“What’s this about Fleming’s butler?” a voice broke in. “Have you been withholding information from me?”
Rand turned, to find that Farnsworth had left the press conference in front and crepe-soled up on him from behind.
“I withheld a theory, which seems to have come to nothing,” he replied.
Kavaalen told the D.A. who Rand 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,” Rand 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.” He shrugged. “None of the stolen items have turned up here, so there’s 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?” Farnsworth demanded, aghast.
“Who respects him?” Rand hooted. “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 Stephen 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?” Farnsworth snapped. “He’s still a suspect.”
“Sergeant McKenna says so,” Corporal Kavaalen 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 Stephen Gresham’s alibi.
“And Gresham was at home from nine twenty-two on,” Rand added. “There are eight witnesses to that: His wife and daughter; myself; Captain Jarrett, here; and his fiancée, Miss Lawrence; Philip Cabot; Adam Trehearne; Colin MacBride.”
Farnsworth looked bewildered. “Why wasn’t I told about that?” he demanded sulkily.
“Sergeant McKenna’s been too busy, and I didn’t think of it,” Kavaalen 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.”
Farnsworth 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.
Rand told him about his work in connection with the Fleming collection, producing Humphrey Goode’s letter of authorization. Farnsworth 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 Stephen 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?” Farnsworth asked. Rand shook his head ambiguously; Farnsworth 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 Kavaalen threw in, perceiving the drift of Farnsworth’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.” Farnsworth 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 Farnsworth and Corporal Kavaalen accompanied Rand and Pierre Jarrett 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 ululation when he appeared in the doorway. With Farnsworth beaming approval, Rand assured 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 14
Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then, after they had left the criminological-journalistic uproar at the Rivers place behind and were approaching the village of Rosemont, Pierre turned to Rand.
“You know,” he said, “for a disciple of Korzybski, you came pretty close to confusing orders of abstraction, a couple of times, back there. You showed that Stephen was at home while Rivers was taking that phone call, a little after ten. But when you talk about clearing him completely, aren’t you overlooking the possibility that he came back to Rivers’s after you and Philip Cabot left the Gresham place?”
Rand eased the foot-pressure on the gas and spared young Jarrett a side-glance before returning his attention to the road ahead.
“Understand,” Pierre hastened to add, “I don’t believe that Stephen was fool enough to kill Rivers over that fake North & Cheney, 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 single-track 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 a 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.”
Rand nodded 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-Rivers 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,” Rand pointed out. “Mick McKenna made that point, this afternoon. There have 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 like Rivers, 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 a hillside, about a mile ahead, making a vivid spot in 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 floorplan. It reminded Rand of farmhouses he had seen in Sicily during the War.
“Come on in and see my stuff, if you have time,” Pierre invited, as Rand 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 Rand,” Pierre said. “Jeff, my mother.”
Rand 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,” Rand said.
She laughed. “You gun-collectors; you’re like women looking at somebody’s new hat.… Will you stay for dinner with us, Colonel Rand?”
“Why, I’m sorry; I can’t. I have a great many things to do, and I’m expected for dinner at the Flemings’. I really wish I could, Mrs. Jarrett. Maybe some other time.”
They chatted for a few minutes, then Pierre guided Rand into one of the wings of the house.
“This is my workshop, too,” he said. “Here’s where I do my writing.” He opened a door and showed Rand 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 of windows 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. Rand 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?” Rand 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. Parenthetically, 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. Dunne’s time-theories, if you know what they are.”
“I think so,” Rand said. “Polydimensional time, isn’t it? Based on an effect Dunne observed and described—dreams obviously related to some waking event, but preceding rather than following the event to which they are related. I read Dunne’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 Dunne-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 Tyrrell’s Science and Psychical Phenomena and leafed through it.
“Did this fellow cash in on it?” Rand asked.
“No. He was a Quaker, and violently opposed to betting. Here.” He handed the book to Rand. “Case Twelve.”
Rand 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 checked that case, and got verification from a couple of independent witnesses. If the S.P.R. vouches for a story, it must be the McCoy; they’re the toughest-minded gang of confirmed skeptics anywhere in Christendom. They take an attitude toward 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 Dunne’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 multidimensional universe when Rand remembered Dave Ritter, who should be at the Rosemont Inn by now. He looked at his watch, saw that it was five forty-five, 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 Gawdsake, 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 Ashe and Steve Drake from the Dispatch and Express; Harry Bentz, from the Mercury; Joe Rawlings, the AP man from Louisburg; Christ only knows who all. This damn thing’s going to turn into another Hall-Mills case! Look, meet me at that beer joint, about two miles on the New Belfast side of Rosemont, on Route 19; the white-with-red-trimmings place with the big Pabst 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.”
Rand 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 coupé was parked inconspicuously beside the red-trimmed roadhouse. Opening his glove-box, Rand 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 Twelve-Gun Tweeney. He found Ritter in the last booth, engaged in finishing a bottle of beer. Rand ordered Bourbon and plain water, and Ritter ordered another beer.
“I have the stuff Tip left with Kathie,” Ritter said, taking out a couple of closely typed sheets and handing them across the table. “He said this was the whole business.”
Rand 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 Varcek, paying each of the survivors $25,000.
“I see Gladys and Geraldine and Nelda each get a third of Fleming’s Premix stock,” Rand 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 majority vote of the stockholders. They now h
ave 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 Tip, the board is one hundred per cent in favor of the merger with National Milling & 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 Goode 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 Dago .380 of yours. But what makes you think the Flemings 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.” He 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 fireplug factory with this Rivers thing, and I’ll need some checking-upping done inside the Fleming household.”
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 224