t kill Arnold Rivers. I hated his guts, and I think whoever did it ought to get a medal and a testimonial dinner, but I did not kill him. You believe me?”
“I’m inclined to,” Rand replied. “In your law practice, you know what a lying client is letting himself in for. As my client, you wouldn’t lie to me. You seem to think you may be suspected of purging Rivers. But why? Is there any reason, aside from that homemade North & Cheney he sold you, why anybody would think you’d killed him?”
“Great God, yes!” Gresham exclaimed. “Now look. I’m not worried about being railroaded for this. I didn’t do it, and I can beat any case that half-assed ex-ambulance-chaser, Farnsworth, could dream up against me. But I can’t afford even to be mentioned in connection with this. You know what that would do to me, in town. I just can’t get mixed up in this, at all. I want you to see to it that I don’t.”
“That sounds like a large order.” The ash was growing on Rand’s cigar; he took another heavy drag at it. “But why necessarily you? Rivers had plenty of other enemies.”
“Yes, but, dammit, they weren’t all in his shop, last evening. Just me. And one other. The one who killed him.”
“On your way out from town?” Rand inquired.
“Yes. I stopped at his place, about a quarter to nine. I was sore as hell about the hooking he gave me on that North & Cheney, falsely so-called, and I decided to stop and have it out with him. We had words, most of them unpleasant. I told him, for one thing, that Lane Fleming’s death hadn’t pulled his bacon off the fire, that I was going to start the same sort of action against him on my own account. But that isn’t the point. The point is that when I was going in, this la-de-da clerk of his, Cecil Gillis, was coming out. He got into his car and drove away, leaving me alone with Rivers. He’ll be the first one the police talk to, and he’ll tell them all about it.”
“That does put you back of the eight ball.” Rand dropped the ash into a tray and looked at it curiously. It looked like the sort of ash he had seen at Rivers’s shop, but he couldn’t be sure. “But if it can be proved that Rivers was alive after nine twenty, when you got here, you’ll be in the clear.”
“I don’t want to have to clear myself,” Gresham insisted. “I don’t want anything to do with it, at all. Here; I’ll pay you a thousand down, and two more when you have the case completed; I want you to get the murder cleared up before I can be publicly involved in it. I say publicly, because this damned Gillis has probably involved me with the police already.”
“Well, Gillis isn’t exactly in a state of pure sanctity, himself,” Rand commented. “As a suspect, the smart handicappers are figuring him to run well inside the money. For instance, you know, there have been stories about him and Mrs. Rivers.”
Gresham snapped his fingers. “Damned if there haven’t, now!” he said. “You talk to Adam Trehearne. He did business with Rivers—there wasn’t much in his line Rivers and Umholtz were able to fake—and different times he’s gone to Rivers’s shop and there’d be nobody around, and then Gillis would come in from the house, smelling of Chanel Number Five. Mrs. Rivers uses Chanel Number Five. Maybe you have something there. If Cecil thought he could marry the business, with Rivers out of the way.… You’ll take the case, won’t you, Jeff?”
“Oh, certainly,” Rand assured him. “Now, all they have on you is that there was ill-feeling between you and Rivers about that fake North & Cheney, and that you were in Rivers’s shop yesterday evening?”
Rand’s new client grimaced. “I wish that were all!” he said. “The worst part of it is the way Rivers was killed. See, back in Kaiser Willie’s war, before I was assigned a company of my own, I was regimental bayonet-instruction officer. And after we got to France, I always carried a rifle and bayonet at the front; hell, I must have killed close to a dozen Krauts just the way Rivers was killed. And during Schicklgruber’s war, I volunteered as bayonet instructor for the local Home Guard.”
“My God!” Rand made a wry face. “There must be close to a hundred people around here who’d know that, and all of them are probably convinced that you killed Rivers, and are expressing that opinion at the top of their voices to all comers. You don’t want a detective, you want a magician!” He took another drag at the cigar, and blew smoke through a circular gun-rack beside him. “What sort of a character is this Farnsworth, anyhow?” he asked. “Before the war, I had all the D.A.’s in the state typed and estimated, but since I got back—”
Gresham slandered the county prosecutor’s legitimacy. “God-damn headline-hunting little egotist! He’s running for re-election this year, too.”
“One way, that could be bad. On the other hand, it might be easy to throw a scare into him.… Stephen, when you were at Rivers’s, were you smoking a cigar?”
Gresham shook his head. “No. I threw my cigar away when I got out of the car, and I didn’t light another one till I got home. If you remember, I was lighting it when I came in here.”
“Yes; so you were. Well, I don’t suppose, in view of the state of relations between you and Rivers, that you had a drink with him, either?”
“I wouldn’t drink that guy’s liquor if I were dying of snakebite, and he wouldn’t offer me a drink if he knew I was,” Gresham declared.
“Well, did you notice, back near the fireplace, a low table with a fifth of Haig & Haig Pinchbottle, and a couple of glasses, and a siphon, and so on, on it?”
“I saw the table. There was an ashtray on it, and a book—I think it was Gluckman’s United States Martial Pistols and Revolvers—but no bottle, or siphon, or glasses.”
“All right, then; it was the killer.” Rand explained about the drinks, and the cigar-ashes. He went on to tell about the destruction of Rivers’s record-cards.
“I don’t get that.” Gresham was puzzled. “Unless it was young Gillis, after all. He could have been knocking down on Rivers, and Rivers caught him at it.”
“I’d thought of that,” Rand admitted. “But I doubt if Rivers would sit down and drink with him, while accusing him of theft. And I can’t seem to find anything around Rivers’s place that looks as though it might have been stolen from the Fleming collection, either.… Oh, and that reminds me: If you have time this afternoon, I wonder if you’d come along with me to the Flemings’ and see just what’s missing. I’ll have to know that, in any case, and there’s a good possibility that the thefts from the collection and the killing of Rivers are related.”
“Yes, of course,” Gresham agreed. “And suppose we take Pierre Jarrett along with us. He knows that collection as well as I do; he’ll spot anything I miss. He works at home; I’ll call him now. We can pick him up before we go to the Flemings’.”
They went into Gresham’s bedroom, where there was a phone, and Gresham talked to Pierre Jarrett. It was arranged that he should pick Jarrett up with his car and come to the Flemings’, while Rand went there directly.
Then Rand used the phone to call his office in New Belfast. He talked to Dave Ritter, explaining the situation to date.
“I’m going to need some help,” he continued. “I want you to come here and get a room at the Rosemont Inn, under your own name. I’ll see you there about five thirty. And bring with you a suit of butler’s livery, or reasonable facsimile. I believe there will be a vacancy in the Fleming household tomorrow or the next day, and I want you ready to take over. And bring a small gun with you; something you can wear under said livery. That .357 Colt of yours is a little too conspicuous. You’ll find a .380 Beretta in the top right-hand drawer of my office desk, with a box of ammunition and a couple of spare clips.”
“Right. I’ll be a
t Rosemont Inn at five thirty,” Ritter promised. “And say, Tip was in, this morning, with a lot of dope on the Fleming estate. Want me to let you have it now, or shall I give it to you when I see you?”
“You have notes? Bring them along; I’ll be seeing you in a couple of hours.”
He parted from Gresham, going out and getting in his car. As Gresham got his own car out of the garage and drove off toward Pierre Jarrett’s house, Rand started in the opposite direction, toward Rosemont.
About a half-mile from Gresham’s he caught an advancing gleam of white on the highway ahead of him and pulled to the side of the road, waiting until the State Police car drew up and stopped. In it were Mick McKenna, Aarvo Kavaalen, and a third man, a Nordic type, in an untidy brown suit.
“Hi, Jeff,” McKenna greeted him, as Rand got out of his car and came across the road. “This is Gus Olsen, investigator for the D.A.’s office. Jeff Rand; Tri-State Agency,” he introduced.
“Hey!” Olsen yelled. “We been lookin’ for you! Where you been?”
Rand raised an eyebrow at McKenna.
“You just came from where we’re going,” the State Police sergeant surmised. “Was Gresham at home?”
“He was; he’s gone now,” Rand said. “He and another man are going to help me check up on what’s missing from the Fleming collection.”
“Hey!” Olsen exploded. “What I told you, now; he run ahead of us with a tip-off! Gresham’s skipped out, now!”
“What is all this?” Rand wanted to know. “What’s he screaming about, Mick?”
“Like he don’t know!” Olsen vociferated. “He tipped off Gresham so’s he could skip out; I’ll bet he’s in it with Gresham!”
“Pay no attention,” McKenna advised. “He doesn’t know what the score is; hell, he doesn’t even know what teams are playing.”
“Now you look here!” Olsen bawled. “We’ll see what Mr. Farnsworth has to say about this. You’re supposed to cooperate with us, not go fraternizin’ with a lot of suspects. Why, it’s plain as anything; him and Gresham’s in it together. I bet that was why he come around, the first thing in the morning, to find the body!”
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