CHAPTER 11
Mick McKenna had put his finger right on the sore spot. It did hurtRand like hell; a nice, sensational murder and no money in it for theTri-State Agency. Obviously, somebody would have to be persuaded tofinance an investigation. Preferably some innocent victim of unjustsuspicion; somebody who could best clear himself by unmasking the realvillain.... For "villain," Rand mentally substituted "public benefactor."
He was running over a list of possible suspects as he entered Rosemont.Passing the little antique shop he slowed, backed, read the name "KarenLawrence" on the window, and then pulled over to the curb and got out.Crossing the sidewalk, he went up the steps to the door, entering to thejangling of a spring-mounted cowbell.
The girl dealer was inside, with a visitor, a sallow-faced,untidy-looking man of indeterminate age who was openingnewspaper-wrapped packages on a table-top. Karen greeted Rand by name andmilitary rank; Rand told her he'd just look around till she was through.She tossed him a look of comic reproach, as though she had counted on himto rid her of the man with the packages.
"Now, just you look at this-here, Miss Lawrence," the man was enthusing,undoing another package. "Here's something I know you'll want; I thinkthis-here is real quaint! Just look, now!" He displayed some long,narrow, dark object, holding it out to her. "Ain't this-here aninterestin' item, now, Miss Lawrence?"
"_Ooooooh!_ What in heaven's name is that thing?" she demanded.
"That-there's a sword. A real African native sword. Look at thatscabbard, now; made out of real crocodile-skin. A whole young crocodile,head, feet, an' all. I tell you, Miss Lawrence, that-there item isunique!"
"It's revolting! It's the most repulsive object that's ever been broughtinto this shop, which is saying quite a lot. Colonel Rand! If you don'thave a hangover this morning, will you please come here and look at thisthing?"
Rand laid down the Merril carbine he had been examining and walked overbeside Karen. The man--whom Rand judged to be some rural free-lanceantique-prospector--extended the object of the girl's repugnance. It wasan African sword, all right, with a plain iron hilt and cross-guard. Thedesign looked Berber, but the workmanship was low-grade, and probablyattributable to some even more barbarous people. The scabbard was whatwas really surprising, if you liked that kind of surprises. It was aninfant crocodile, rather indifferently smoke-cured; the sword simply wentin between the creature's jaws and extended the length of the body andinto the tail. Either end of a moldy-green leather thong had beenfastened to the two front paws for a shoulder-baldric. When new, Randthought, it must have given its wearer a really distinctive aroma, evenfor Africa. He drew the blade gingerly, looked at it, and sheathed itwith caution.
"East African; Danakil, or Somali, or something like that," he commented."Be damn good and careful not to scratch yourself on that; if you do,you'll need about a gallon of anti-tetanus shots."
"Y'think it might be poisoned?" the man with the dirty neck and themonth-old haircut inquired eagerly. "See, Miss Lawrence? What I told you;a real African native sword. I got that-there from Hen Sourbaw, over atFeltonville; his uncle, the Reverend Sourbaw, that used to preach atHemlock Gap Church, brung it from Africa, himself, about fifty years ago.He used to be a missionary, in his younger days.... I can make you anawful good price on that-there item, Miss Lawrence."
"God forbid!" she exclaimed. "All my customers are heavy drinkers; Iwouldn't want to answer for what might happen if some of them saw thatthing, suddenly."
"Oh, well.... How about that-there little amethyst bottle, then?"
"Well ... I would give you seven dollars for that," she grudged.
"Y'would? Well, it's yours, then. An' how about them-there salt-cellars,an' that-there knife-box?"
Rand wandered back to examining firearms. Eventually, after buying theknife-box, Karen got rid of the man with the antiques. When he had gone,she found a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Rand and lit one forherself.
"Well, now you see why girls leave home and start antique shops," shesaid. "Never a dull moment.... Wasn't that sword the awfullest thing youever saw, though?"
"Well, one of the ten awfullest," Rand conceded. "I just stopped in togive you some good news. You won't need to consider that offer of ArnoldRivers's, any more. He is no longer interested in the Flemingcollection."
"He isn't?" An eager, happy light danced up in her eyes. "You saw himagain this morning? What did he say?"
"He didn't say anything. He isn't talking any more, either. Fact is, heisn't even breathing any more."
"He.... You mean he's dead?" She was surprised, even shocked. The shockwas probably a concession to good taste, but the surprise looked genuine."When did he die? It must have been very sudden; I saw him a few daysago, and he looked all right. Of course, he's been having trouble withhis lungs, but--"
"It was very sudden. Some time last night, some person or persons unknowngave him a butt-and-bayonet job with a German Mauser out of a rack in hisshop. A most unpleasantly thorough job. I went to see him this morning,hoping to badger something out of him about those pistols that aremissing from the Fleming collection, and found the body. I notified theState Police, and just came from there."
"For God's sake!" The shock was genuine, too, now. "Have the police anyidea--?"
"Not the foggiest. If some of the Fleming pistols turn up at his place,I might think that had something to do with it. So far, though, theyhaven't. I gave the shop a once-over-lightly before the cops arrived, andcouldn't find anything."
She tried to take a puff from her cigarette and found that she had brokenit in her fingers. She lit a new one from the mangled butt.
"When did it happen?" She tried to make the question sound casual.
"That I couldn't say, either. Around midnight, would be my guess. Theymight be able to fix a no-earlier time." An idea occurred to him, and hesmiled.
"But that's dreadful!" She really meant that. "It's a terrible thing tohappen to anybody, being killed like that." She stopped just short ofadding: "even Rivers." Instead, she continued: "But I can't say I'mreally very sorry he's dead, Colonel."
"Outside of maybe his wife, and the gunsmith who made his fake WalkerColts and North & Cheney flintlocks, who is?" he countered. "Oh, yes;Cecil Gillis. He's about due for induction into the Army of theUnemployed, unless Mrs. Rivers intends carrying on the business."
Karen's eyes widened. "Cecil Gillis!" she exclaimed softly. "I wonder,now, if he has an alibi for last night!"
"Think he might need one?" Rand asked. "Of course I only saw him once,but he didn't strike me as a possible candidate. I can't seem to seeyoung Gillis doing a messy job like this was, or going to all that manuallabor when he could have used something neat, like a pistol or a dagger."
"Well, Cecil isn't quite the languishing flower he looks," Karen toldhim. "He does a lot of swimming, and he's one of the few people aroundhere who can beat me at tennis. And he has a motive. Maybe two motives."
"Such as?" Rand prompted.
"Maybe you think Cecil is a--you know--one of those boys," sheeuphemized. "Well, he isn't. He takes a perfectly normal, and evenslightly wolfish, interest in the female of his species. And while ArnoldRivers may have been a good provider from a financial standpoint, hewasn't quite up to his wife's requirements in another important respect.And Rivers was away a lot, on buying trips and so on, and when he was,nobody ever saw Cecil leave the Rivers place in the evenings. At least,that's the story; personally, I wouldn't know. Of course, where there'ssmoke, there may be nothing more than somebody with a stogie, but, then,there may be a regular conflagration."
"That would be a perfectly satisfactory motive, under somecircumstances," Rand admitted. "And the other?"
"Cecil might have been doing funny things with the books, and Riversmight have caught him."
"That would also be a good enough motive." It would also, Rand thought,furnish an explanation for the burning of Rivers's record-cards. "I'llmention it to Mick McKenna; he's hard up for a good usable suspect. Andby the
way, the news of this killing will be out before evening, but inthe meantime I wish you wouldn't mention it to anybody, or mention thatI was in here to tell you about it."
"I won't. I'm glad you told me, though.... Do you think there may be achance that we can get the collection, now?"
"I wouldn't know why not. Rivers's offer was pretty high; there aren'tmany other dealers who would be able to duplicate it.... Well, don't takeany Czechoslovakian Stiegel."
He moved his car down the street to the Rosemont Inn, where he went intothe combination bar and grill and had a Bourbon-and-water at the bar.Then he ordered lunch, and, while waiting for it, went into a phone-boothand dialed the number of Stephen Gresham's office in New Belfast.
"I'd hoped to catch you before you left for lunch," he said, when thelawyer answered. "There's been a new development in the Flemingbusiness." He had decided to follow the same line as with Karen Lawrence."You needn't worry about Arnold Rivers's offer, any more."
"Ha! So he backed out?"
"He was shoved out," Rand corrected. "On the sharp end of a Mauserbayonet, sometime last night. I found the body this morning, when I wentto see him, and notified the State Police. They call it murder, but ofcourse, they're just prejudiced. I'd call it a nuisance-abatementproject."
"Look here, are you kidding?" Gresham demanded.
"I never kid about Those Who Have Passed On," Rand denied piously. Thenhe recited the already hackneyed description of what had happened toRivers, with careful attention to all the gruesome details. "So I calledcopper, directly. Sergeant McKenna's up a stump about it, and looking inall directions for a suspect."
Gresham was silent for a moment, then swore softly.
"My God, Jeff! This is going to raise all kinds of hell!" He was silentfor a moment. "Look here, can you see me, at my home, about two thirtythis afternoon? I want to talk to you about this."
Rand smiled happily. This looked like what he had been angling for. MaybeArnold Rivers hadn't died in vain, after all.
"Why, yes; I can make it," he replied.
"Good. See you there, then."
Rand assured him that he would be on hand. When he returned to his table,he found his lunch waiting for him. He sat down and ate with a goodappetite. After finishing, he had another drink, and sat sipping itslowly and smoking his pipe; going over the story Gladys Fleming had toldhim, and the gossip he had gotten from Carter Tipton, and the otherstatements which had been made to him by different people about the deathof Lane Fleming, and the conclusions he had reached about the theft ofthe pistols, and the killing of Arnold Rivers; sorting out the inferencesfrom the descriptions, and the descriptive statements of others from thethings he himself had observed. When his glass was empty and his pipeburned out, he left a tip beside the ashtray, paid his check and wentout.
He had two hours until his meeting with Stephen Gresham; he knew exactlywhere to spend them. The county seat was a normal twenty minutes' drivefrom Rosemont, but with the road relatively free from traffic he was ableto cut that to fifteen. Parking his car in front of the courthouse, hewent inside.
The coroner, one Jason Kirchner, was an inoffensive-looking little fellowwith a Caspar Milquetoast mustache and an underslung jaw. He wore an Elkswatchcharm, an Odd Fellows ring, and a Knights of Pythias lapel-pin. Helooked at Rand's credentials, including the letter Humphrey Goode hadgiven him, with some bewilderment.
"You're working for Mr. Goode?" he asked, rather needlessly. "Yes, I see;handling the sale of Mr. Fleming's pistols, for the estate. Yes. Thatmust be interesting work, Mr. Rand. Now, what can I do for you?"
"Why, I understand you have an item from that collection, here in youroffice," Rand said. "The pistol with which Mr. Fleming shot himself.Regardless of its unpleasant associations, that pistol is a valuablecollector's item, and one of the assets of the estate. If I'm to get fullvalue for the collection, for the heirs, I'll have to have that, to sellwith the rest of the weapons."
"Well, now, look here, Mr. Rand," Kirchner started to argue, "thatrevolver's a dangerous weapon. It's killed one man, already. I don't knowas I ought to let it get out, where it might kill somebody else."
Rand estimated that this situation called for a modified version of hishard-boiled act.
"You think you can show cause why that revolver shouldn't be turnedover 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 rightto impound that revolver, in the first place; you removed it from theFleming home illegally in the second place, since you had no intentionof holding any formal inquest, and you're holding it illegally now. Acourt order might not be all we could get, either," he added menacingly."Now, if you have any reason to suspect that Mr. Fleming committedsuicide ... 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 toinadvertence of the deceased."
"Well, then," Rand said, "you have no right to hold that revolver, andI want it, right now. As Mr. Goode's agent, I'm responsible for thatcollection, of which the revolver you're holding is a part. That revolveris 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 againstMr. Goode's wishes." Humphrey Goode must pull considerable weight aroundthe courthouse, Rand surmised. "But you realize, that revolver's stillloaded...."
"Oh, that's not your worry. I'll draw the charges, or, better, fire themout. 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 arevolver in both hands. Evidently Goode had given him the green light.He approached, handling the weapon with a caution that would have beenexcessive for a Mills grenade; after warning Rand again that it wasloaded, he laid it gently on his desk.
It was a .36 Colt, one of the 1860 series, with the round barrel and theso-called "creeping" ramming-lever. Somebody had wound a piece of wirearound it, back of the hammer and through the loading-aperture in frontof the cylinder; as the hammer was down on a fired chamber, there was noway in God's world, short of throwing the thing into a furnace, in whichit could be discharged, but Kirchner was shrinking away from it as thoughit might jump at his throat.
"I put the wire on," the coroner said. "I thought it might be safer thatway."
"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 forthe 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 knewit was all right, but ... You see, I've been bothered a lot about thatpistol, lately."
"Yes?" Rand succeeded in being negligent about it.
"Oh my, yes! The newspaper people wanted to take pictures of me holdingit, 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 ofRosemont; he doesn't sell anything but guns and swords and that sort ofthing," Kirchner said. "He was here, making inquiries about it, and myclerk showed it to him, and then he started making offers for it--firstten dollars, and then fifteen, and then twenty; he got up as high assixty dollars. I suppose it's worth a couple of hundred."
It was probably worth about thirty-five. Rand was intrigued by thissecond instance of an un-Rivers-like willingness to spare no expense toget 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 geta lot of money for it, because of the accident, and Mr. Fleming beingsuch 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'msupposed 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 pistolMr. Fleming killed himself with? Put in how you found it in his hand, andmention the serial numbers, so that whoever buys it will know it's thesame revolver." He picked up the Colt and showed Kirchner the serials, onthe 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 typedout the letter himself, looked twice at the revolver to make sure of thenumber, took Rand's word for the make, model, and caliber, signed it, andeven slammed his seal down on it. Rand thanked him profusely, put theletter in his pocket, and stuck the Colt down his pants-leg.
About two miles from the county seat Rand stopped his car on a desertedstretch of road and got out. Unwinding the wire Kirchner had wrappedaround the revolver, he picked up an empty beer-can from the ditch,set it against an embankment, stepped back about thirty feet and beganfiring. The first shot kicked up dirt a little over the can--Rand nevercould be sure just how high any percussion Colt was sighted--and theother four hit the can. He carried the revolver back to the car and putit into the glove-box with the Leech & Rigdon.
After starting the car, he snapped on the radio, in time for the twofifteen news-broadcast from the New Belfast station. As he had expected,the murder was out; the daily budget of strikes and Congressionalinvestigations and international turmoil was enlivened by a more or lessimaginative account of what had already been christened the "RosemontBayonet Murder." Rand resigned himself to the inevitable influx ofreporters. Then he swore, as the newscaster continued:
"District Attorney Charles P. Farnsworth, of Scott County, who has takencharge of the investigation, says, and we quote: 'There is strongevidence implicating certain prominent persons, whom we are not, as yet,prepared to name, and if the investigation, now under way and makingexcellent progress, justifies, they will be apprehended and formallycharged. No effort will be spared, and no consideration of personalprominence will be allowed to deter us from clearing up this dastardlycrime....'"
Rand swore again, with weary bitterness, wondering how much trouble hewas going to have with District Attorney Charles P. Farnsworth, as hepulled to a stop in Stephen Gresham's driveway.