CHAPTER 14
Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Then, after they had left thecriminological-journalistic uproar at the Rivers place behind and wereapproaching the village of Rosemont, Pierre turned to Rand.
"You know," he said, "for a disciple of Korzybski, you came pretty closeto confusing orders of abstraction, a couple of times, back there. Youshowed 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'safter you and Philip Cabot left the Gresham place?"
Rand eased the foot-pressure on the gas and spared young Jarrett aside-glance before returning his attention to the road ahead.
"Understand," Pierre hastened to add, "I don't believe that Stephen wasfool enough to kill Rivers over that fake North & Cheney, but weren't youproducing inferences that hadn't been abstracted from any descriptivedata?"
"Pierre, when I'm working on a case like this, any resemblance betweenmy opinions and the statements I may make is purely due to consciousconsiderations of policy," Rand told him. "I don't want Farnsworth orMick McKenna going around bitching this operation up for me. If theyfeel justified in eliminating Gresham on the strength of that phonecall, I'm satisfied, regardless of the semantics involved. Right now, thething that's worrying me is the ease with which I seem to have talkedFarnsworth into laying off Gresham. He and Olsen both have single-trackminds. They may just dismiss that telephone alibi, such as it is, as mereerror of the mortal mind, and go right ahead building some kind of aramshackle 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 ofwhere Walters could have sold those pistols!"
"Well, if Rivers wasn't involved somehow, why was he killed?" Pierrewondered. "Hey! Maybe Walters sold the pistols to Umholtz! He's just asbig a crook as Rivers was, only not quite so smart."
Rand nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe so. And suppose Rivers found out aboutit, and tried to declare himself in on it. That stuff would be worth atleast ten thousand; I doubt if whoever bought it paid Walters more thantwo. In the Umholtz-Rivers income bracket, the difference might be worthkilling for."
"That's right. And Umholtz was in the infantry, in the other war; heserved 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 balanceas a 1903 Springfield."
"Well, you know, the killer wouldn't need to have been trained to use abayonet," Rand pointed out. "Mick McKenna made that point, thisafternoon. There have been a lot of war-movies that showed bayonetfighting; pretty nearly everybody knows about the technique that wasused. And against an unarmed and probably unsuspecting victim likeRivers, a great deal of proficiency wouldn't be needed." He slowed thecar. "Up this road?" he asked.
"Yes. That's my place, over there."
Pierre pointed to a white-walled, red-roofed house that lay against ahillside, about a mile ahead, making a vivid spot in the dull grays andgreens of the early April landscape. It consisted of a square two-storyblock, 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, asRand pulled to a stop in the driveway. "I think I told you what Icollect--personal combat arms, both firearms and edge-weapons."
They entered the front door, which opened directly into a large parlor, abrightly colored, cheerful room. A woman rose from a chair where she hadbeen reading. She was somewhere between forty-five and fifty, but herfigure was still trim, and she retained much of what, in her youth, musthave 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 asmile of real pleasure.
"Pierre has been telling me about you, Colonel," she said. There was afaint trace of French accent in her voice. "I suppose he brought you hereto show you his treasures?"
"Yes; I collect arms too. Pistols," Rand said.
She laughed. "You gun-collectors; you're like women looking at somebody'snew 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'mexpected 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 thewings of the house.
"This is my workshop, too," he said. "Here's where I do my writing." Heopened a door and showed Rand into a large room.
On one side, the wall was blank; on the other, it was pierced by twosmall casement windows. The far end was of windows for its entire width,from within three feet of the floor almost to the ceiling. There werebookcases on either long side, and on the rear end, and over them hungPierre's weapons. Rand went slowly around the room, taking everything in.Very few of the arms were of issue military type, and most of theseshowed alterations to suit individual requirements. As Pierre had toldhim the evening before, the emphasis was upon weapons which illustratedtechniques of combat.
At the end of the room, lighted by the wide windows, was a longdesk which was really a writer's assembly line, with typewriter,reference-books, stacks of notes and manuscripts, and a big dictionaryon 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 likethat. Most of it's standardized formula-stuff; what's known to the tradeas space-operas. My best stuff goes to _Astonishing_. Parenthetically,you mustn't judge any of these magazines by their names. It seems to bea convention to use hyperbolic names for science-fiction magazines; aheritage from what might be called an earlier and ruder day. What I dofor _Astonishing_ is really hard work, and I enjoy it. I'm working now onone for them, based on J. W. Dunne's time-theories, if you know what theyare."
"I think so," Rand said. "Polydimensional time, isn't it? Based on aneffect Dunne observed and described--dreams obviously related to somewaking event, but preceding rather than following the event to which theyare related. I read Dunne's _Experiment with Time_ some years before thewar, and once, when I had nothing better to do, I recorded dreams forabout a month. I got a few doubtful-to-fair examples, and twounmistakable Dunne-Effect dreams. I never got anything that would helpme 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 ofhearing a radio narration of the English Derby of 1933, including theannouncement that Hyperion had won, which he did," Pierre said. "Thedream was six hours before the race, and tallied very closely with thephraseology used by the radio narrator. Here." He picked up a copy ofTyrrell'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 handedthe 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 anybodypassing up a chance like that to enrich himself literally smote him tothe vitals. "I see the British Society for Psychical Research checkedthat 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 thetoughest-minded gang of confirmed skeptics anywhere in Christendom. Theytake an attitude toward evidence that might be advantageously copied bymost of the district attorneys I've met, the one in this county being noexception.... What's this story you're working on?"
"Oh, it's based on Dunne's precognition theories, plus a few ideas of myown, plus a theory of alternate lines of time-sequence for alternateprobabilities," Pierre said. "See, here's the situation ..."
Half an hour later, they were still
arguing about a multidimensionaluniverse when Rand remembered Dave Ritter, who should be at the RosemontInn by now. He looked at his watch, saw that it was five forty-five, andinquired about a telephone.
"Yes, of course; out here." Pierre took him back to the parlor, where hedialed the Inn and inquired if a Mr. Ritter, from New Belfast, wereregistered there yet.
He was. A moment later he was speaking to Ritter.
"Jeff, for Gawdsake, don't come here," Ritter advised. "This place issix-deep with reporters; the bar sounds like the second act of _The FrontPage_. 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 anotherHall-Mills case! Look, meet me at that beer joint, about two miles on theNew Belfast side of Rosemont, on Route 19; the white-with-red-trimmingsplace with the big Pabst sign out in front. I'll try to get there withoutletting 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 andhis mother, and went out to his car. Trust Dave Ritter, he thought, topick some place where malt beverages were sold, for a rendezvous.
Dave's coupe was parked inconspicuously beside the red-trimmed roadhouse.Opening his glove-box, Rand took out the two percussion revolvers andshoved them under his trench coat, one on either side, pulling up thebelt to hold them in place. As he went into the roadhouse, he felt likeDamon Runyon's Twelve-Gun Tweeney. He found Ritter in the last booth,engaged in finishing a bottle of beer. Rand ordered Bourbon and plainwater, and Ritter ordered another beer.
"I have the stuff Tip left with Kathie," Ritter said, taking out a coupleof closely typed sheets and handing them across the table. "He said thiswas the whole business."
Rand glanced over them. Tipton had neatly and concisely summarized theprovisions of Lane Fleming's will, and had also listed all Fleming's lifeinsurance policies, with beneficiaries, including a partnership policy onthe lives of Fleming, Dunmore, and Anton Varcek, paying each of thesurvivors $25,000.
"I see Gladys and Geraldine and Nelda each get a third of Fleming'sPremix stock," Rand commented. "But before they can have the certificatestransferred to them, they have to sign over their voting-power to theboard of directors. Evidently Fleming didn't approve of the femininetouch in business."
"Yeah, isn't that a dandy?" Ritter asked. "The directors are elected bymajority vote of the stockholders. They now have the voting-power of amajority 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 NationalMilling & Packaging. We'll have to suppose Fleming knew that; there musthave been considerable intramural acrimony on the subject while he wasstill alive. Now, since he opposed the merger, if he had intendedcommitting suicide, he would have made some other arrangement, wouldn'the? At least, one would suppose so. Well, then," Rand asked, "why, sincehe is so worried about these suicide rumors, doesn't Goode use the oneargument which would utterly disprove them? Or is there some reasonwhy he doesn't want to call attention to the fact that Fleming's deathis what makes the merger possible?"
"Well, that would be calling attention to the fact that the merger madeFleming's death necessary," Ritter pointed out. He poured more beer intohis glass. "While we're on it, what's the angle on this butler's liveryI was supposed to bring? I brought my tux, and I borrowed a striped vestfrom the Theatrical Property Exchange, and I brought that Dago .380 ofyours. But what makes you think the Flemings are going to be needing anew butler? You going to poison the one they have?"
"The one they have has been exceeding his duties," Rand said. "He wassupposed to clean the pistol-collection. Not content with that, he'sbeen cleaning it out. I know it was the butler." He went, at length,into his reasons for thinking so, and described the _modus operandi_ ofthe thefts. "Now, all this is just theory, so far, but when I'm able toprove it, I'm going to put the arm on this Walters, if it's right in themiddle of dinner and he only has the roast half served. And I want youready to step into the vacancy thus created. I'm going to be busy as apup in a fireplug factory with this Rivers thing, and I'll need somechecking-upping done inside the Fleming household."
He went on, in meticulous detail, to explain about the Rivers murder."I'll have some work for you, before you're ready to start buttling,too." Disencumbering himself of the two percussion revolvers, he laidthem on the table. "I want you to take these and show them to thisbarbecue man. Get from him a positive statement, preferably in writing,as to which, if either, he sold to Lane Fleming. You might show yourAgency card and claim to be checking up on some stolen pistols thathave been recovered. Then, if he identifies the Leech & Rigdon, take theColt and show it to Elmer Umholtz. You want to be careful how you handlehim; we may want him for puncturing Rivers, though I'm inclined to doubtthat, as of now. Get him to tell you, yes or no, whether he reblued itand replated the back-strap and trigger-guard, and if he did it forRivers; and if so, when. I know that's been done; the bluing is too darkfor a Civil War period job; the frame, which ought to be case-hardenedin colors, has been blued like the barrel and cylinder, thecylinder-engraving is almost obliterated, and you can see a few rust-pitsthat have been blued over. But I want to know if this gun was ever inRivers's shop; that's the important thing."
"Uh-huh. Got the addresses?"
Rand furnished them, and Ritter noted them down. The waitress wanderedback to see if they wanted anything else; she gave a small squeak ofsurprise when she saw the two big six-shooters on the table. Rand andRitter repeated their orders, and when she brought back the drinks, theColt and the Leech & Rigdon were out of sight.
"The way I see it, everybody who's within a light-year of this Riverskilling is trying to pin the medal on somebody else," Ritter was saying."The Lawrence girl was afraid young Jarrett had done it; right away, shesicced you onto Gillis. Gillis didn't lose any time putting McKenna andFarnsworth onto Gresham. Gresham's the only one who didn't have a patsyready; you're supposed to dig one up for him. And Jarrett, the firstchance he gets, introduces Umholtz." He stared into his beer, as thoughhe thought Ultimate Verity might be lurking somewhere under the suds. "Doyou think it might be possible that Rivers bumped Fleming off, in spiteof his getting killed later?" he asked.
"Anything's possible," Rand replied, "except where some structuralcontradiction is involved, like scoring thirteen with one throw of a pairof dice. Yes, he could have. The way the Flemings leave their garage openas long as any of the cars are out, anybody could have sneaked into thehouse from the garage, and gone up from the library to the gunroom. Theonly question in my mind is whether Rivers would have known about that.That lawsuit and criminal action that Fleming was going to start--andthat's been verified from sources independent of Goode--was a good soundmotive. And say he took the Leech & Rigdon away, after leaving the Coltin Fleming's hand; selling it to some collector who'd put it in with ahundred or so other pistols would be a good way of disposing of it. And Ican understand his trying to buy the Colt, to get it out of circulation."Rand sipped his Bourbon. "But that leaves us with the question of whokilled Rivers, and why."
"Well, because Fleming is dead--and it doesn't matter whether he wasmurdered or died of old age--Walters starts robbing the collection. Hesells the pistols to Rivers," Ritter reconstructed. "And, as Riversdoesn't want them around his shop till they've had time to cool off, hestores them with this Umholtz character, who seems to have been in plentyof crooked deals with Rivers in the past. The pistols are worth about tengrand, and nobody knows where they are but Rivers and Umholtz, and ifRivers drops dead all of a sudden, nobody will know where they are exceptUmholtz, and in a couple of years he can get them sold off and have themoney all to himself."
"Yes, Dave; that's good sound murder, too. And Rivers would sit down anddrink with Umholtz, and Umholtz could take that Mau
ser out of the rackright in front of Rivers and Rivers wouldn't suspect a thing till it wastoo late. Of course, it depends upon two unverified assumptions: One,that the pistols were sold to Rivers, and, two, that Rivers stored themwith Umholtz."
"And, three, that Walters stole the pistols in the first place," Ritteradded. "You know, it's possible that somebody else in that house mighthave stolen them."
"Yes. As I said, anything's possible, within structural limits, butpossibilities exist on different orders of probability. We can't try toconsider all the possibilities in any case, because they are indefinitelynumerous; the best we can do is screen out all the low-orderprobabilities, list the high-order probabilities, and revise our listwhen and as new data comes to light. Well, I've told you why I thinkWalters is a good suspect. From what I've seen of that household, I thinkWalters was personally loyal to Lane Fleming, and I don't believe hefeels any loyalty to anybody else there, with the exception of GladysFleming. He might keep quiet about the missing pistols if she were thethief; if Dunmore, or Varcek, or either of the girls had done thestealing, he'd tell Gladys, and she'd pass it on to me. She would beglad of anything that could be used against any of the others. And if,on the other hand, she had stolen the pistols herself, she wouldn't havewanted me poking around, and wouldn't have brought me in, at least notto handle the collection." Rand looked regretfully at his empty glass anddecided against ordering another. "Dave, I just thought of something," hesaid. "How do you think this would work?"
He told Ritter what he had thought of. Ritter drank beer slowly andmeditatively.
"It just might work," he considered. "I've seen that gag work a hundredtimes: hell, I've used something like that, myself, at least fifty times,and so have you. And I don't think Walters would be familiar enough withdick-practice to see what you were doing. But if it turns out thatWalters didn't sell the pistols to Rivers at all, what then?"
"Well, if he sold them to Umholtz, Pierre Jarrett's theory is still validuntil disproved," Rand said. "And if he didn't sell them either to Riversor Umholtz, we'll have to conclude that Rivers and Fleming were killed bythe same person, the Rivers killing being a security measure. That is,unless we find that Rivers was killed by Pierre Jarrett, which is a sortof medium-high-order probability. Jarrett and the girl left Gresham'searly enough for him to have killed Rivers; they were both pretty hardhit by that twenty-five-grand blockbuster Rivers had dropped onthem.... Give me back that Colt, Dave. All you have to do is get anidentification on the Leech & Rigdon from the barbecue man. I'm goingto let Mick McKenna handle Umholtz, one way or another, after we'veconcluded the Walters experiment. Until then, we don't want to stirUmholtz up, at all."
Murder in the Gunroom Page 14
