Murder in the Gunroom

by H. Beam Piper

  CHAPTER 5

  Rand drove slowly through Rosemont, the next day, refreshing his memoryof the place. It was one of the many commuters' villages strung out forfifty miles along the railroad lines radiating from New Belfast, anddepended for its support upon a population scattered over a five-mileradius at estates and country homes. Obviously a planned community, itwas dominated by a gray-walled, green-roofed railroad station which stoodon its passenger-platform like a captain in front of four platoons ofgray-walled, green-roofed houses and stores aligned along as manyconverging roads. There was a post office, uniform with the rest of thebuildings; an excessive quantity of aluminum trimming dated it somewherein the middle Andrew W. Mellon period. There were four gas stations, amovie theater, and a Woolworth store with a red front that made it looklike some painted hussy who had wandered into a Quaker Meeting.

  Over the door of one of the smaller stores, Rand saw a black-letteredwhite sign: _Antiques_. There was a smoke-gray Plymouth coupe parked infront of it.

  Instead of turning onto the road to the Fleming estate, he continuedalong Route 19 for a mile or so beyond the village, until he came to ared brick pseudo-Colonial house on the right. He pulled to the side ofthe road and got out, turning up the collar of his trench coat. The airwas raw and damp, doubly unpleasant after the recent unseasonable warmth.An apathetically persistent rain sogged the seedling-dotted old fields oneither side, and the pine-woods beyond, and a high ceiling of unbrokendirty gray gave no promise of clearing. The mournful hoot of a distantlocomotive whistle was the only sound to pierce the silence. For amoment, Rand stood with his back to the car, looking at the gallows-likesign that proclaimed this to be the business-place of Arnold Rivers,Fine Antique and Modern Firearms for the Discriminating Collector.

  The house faced the road with a long side; at the left, a porch formeda continuation under a deck roof, and on the right, an ell had beenbuilt at right angles, extending thirty feet toward the road. Althoughconnected to the house by a shed roof, which acquired a double pitch andbecame a gable roof where the ell projected forward, it was, in effect,a separate building, with its own front door and its own door-path. Itsfloor-level was about four feet lower than that of the parent structure.

  A Fibber McGee door-chime clanged as Rand entered. Closing the doorbehind him, he looked around. The room, some twenty feet wide and fiftylong, was lighted by an almost continuous row of casement windows on theright, and another on the left for as far as the ell extended beyond thehouse. They were set high, a good five feet from lower sill to floor, andthere was no ceiling; the sloping roof was supported by bare timberrafters. Racks lined the walls, under the windows, holding long-gunsand swords; the pistols and daggers and other small items were displayedon a number of long tables. In the middle of the room, glaring at thefront door, was a brass four-pounder on a ship's carriage; a Philippine_latanka_, muzzle tilted upward, stood beside it. Where the ell joinedthe house under the shed roof, there was a fireplace, and a short flightof steps to a landing and a door out of the dwelling, and somefurniture--a davenport, three or four deep chairs facing the fire, a lowcocktail-table, a cellarette, and, in the far corner, a big desk.

  As Rand went toward the rear, a young man rose from one of the chairs,laid aside a magazine, and advanced to meet him. He didn't exactlyharmonize with all the lethal array around him; he would have looked moreat home presiding over an establishment devoted to ladies' items. Hiscostume ran to pastel shades, he had large and soulful blue eyes andprettily dimpled cheeks, and his longish blond hair was carefullydisordered into a windblown effect.

  "Oh, good afternoon," he greeted. "Is there anything in particular you'reinterested in, or would you like to just look about?"

  "Mostly look about," Rand said. "Is Mr. Rivers in?"

  "Mr. Rivers is having luncheon. He'll be finished before long, if youcare to wait.... Have you ever been here before?"

  "Not for some time," Rand said. "When I was here last, there was a youngfellow named Jordan, or Gordon, or something like that."

  "Oh. He was before my time." The present functionary introduced himselfas Cecil Gillis. Rand gave his name and shook hands with him. YoungGillis wanted to know if Rand was a collector.

  "In a small way. General-pistol collector," Rand told him. "Have you manyColts, now?"

  There was a whole table devoted to Colts. No spurious WhitneyvilleWalkers; after all, a dealer can sell just so many of such top-drawerrarities before the finger of suspicion begins leveling itself in hisdirection, and Arnold Rivers had long ago passed that point. There wereseveral of the commoner percussion models, however, with lovely, perfectbluing that was considerably darker than that applied at the Colt factoryduring the 'fifties and 'sixties of the last century. The silver platingon backstraps and trigger-guards was perfect, too, but the naval-battleand stagecoach-holdup engravings on the cylinders were far from clear--inone case, completely obliterated. The cylinder of one 1851 Navy boreserial numbers that looked as though they had been altered to conform tothe numbers on other parts of the weapon. Many of the Colts, however,were entirely correct, and all were in reasonably good condition.

  Rand saw something that interested him, and picked it up.

  "That isn't a real Colt," the exquisite Mr. Gillis told him. "It's aConfederate copy; a Leech & Rigdon."

  "So I see. I have a Griswold & Grier, but no Leech & Rigdon."

  "The Griswold & Grier; that's the one with the brass frame," Cecil Gillissaid. "Surprising how many collectors think all Confederate revolvershad brass frames, because of the Griswold & Grier, and the Spiller &Burr.... That's an unusually fine specimen, Mr. Rand. Mr. Rivers gotit sometime in late December or early January; from a gentleman inCharleston, I understand. I believe it had been carried during the CivilWar by a member of the former owner's family."

  Rand looked at the tag tied to the trigger-guard; it was marked, inletter-code, with three different prices. That was characteristic ofArnold Rivers's business methods.

  "How much does Mr. Rivers want for this?" he asked, handing the revolverto young Gillis.

  The clerk mentally decoded the three prices and vacillated for a momentover them. He had already appraised Rand, from his twenty-dollar Stetsonpast his Burberry trench coat to his English hand-sewn shoes, and placedhim in the pay-dirt bracket; however, from some remarks Rand had letdrop, he decided that this customer knew pistols, and probably knewvalues.

  "Why, that is sixty dollars, Mr. Rand," he said, with the air of oneconferring a benefaction. Maybe he was, at that, Rand decided; prices hadjumped like the very devil since the war.

  "I'll take it." He dug out his billfold and extracted three twenties."Nice clean condition; clean it up yourself?"

  "Why, no. Mr. Rivers got it like this. As I said, it's supposed to havebeen a family heirloom, but from the way it's been cared for, I wouldhave thought it had been in a collection," the clerk replied. "Shall Iwrap it for you?"

  "Yes, if you please." Rand followed him to the rear, laying aside hiscoat and hat. Gillis got some heavy paper out of a closet and packagedit, then hunted through a card-file in the top drawer of the desk, untilhe found the card he wanted. He made a few notes on it, and was stillholding it and the sixty dollars when he rejoined Rand by the fire.

  In spite of his effeminate appearance and over-refined manner, the youngfellow really knew arms. The conversation passed from Confederaterevolvers to the arms of the Civil War in general, and they werediscussing the changes in tactics occasioned by the introduction of therevolver and the repeating carbine when the door from the house openedand Arnold Rivers appeared on the landing.

  He looked older than when Rand had last seen him. His hair was thinner ontop and grayer at the temples. Never particularly robust, he had lostweight, and his face was thinner and more hollow-cheeked. His mouth stillhad the old curve of supercilious insolence, and he was still smokingwith the six-inch carved ivory cigarette-holder which Rand remembered.

  He looked his visitor over carefully from the door
way, decided that hewas not soliciting magazine subscriptions or selling Fuller brushes, andcame down the steps. As he did, he must have recognized Rand; he shiftedthe cigarette-holder to his left hand and extended his right.

  "Mr. Rand, isn't it?" he asked. "I thought I knew you. It's been someyears since you've been around here."

  "I've been a lot of places in the meantime," Rand said.

  "You were here last in October, '41, weren't you?" Rivers thought for amoment. "You bought a Highlander, then. By Alexander Murdoch, of Doune,wasn't it?"

  "No; Andrew Strahan, of Edzel," Rand replied.

  Rivers snapped his fingers. "That's right! I sold both of those pistolsat about the same time; a gentleman in Chicago got the Murdoch. TheStrahan had a star-pierced lobe on the hammer. Did you ever get anybodyto translate the Gaelic inscription on the barrel?"

  "You've a memory like Jim Farley," Rand flattered. "The inscription wasthe clan slogan of the Camerons; something like: _Sons of the hound, comeand get flesh!_ I won't attempt the original."

  "Mr. Rand just bought 6524, the Leech & Rigdon .36," Gillis interjected,handing Rivers the card and the money. Rivers looked at both, saw howmuch Rand had been taken for, and nodded.

  "A nice item," he faintly praised, as though anything selling for lessthan a hundred dollars was so much garbage. "Considering the condition inwhich Confederate arms are usually found, it's really first-rate. I thinkyou'll like it, Mr. Rand."

  The telephone rang, Cecil Gillis answered it, listened for a moment, andthen said: "For you, Mr. Rivers; long distance from Milwaukee."

  Rivers's face lit with the beatific smile of a cat at a promisingmouse-hole. "Ah, excuse me, Mr. Rand." He crossed to the desk, pickedup the phone and spoke into it. "This is Arnold Rivers," he said, muchas Edward Murrow used to say, _This--is London!_ The telephone sputteredfor a moment. "Ah, yes indeed, Mr. Verral. Quite well, I thank you. Andyou?... No, it hasn't been sold yet. Do you wish me to ship it toyou?... On approval; certainly.... Of course it's an original flintlock;I didn't list it as re-altered, did I?... No, not at all; the onlyreplacement is the small spring inside the patchbox.... Yes, the riflingis excellent.... Of course; I'll ship it at once.... Good-by, Mr.Verral."

  He hung up and turned to his hireling, fairly licking his chops.

  "Cecil, Mr. Verral, in Milwaukee, whose address we have, has just ordered6288, the F. Zorger flintlock Kentuck. Will you please attend to it?"

  "Right away, Mr. Rivers." Gillis went to one of the racks under thewindows and selected a long flintlock rifle, carrying it out the door atthe rear.

  "I issued a list, a few days ago," Rivers told Rand. "When Cecil comesback, I'll have him get you a copy. I've been receiving calls ever since;this is the twelfth long-distance call since Tuesday."

  "Business must be good," Rand commented. "I understand you've offered tobuy the Lane Fleming collection. For ten thousand dollars."

  "Where did you hear that?" Rivers demanded, looking up from the drawer inwhich he was filing the card on the Leech & Rigdon.

  "From Mrs. Fleming." Rand released a puff of pipe smoke and watched itdraw downward into the fireplace. "I've been retained to handle the saleof that collection; naturally, I'd know who was offering how much."

  Rivers's eyes narrowed. He came around the desk, loading anothercigarette into his holder.

  "And just why, might I ask, did Mrs. Fleming think it in order to employa detective in a matter like that?" he wanted to know.

  Rand let out more smoke. "She didn't. She employed an arms-expert, aColonel Jefferson Davis Rand, U.S.A., O.R.C., who is a well-knowncontributor to the _American Rifleman_ and the _Infantry Journal_ and_Antiques_ and the old _Gun Report_. You've read some of his articles,I believe?"

  "Then you're not making an investigation?"

  "What in the world is there to investigate?" Rand asked. "I'm justselling a lot of old pistols for the Fleming estate."

  "I thought Fred Dunmore was doing that."

  "So did Fred. You're both wrong, though. I am." He got out Goode's letterof authorization and handed it to Rivers, who read it through twicebefore handing it back. "You see anything in that about Fred Dunmore,or any of the other relatives-in-law?" he asked.

  "Well, I didn't understand; I'm glad to know what the situation reallyis." Rivers frowned. "I thought you were making some kind of aninvestigation, and as I'm the only party making any serious offer to buythose pistols, I wanted to know what there was to investigate."

  "Do you consider ten thousand dollars to be a serious offer?" Rand asked."And aren't you forgetting Stephen Gresham and his friends?"

  "Oh, those people!" Rivers scoffed. "Mr. Rand, you certainly don't expectthem to be able to handle anything like this, do you?"

  "Well, the banks speak well of them," Rand replied. "Some of them havegood listings in Dun & Bradstreet's, too."

  "Well, so do I," Rivers reported. "I can top any offer that crowd makes.What do you expect to get out of them, anyhow?"

  "I haven't talked price with them, yet. A lot more than ten thousanddollars, anyhow."

  Rivers forced a laugh. "Now, Mr. Rand! That was just an opening offer. Ithought Fred Dunmore was handling the collection." He grimaced. "What doyou think it's really worth?"

  Rand shrugged. "It probably has a dealer's piece-by-piece list-valueof around seventy thousand. I'm not nuts enough to expect anything likethat in a lump sum, but please, let's not mention ten thousand dollars inthis connection any more. That's on the order of Lawyer Marks biddingseventy-five cents for Uncle Tom; it's only good for laughs."

  "Well, how much more than that do you think Gresham and his crowd willoffer?"

  "I haven't talked price with them, yet," Rand repeated. "I mean to, assoon as I can."

  "Well, you get their offer, and I'll top it," Rivers declared. "I'mwilling to go as high as twenty-five thousand for that collection; theywon't go that high."

  Although he just managed not to show it, Rand was really surprised. Evena consciousness of abstracting had not prepared him for the shock ofhearing Arnold Rivers raise his own offer to something resembling anacceptable figure. A good case, he reflected, could be made of thatfor the actuality of miracles.

  He rose, picking up his trench coat.

  "Well! That's something like it, now," he said. "I'll see you later; Idon't know how long it's going to take me to get a list prepared, andcircularize the old-arms trade. I should hear from everybody who'sinterested in a few weeks. You can be sure I'll keep your offer in mind."

  He slipped into the coat and put on his hat, and then picked up thepackage containing the Confederate revolver. Rivers had risen, too; hewas watching Rand nervously. When Rand tucked the package under his armand began drawing on his gloves, Rivers cleared his throat.

  "Mr. Rand, I'm dreadfully sorry," he began, "but I'll have to return yourmoney and take back that revolver. It should not have been sold." He gotRand's sixty dollars out of his pocket as though he expected it to catchfire, and held it out.

  Rand favored him with a display of pained surprise.

  "Why, I can't do that," he replied. "I bought this revolver in goodfaith, and you accepted payment and were satisfied with the transaction.The sale's been made, now."

  Rivers seemed distressed. It was probably the first time he had ever beenon the receiving end of that routine, and he didn't like it.

  "Now you're being unreasonable, Mr. Rand," he protested. "Look here; I'llgive you seventy-five dollars' credit on anything else in the shop. Youcertainly can't find fault with an offer like that."

  "I don't want anything else in the shop; I want this revolver you soldme." Rand gave him a look of supercilious insolence that was at least atwo hundred per cent improvement on Rivers at his most insolent. "Youknow, I'll begin to acquire a poor idea of your business methods beforelong," he added.

  Rivers laughed ruefully. "Well, to tell the truth, I just remembered acustomer of mine who specializes in Confederate arms, who would pay me atleast eighty for that item," h
e admitted. "I thought..."

  Rand shook his head. "I have a special fondness for Confederate arms,myself. One of my grandfathers was in Mosby's Rangers, and the other waswith Barksdale, to say nothing of about a dozen great-uncles and so on."

  "Well, you're entirely within your rights, Mr. Rand," Rivers conceded. "Ishould apologize for trying to renege on a sale, but.... Well, I hope tosee you again, soon." He followed Rand to the door, shaking hands withhim. "Don't forget; I'm willing to pay anything up to twenty-fivethousand for the Fleming collection."