Rand examined each pistol separately, then compared them. Finally, he took a six-inch rule from his pocket and made measurements, first with one edge and then with the other.
“Well, I’m damned,” he said, laying them on the desk. “These things are the most complete fakes I ever saw—locks, stocks, barrels and mountings. They’re supposed to be late sixteenth-century; I doubt if they were made before 1920. As far as I can see or measure, there isn’t the slightest difference between them, except on some of the decorative inlay. The whole job must have been miked in ten-thousandths, and what’s more, whoever made them used metric measurements. You’ll find pairs of English dueling pistols as early as 1775 that are almost indistinguishable, but in 1575, when these things were supposed to have been made, a gunsmith was working fine when he was working in sixteenth-inches. They just didn’t have the measuring instruments, at that time, to do closer work. I won’t bother taking these things apart, but if I did, I’d bet all Wall Street to Junior’s piggy-bank that I’d find that the screws were machine-threaded and the working-parts interchanged. I’ve heard about fakes like these,”—he named a famous, recently liquidated West Coast collection—“but I’d never hoped to see an example like this.”
Goode gave a hacking chuckle. “You’ll do as an arms-expert, Mr. Rand,” he said. “And you’d win the piggy-bank. It seems that after Mr. Fleming bought them, he took them apart, and found, just as you say, that the screw-threads had been machine-cut, and that the working-parts were interchangeable from one pistol to the other. There were a lot of papers accompanying them—I have them here—purporting to show that they had been sold by some Austrian nobleman, an anti-Nazi refugee, in whose family they had been since the reign of Maximilian II. They are, of course, fabrications. I looked up the family in the Almanach de Gotha; it simply never existed. At first, Mr. Fleming had been inclined to take the view that Rivers had been equally victimized with himself. However, when Rivers refused to take back the pistols and refund the purchase price, he altered his opinion. He placed them in my hands, instructing me to bring suit and also start criminal action; he was in a fearful rage about it, and swore that he’d drive Rivers out of business. However, before I could start action, Mr. Fleming was killed in that accident, and as he was the sole witness to the fact of the sale, and as none of the heirs was interested, I did nothing about it. In fact, I advised them that action against Rivers would cost the estate more than they could hope to recover in damages.” He picked up one of the pistols and examined it. “Now, I don’t know what to do about these.”
“Take them home and hang them over the mantel,” Rand advised. “If I’m going to have anything to do with selling the collection, I don’t want anything to do with them.”
Goode was peering at the ivory inlay on the underbelly of the stock.
“They are beautiful, and I don’t care when they were made,” he said. “I think, if nobody else wants them, I’ll do just that.… Now, Mr. Rand, what had you intended doing about the collection?”
“Well, that’s what I came to see you about, Mr. Goode. As I understand it, it is you who are officially responsible for selling the collection, and the proceeds would be turned over to you for distribution to Mrs. Fleming, Mrs. Dunmore and Mrs. Varcek. Is that correct?”
“Yes. The collection, although in the physical possession of Mrs. Fleming, is still an undistributed asset.”
“I thought so.” Rand got out Gladys Fleming’s letter of authorization and handed it to Goode. “As you’ll see by that, I was retained by, and only by, Mrs. Fleming,” he said. “I am assuming that her interests are identical with those of the other heirs, but I realize that this is true only to a very limited extent. It’s my understanding that relations between the three ladies are not the most pleasant.”
Goode produced a short, croaking laugh. “Now there’s a cautious understatement,” he commented. “Mr. Rand, I feel that you should know that all three hate each other poisonously.”
“That was rather my impression. Now, I expect some trouble, from Mrs. Dunmore and/or Mrs. Varcek, either or both of whom are sure to accuse me of having been brought into this by Mrs. Fleming to help her defraud the others. That, of course, is not the case; they will all profit equally by my participation in this. But I’m going to have trouble convincing them of that.”
“Yes. You will,” Goode agreed. “Would you rather carry my authorization than Mrs. Fleming’s?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Goode. To tell the truth, that was why I came here, for one reason. You will not be obligated in any way by authorizing me to act as your agent—I’m getting my fee from Mrs. Fleming—but I would be obligated to represent her only as far as her interests did not improperly conflict with those of the other heirs, and that’s what I want made clear.”
Goode favored the detective with a saurian smile. “You’re not a lawyer, too, Mr. Rand?” he asked.
“Well, I am a member of the Bar in the State of Mississippi, though I never practiced,” Rand admitted. “Instead of opening a law-office, I went into the F.B.I., in 1935, and then opened a private agency a couple of years later. But if I had to, which God forbid, I could go home tomorrow and hang out my shingle.”
“You seem to have had quite an eventful career,” Goode remarked, with a queer combination of envy and disapproval. “I understand that, until recently, you were an officer in the Army Intelligence, too.… I’ll have your authorization to act for me made out immediately; to list and appraise the collection, and to negotiate with prospective purchasers. And by the way,” he continued, “did I understand you to say that you had heard some of these silly rumors to the effect that Lane Fleming had committed suicide?”
“Oh, that’s what’s always heard, under the circumstances,” Rand shrugged. “A certain type of sensation-loving mind…”
“Mr. Rand, there is not one scintilla of truth in any of these scurrilous stories!” Goode declared, pumping up a fine show of indignation. “The Premix Company is in the best possible financial condition; a glance at its books, or at its last financial statement, would show that. I ought to know, I’m chairman of the board of directors. Just because there was some talk of retrenchment, shortly before Mr. Fleming’s death…”
“Oh, no responsible person pays any attention to that sort of talk,” Rand comforted him. “My armed-guard and armored-car service brings me into contact with a lot of the local financial crowd. None of them is taking these rumors seriously.”
“Well, of course, nobody wants the responsibility of starting a panic, even a minor one, but people are talking, and it’s hurting Premix on the market,” Goode gloomed. “And now, people will hear of Mrs. Fleming’s having retained you, and will assume, just as I did at first, that you are making some kind of an investigation. I hope you will make a prompt denial, if you hear any talk like that.” He pressed a button on his desk. “And now, I’ll get a letter of authorization made out for you, Mr. Rand…”
CHAPTER 4
Stephen Gresham was in his early sixties, but he could have still worn his World War I uniform without anything giving at the seams, and buckled the old Sam Browne at the same hole. As Rand entered, he rose from behind his desk and advanced, smiling cordially.
“Why, hello, Jeff!” he greeted the detective, grasping his hand heartily. “You haven’t been around for months. What have you been doing, and why don’t you come out to Rosemont to see us? Dot and Irene were wondering what had become of you.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting too many of my old friends lately,” Rand admitted, sitting down and getting his pipe out. “Been busy as the devil. Fact is, it was business that finally brought me around here. I understand that you and some others are forming a pool to buy the Lane Fleming collection.”
“Yes!” Gresham became enthusiastic. “Want in on it? I’m sure the others would be glad to have you in with us. We’re going to need all the money we can scrape together, with this damned Rivers bidding against us.”
“I’m afraid you will, at that, Stephen,” Rand told him. “And not necessarily on account of Rivers. You see, the Fleming estate has just employed me to expertize the collection and handle the sale for them.” Rand got his pipe lit and drawing properly. “I hate doing this to you, but you know how it is.”
“Oh, of course. I should have known they’d get somebody like you in to sell the collection for them. Humphrey Goode isn’t competent to handle that. What we were all afraid of was a public auction at some sales-gallery.”
Rand shook his head. “Worst thing they could do; a collection like that would go for peanuts at auction. Remember the big sales in the twenties?… Why, here; I’m going to be in Rosemont, staying at the Fleming place, working on the collection, for the next week or so. I suppose your crowd wouldn’t want to make an offer until I have everything listed, but I’d like to talk to your associates, in a group, as soon as possible.”
“Well, we all know pretty much what’s in the collection,” Gresham said. “We were neighbors of his, and collectors are a gregarious lot. But we aren’t anxious to make any premature offers. We don’t want to offer more than we have to, and at the same time, we don’t want to underbid and see the collection sold elsewhere.”
“No, of course not.” Rand thought for a moment. “Tell you what; I’ll give you and your friends the best break I can in fairness to my clients. I’m not obliged to call for sealed bids, or anything like that, so when I’ve heard from everybody, I’ll give you a chance to bid against the highest offer in hand. If you want to top it, you can have the collection for any kind of an overbid that doesn’t look too suspiciously nominal.”
“Why, Jeff, I appreciate that,” Gresham said. “I think you’re entirely within your rights, but naturally, we won’t mention this outside. I can imagine Arnold Rivers, for instance, taking a very righteous view of such an arrangement.”
“Yes, so can I. Of course, if he’d call me a crook, I’d take that as a compliment,” Rand said. “I wonder if I could meet your group, say tomorrow evening? I want to be in a position to assure the Fleming family and Humphrey Goode that you’re all serious and responsible.”
“Well, we’re very serious about it,” Gresham replied, “and I think we’re all responsible. You can look us up, if you wish. Besides myself, there is Philip Cabot, of Cabot, Joyner & Teale, whom you know, and Adam Trehearne, who’s worth about a half-million in industrial shares, and Colin MacBride, who’s vice president in charge of construction and maintenance for Edison-Public Power & Light, at about twenty thousand a year, and Pierre Jarrett and his fiancée, Karen Lawrence. Pierre was a Marine captain, invalided home after being wounded on Peleliu; he writes science-fiction for the pulps. Karen has a little general-antique business in Rosemont. They intend using their share of the collection, plus such culls and duplicates as the rest of us can consign to them, to go into the arms business, with a general-antique sideline, which Karen can manage while Pierre’s writing.… Tell you what; I’ll call a meeting at my place tomorrow evening, say at eight thirty. That suit you?”
That, Rand agreed, would be all right. Gresham asked him how recently he had seen the Fleming collection.
“About two years ago; right after I got back from Germany. You remember, we went there together, one evening in March.”
“Yes, that’s right. We didn’t have time to see everything,” Gresham said. “My God, Jeff! Twenty-five wheel locks! Ten snaphaunces. And every imaginable kind of flintlock—over a hundred U.S. Martials, including the 1818 Springfield, all the S. North types, a couple of Virginia Manufactory models, and—he got this since the last time you saw the collection—a real Rappahannock Forge flintlock. And about a hundred and fifty Colts, all models and most variants. Remember that big Whitneyville Walker, in original condition? He got that one in 1924, at the Fred Hines sale, at the old Walpole Galleries. And seven Paterson Colts, including a couple of cased sets. And anything else you can think of. A Hall flintlock breech-loader; an Elisha Collier flintlock revolver; a pair of Forsythe detonator-lock pistols.… Oh, that’s a collection to end collections.”
“By the way, Humphrey Goode showed me a pair of big ball-butt wheel locks, all covered with ivory inlay,” Rand mentioned.
Gresham laughed heartily. “Aren’t they the damnedest ever seen, though?” he asked. “Made in Germany, about 1870 or ’80, about the time arms-collecting was just getting out of the family-heirloom stage, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say made in Japan, about 1920,” Rand replied. “Remember, there were a couple of small human figures on each pistol, a knight and a huntsman? Did you notice that they had slant eyes?” He stopped laughing, and looked at Gresham seriously. “Just how much more of that sort of thing do you think I’m going to have to weed out of the collection, before I can offer it for sale?” he asked.
Gresham shook his head. “They’re all. They were Lane Fleming’s one false step. Ordinarily, Lane was a careful buyer; he must have let himself get hypnotized by all that ivory and gold, and all that documentation on crested notepaper. You know, Fleming’s death was an undeserved stroke of luck for Arnold Rivers. If he hadn’t been killed just when he was, he’d have run Rivers out of the old-arms business.”
“I notice that Rivers isn’t advertising in the American Rifleman any more,” Rand observed.
“No; the National Rifle Association stopped his ad, and lifted his membership card for good measure,” Gresham said. “Rivers sold a rifle to a collector down in Virginia, about three years ago, while you were still occupying Germany. A fine, early flintlock Kentuck, that had been made out of a fine, late percussion Kentuck by sawing off the breech-end of the barrel, rethreading it for the breech-plug, drilling a new vent, and fitting the lock with a flint hammer and a pan-and-frizzen assembly, and shortening the fore-end to fit. Rivers has a gunsmith over at Kingsville, one Elmer Umholtz, who does all his fraudulent conversions for him. I have an example of Umholtz’s craftsmanship, myself. The collector who bought this spurious flintlock spotted what had been done, and squawked to the Rifle Association, and to the postal authorities.”
“Rivers claimed, I suppose, that he had gotten it from a family that had owned it ever since it was made, and showed letters signed ‘D. Boone’ and ‘Davy Crockett’ to prove it?”
“No, he claimed to have gotten it in trade from some wayfaring collector,” Gresham replied. “He convinced Uncle Whiskers, but the N.R.A. took a slightly dimmer view of the transaction, so Rivers doesn’t advertise in the Rifleman any more.”
“Wasn’t there some talk about Whitneyville Walker Colts that had been made out of 1848 Model Colt Dragoons?” Rand asked.
“Oh Lord, yes! This fellow Umholtz was practically turning them out on an assembly-line, for a while. Rivers must have sold about ten of them. You know, Umholtz is a really fine gunsmith; I had him build a deer-rifle for Dot, a couple of years ago—Mexican-Mauser action, Johnson barrel, chambered for .300 Savage; Umholtz made the stock and fitted a scope-sight—it’s a beautiful little rifle. I hate to see him prostitute his talents the way he does by making these fake antiques for Rivers. You know, he made one of these mythical heavy .44 six-shooters of the sort Colt was supposed to have turned out at Paterson in 1839 for Colonel Walker’s Texas Rangers—you know, the model he couldn’t find any of in 1847, when he made the real Walker Colt. That story you find in Sawyer’s book.”
“Why, that story’s been absolutely disproved,” Rand said. “There never was any such revolver.”
“Not till Umholtz made one,” Gresham replied. “Rivers sold it to,”—he named a moving-picture bigshot—“for twenty-five hundred dollars. His story was that he picked it up in Mexico, in 1938; traded a .38-special to some halfbreed goat-herder for it.”
“This fellow who bought it, now; did he see Belden and Haven’s Colt book, when it came out in 1940?”
“Yes, and he was plenty burned up, but what could he do? Rivers was dug in behind this innocent-purchase-and-sale-in-good-faith Maginot L
ine of his. You know, that bastard took me, once, just one-tenth as badly, with a fake U.S. North & Cheney Navy flintlock 1799 Model that had been made out of a French 1777 Model.” The lawyer muttered obscenely.
“Why didn’t you sue hell out of him?” Rand asked. “You might not have gotten anything, but you’d have given him a lot of dirty publicity. That’s all Fleming was expecting to do about those wheel locks.”
“I’m not Fleming. He could afford litigation like that; I can’t. I want my money, and if I don’t get it in cash, I’m going to beat it out of that dirty little swindler’s hide,” Gresham replied, an ugly look appearing on his face.
“I wouldn’t blame you. You could find plenty of other collectors who’d hold your coat while you were doing it,” Rand told him. Then he inquired, idly: “What sort of a pistol was it that Lane Fleming is supposed to have shot himself with?”
Gresham frowned. “I really don’t know; I didn’t see it. It’s supposed to have been a Confederate Leech & Rigdon .36; you know, one of those imitation Colt Navy Models that were made in the South during the Civil War.”
Rand nodded. He was familiar with the type.
“The story is that Fleming found it hanging back of the counter at some roadside lunch-stand, along with a lot of other old pistols, and talked the proprietor into letting it go for a few dollars,” Gresham continued. “It was supposed to have been loaded at the time, and went off while Fleming was working on it, at home.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that, Jeff. Lane Fleming would know a loaded revolver when he saw one. I believe he deliberately shot himself, and the family faked the accident and fixed the authorities. The police never made any investigation; it was handled by the coroner alone. And our coroner, out in Scott County, is eminently fixable, if you go about it right; a pitiful little nonentity with a tremendous inferiority complex.”
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 214
