CHAPTER 19
There was less feuding at dinner that evening than at any previous mealRand had eaten in the Fleming home. In the first place, everybody seemeda little awed in the presence of the new butler, who flitted in and outof the room like a ghost and, when spoken to, answered in a heavy B.B.C.accent. Then, the women, who carried on most of the hostilities, hadre-erected their _front populaire_ and were sharing a common pleasure inthe recovery of the stolen pistols. And finally, there was a distinctpossibility that the swift and dramatic justice that had overtakenWalters and Gwinnett at Rand's hands was having a sobering effect uponsomebody at that table.
Dunmore, Nelda, Varcek, Geraldine and Gladys had been intending togo to a party that evening, but at the last minute Gladys had pleadedindisposition and telephoned regrets. The meal over, Rand had goneup to the gunroom, Gladys drifted into the small drawing-room off thedining-room, and the others had gone to their rooms to dress.
Rand was taking down the junk with which Walters had infiltrated thecollection and was listing and hanging up the recovered items when FredDunmore, wearing a dressing-gown, strolled in.
"I can't get over the idea of Walters being a thief," he sorrowed."I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen his signedconfession.... Well, it just goes to show you...."
"He took his medicine standing up," Rand said. "And he helped us recoverthe pistols. If I were you, I'd go easy with him."
Dunmore shook his head. "I'm not a revengeful man, Colonel Rand," hesaid, "but if there's one thing I can't forgive, it's a disloyalemployee." His mouth closed sternly around his cigar. "He'll have to takewhat's coming to him." He stood by the desk for a moment, looking down atthe recovered items and the pile of junk on the floor. "When did youfirst suspect him?"
"Almost from the first moment I saw this collection." Rand explained thereasoning which had led him to suspect Walters. "The real clincher, to mymind, was the fact that he knew this collection almost as well as LaneFleming did, and wouldn't be likely to be deceived by these substitutionsany more than Fleming would. Yet he said nothing to anybody; neither toMrs. Fleming, nor Goode, nor myself. If he weren't guilty himself, Iwanted to know his reason for keeping silent. So I put the pressure onhim, and he cracked open."
"Well, I want you to know how grateful we all are," Dunmore saidfeelingly. "I'm kicking hell out of myself, now, about the way I objectedwhen Gladys brought you in here. My God, suppose we'd tried to sell thecollection ourselves! Anybody who'd have been interested in buying wouldhave seen what you saw, and then they'd have claimed that we were tryingto hold out on them." He hesitated. "You've seen how things are here," hecontinued ruefully. "And that's something else I have to thank you for; Imean, keeping your mouth shut till you got the pistols back. There'd havebeen a hell of a row; everybody would have blamed everybody else.... Howdid you get him to confess, though?"
Rand told him about the subterfuge of the trumped-up murder charge.Dunmore had evidently never thought of that hoary device; he chuckledappreciatively.
"Say, that _was_ smart! No wonder he was so willing to admit everythingand help you get them back." He looked at the pistols on the desk andmoved one or two of them. "Did you get the one the coroner had? Goodesaid something--"
"Oh, yes; I got that yesterday." Rand turned and went to the workbench,bringing back the Leech & Rigdon, which he handed to Dunmore. "That's it.I fired out the other five charges, and cleaned it at the State Policesubstation." He watched Dunmore closely, but there seemed to be noreaction.
"So that's it." Dunmore looked at it with a show of interest and honestsorrow, and handed it back, then shifted his cigar across his mouth."Look here, Colonel; I've been wanting to ask you something. Did Gladysjust get you to come here to appraise and sell the collection, or are youinvestigating Lane's death, too?"
"Well, now, you're asking me to be disloyal to my employer," Randobjected. "Why don't you ask her that? If she wants you to know, she'lltell you."
"Dammit, I can't! Suppose she's satisfied that it really was an accident;would I want to start her worrying and imagining things?"
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Rand conceded. "You're not at all satisfiedon that point yourself, are you?"
"Well, are you?" Dunmore parried.
That sort of fencing could go on indefinitely. Rand determined to stopit. After all, if Dunmore was the murderer of Lane Fleming, he wouldalready know how little Rand was deceived by the fake accident; the Leech& Rigdon had told him that already. If he weren't, telling him would dono harm at this point, and might even do some good.
"Why, I think Fleming was murdered," Rand told him, as casually as thoughhe were expressing an opinion on tomorrow's weather. "And I furtherbelieve that whoever killed Fleming also killed Arnold Rivers. That, bythe way, is where I come in. Stephen Gresham has retained me to find theRivers murderer; to do that, I must first learn who killed Lane Fleming.However, I was not retained to investigate the Fleming murder, and as faras I know from anything she has told me, Gladys Fleming is quitesatisfied that her husband shot himself accidentally." In a universe ofordered abstractions and multiordinal meanings, the literal truth, on oneorder of abstraction, was often a black lie on another. "Does that answeryour question?" he asked, with open-faced innocence.
Dunmore nodded. "Yes, I get it, now. Look here, do you think Anton Varcekcould have done it? I know it's a horrible idea, and I want you tounderstand that I'm not making any accusations, but we always took it forgranted that he'd been up in his lab, and had come downstairs when heheard the shot. But suppose he came down and shot Fleming, and then wentout in the hall, and made that rumpus outside after locking the doorbehind him?"
"That's possible," Rand agreed. "You were taking a bath when you heardthe shot, weren't you?"
Dunmore shook his head. "I suppose so. I didn't hear any shot, to tellthe truth. All I heard was Anton pounding on the door and yelling. Isuppose I had my head under the shower, and the noise of the water keptme from hearing the shot." He stopped short, taking his cigar from hismouth and pointing it at Rand. "And, by God, that would have been aboutfive minutes before he started hammering on the door!" he exclaimed."Time enough for him to have fixed things to look like an accident, setthe deadlatch, and have gone out in the hall, and started making a noise.And another thing. You say that whoever killed Lane also killed thisfellow Rivers. Well, on Thursday night, when Rivers was killed, Antondidn't get home till around twelve."
"Yes, I'd thought of that. You know, though, that the murderer doesn'thave to be Varcek, or anybody else who was in the house at the time. Thegarage doors were open--I'm told that your wife was out at the time--andanybody could have sneaked in the back way, up through the library, andout the same way. There are one or two possibilities besides you andAnton Varcek."
Dunmore's eyes widened. "Yes, and I can think of one, without halftrying, too!" He nodded once or twice. "For instance, the man who wasafraid you were investigating Fleming's death; the man who started thatsuicide story!" He looked at Rand interrogatively. "Well, I got to go;Nelda'll be out of the bathroom by now. I want to talk to you about thissome more, Colonel."
After Dunmore had gone out, Rand mopped his face. The room seemedinsufferably hot. He found an electric fan over the workbench and pluggedit in, but it made enough noise to cover any sounds of stealthy approach,and he shut it off. He had finished revising his list to include therecovered pistols for as far as it was completed, and was hanging themback on the wall when Ritter came in.
"House is clear, now," his assistant said, stepping out of his P. G.Wodehouse character. "Both pairs left in the Packard, Dunmore driving.Man, what a cat-and-dog show this place is! It's a wonder our clientisn't nuts."
"You haven't seen anything; you ought to have been here lastnight ... Where is our client, by the way?"
"Downstairs." Ritter fished a cigarette out of his livery andappropriated Rand's lighter. "If we hear her coming, you can grab this."He brushed a couple of Paterson Colts to one side and sat down on theedg
e of the desk, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. "What's theregular law doing, now that young Jarrett is out?"
"I had a long talk with Mick McKenna," Rand said. "Fortunately, Mick andI have worked together before. I was able to tell him the facts of life,and he'll be a good boy now. When last heard from, Farnsworth wasbeginning to blow his hot breath on the back of Cecil Gillis's neck."
Ritter picked up the big .44 Colt Walker and tried the balance. "Man,this even makes that Colt Magnum of mine feel light!" he said. "Say,Jeff, if Farnsworth's going after Gillis, it's probably on account ofthose stories about him and Mrs. Rivers. At least, all that stuff wouldcome out if he arrested him. Maybe we could get a fee out of Mrs.Rivers."
"I'd thought of that. Unfortunately, Mrs. Rivers had a very convenientbreakdown, when she heard the news; she is now in a hospital in New York,and won't be back until after the funeral. Prostrated with grief. Orsomething. And this case is due to blow up like Hiroshima before then.Well, we can't get fees from everybody." That, of course, was one of thesad things of life to which one must reconcile oneself. "I got a callfrom Pierre Jarrett; Tip's staying at the Jarrett place tonight. Ithought it would be a good idea to have him within reach for a while."
The private outside phone rang shrilly. Ritter let it go for severalrings, then picked it up.
"This is the Fleming residence," he stated, putting on his characteragain. "Oh, yes indeed, sir. Colonel Rand is right here, sir; I'll tellhim you're calling." He put a hand over the mouthpiece. "Humphrey Goode."
Rand took the phone and named himself into it.
"I would like to talk to you privately, Colonel Rand," the lawyer said."On a subject of considerable importance to our, shall I say, mutualclients. Could you find time to drop over, sometime this evening?"
"Well, I'm very busy, at the moment, Mr. Goode," Rand regretted. "Therehave been some rather deplorable developments here, lately. The butler,Walters, has been arrested for larceny. It seems that since Mr. Fleming'sdeath, he has been systematically looting the pistol-collection. I'mtrying to get things straightened out, now."
"Good heavens!" Goode was considerably shaken. "When did you discoverthis, Colonel Rand? And why wasn't I notified before? And are there manyvaluable items missing?"
"I discovered it as soon as I saw the collection," Rand began answeringhis questions in order. "Neither you, nor anybody else was notified,because I wanted to get evidence to justify an arrest first. And nothingis missing; everything has been recovered," he finished. "That's what I'mso busy about, now; getting my list revised, and straightening out thecollection."
"Oh, fine!" Goode was delighted. "I hope everything was handled quietly,without any unnecessary publicity? But this other matter; I don't care togo into it over the phone, and it's imperative that we discuss itprivately, at once."
"Well, suppose you come over here, Mr. Goode," Rand suggested. "That way,I won't have to interrupt my work so much. There's nobody at home now butMrs. Fleming, and as she's indisposed, we'll be quite alone."
"Oh; very well. I think that's really a good idea; much better than yourcoming over here. I'll see you directly."
Ritter was grinning as Rand hung up. "That's the stuff," he approved."The old Hitler technique; make them come to you, and then you can poundthe table and yell at them all you want to."
"You go let him in," Rand directed. "Show him up here, and then take aplant on that spiral stairway out of the library, just out of sight. Idon't think this it, but there's no use taking chances." He mopped hisface again. "Damn, it's hot in here!"
Ten minutes later, Ritter ushered in Humphrey Goode, and inquired ifthere would be anything further, sir? When Rand said there wouldn't, hewent down the spiral. Just as Rand had expected, Goode began peddlingthe same line as Varcek and Dunmore before him. They all came to see himin the gunroom with a common purpose. After easing himself into a chair,and going through some prefatory huffing and puffing, Goode came out withit. Did Rand believe that Lane Fleming had really been murdered, and washe investigating Fleming's death, after all?
"I have always believed that Lane Fleming was murdered," Rand replied."I also believe that his murderer killed Arnold Rivers, as well. I aminvestigating the Rivers murder, and the Fleming murder may be consideredas a part thereof. But what brings you around to discuss that, now? Didyou learn something, since last evening, that leads you to suspect thesame thing?"
"Well, not exactly. But this afternoon, Fred Dunmore and Anton Varcekcame to my office, separately, of course, and each of them wanted to knowif I had any reason to suspect that the, uh, tragedy, was actually a caseof murder. Both had the impression that you were conducting aninvestigation under cover of your work on the pistol collection, andwanted to know whether Mrs. Fleming or I had employed you to do so."
"And you denied it, giving them the impression that Mrs. Fleming had?"Rand asked. "I hope you haven't put her in any more danger than she isnow, by doing so."
Goode looked startled. "Colonel Rand! Do you actually mean that...?" hebegan.
"You were Lane Fleming's attorney, and board chairman of his company,"Rand said. "You can probably imagine why he was killed. You can askyourself just how safe his principal heir is now." Without giving Goodea chance to gather his wits, he pressed on: "Well, what's your opinionabout Fleming's death? After all, you did go out of your way to createa false impression that he had committed suicide."
Goode, still bewildered by Rand's deliberately cryptic hints and a littlefrightened, had the grace to blush at that.
"I admit it; it was entirely unethical, and I'll admit that, too," hesaid. "But.... Well, I'm buying all the Premix stock that's out in smallblocks, and so are Mr. Dunmore and Mr. Varcek. We all felt that suchrumors would reduce the market quotation, to our advantage."
Rand nodded. "I picked up a hundred shares, the other day, myself. Yourshenanigans probably chipped a little off the price I had to pay, so Iought to be grateful to you. But we're talking about murder, not marketmanipulation. Did either Varcek or Dunmore express any opinion as to whomight have killed Fleming?"
The outside telephone rang before Goode could answer. Rand scooped it upat the end of the first ring and named himself into it. It was MickMcKenna calling.
"Well, we checked up on that cap-and-ball six-shooter you left with me,"he said. "This gunsmith, Umholtz, refinished it for Rivers last summer.He showed the man who was to see him the entry in his job-book: make,model, serials and all."
"Oh, fine! And did you get anything out of young Gillis?" Rand asked.
"The gun was in Rivers's shop from the time Umholtz rejuvenated it tillaround the first of November. Then it was sold, but he doesn't know whoto. He didn't sell it himself; Rivers must have."
"I assumed that; that's why he's still alive. Well, thanks, Mick. Thecase is getting tighter every minute."
"You haven't had any trouble yet?" McKenna asked anxiously. "How's thewhoozis doing?"
"About as you might expect," Rand told him, mopping his face again."Thanks for that, too."
He hung up and turned back to Goode. "Pardon the interruption," he said."Sergeant McKenna, of the State Police. The officer who made the arreston Walters and Gwinnett. Well, I suppose Dunmore and Varcek are eachtrying to blame the other," he said.
"Well, yes; I rather got that impression," Goode admitted.
"And which one do you like for the murderer? Or haven't you picked yours,yet?"
"You mean.... Yes, of course," Goode said slowly. "It must have been oneor the other. But I can't think.... It's horrible to have to suspecteither of them." For a moment, he stared unseeingly at the litter ofhigh-priced pistols on the desk. Then:
"Colonel Rand, Lane Fleming is dead, and nothing either of us can dowill bring him back. To expose his murderer certainly won't. But itwould cause a scandal that would rock the Premix Company to its veryfoundations. It might even disastrously affect the market as a whole."
"Oh, come!" Rand reproved. "That's like talking about starting ahurricane with a p
alm-leaf fan."
"But you will admit that it would have a dreadful effect on PremixFoods," Goode argued. "It would probably prevent this merger from beingconsummated. Look here," he said urgently. "I don't know how much GladysFleming is paying you to rake all this up, but I'll gladly double her feeif you drop it and confine yourself to the matter of the collection."
Even in his colossal avarice, that was one kind of money Jeff Rand hadnever been tempted to take. An offer of that sort invariably made himfurious. At the moment, he managed to choke down his anger, but herejected Goode's offer in a manner which left no room for furtherdiscussion. Goode rose, shaking his head sadly.
"I suppose you realize," he said, sorrowfully, "that you're wreckinga ten-million-dollar corporation. One in which you, yourself, are astockholder."
Rand brightened. "And the biggest wrecking jobs I ever did before were acouple of petrol dumps and a railroad bridge." He got to his feet alongwith the lawyer. "No need to call the butler; I'll let you out myself."
He accompanied Goode down the front stairway to the door. Goode was stillgloomy.
"I made a mistake in trying to bribe you," he said. "But can't I appealto your sense of fairness? Do you want to inflict serious losses oninnocent investors merely to avenge one crime?"
"I don't approve of murder," Rand told him. "Least of all, to paraphraseClausewitz, as an extension of business by other means. You know, if welet Lane Fleming's killer get away with it, somebody might take that as aprecedent and bump you off to win a lawsuit, sometime. Ever think ofthat?"
When he returned to the gunroom, he found Gladys Fleming occupying thechair lately vacated by the family attorney. She blew a smoke-ring at himin greeting as he entered.
"Now what was Hump Goode up to?" she wanted to know.
"I'm taking too much on myself," Rand evaded. "Maybe I should have turnedWalters over for trial by family court-martial. How do you like Davies,by the way?"
"Oh, he's cute," Gladys told him. "One of your operatives, isn't he?"
"Now what in the world gave you an idea like that?" he asked, as thoughhumoring the vagaries of a child.
"Well, I suspected something of the sort from the alacrity with which youproduced him, before Walters was out of the house," she said. "And nobodycould be as perfect a stage butler as he is. But what really convinced mewas coming into the library, a little while ago, and finding himsquatting on the top of the spiral, covering Humphrey Goode with a smallbut particularly evil-looking automatic."
Rand chuckled. "What did you do?"
"Oh, I climbed up and squatted beside him," she replied. "I got therejust as you were telling Goode what he could do with his bribe. You know,with one thing and another, Goode's beginning to become unamusing." Shesmoked in silence for a moment. "I ought to be indignant with you,filling my house with spies," she said. "But under the circumstances, I'mafraid I'm thankful, instead. Your op's a good egg, by the way; he's onhis way to bring us some drinks."
"I ought to be sore at you, retaining me into a mess like this andtelling me nothing," Rand told her. "What was the idea, anyhow? Youwanted me to investigate your husband's murder, all along, didn't you?"
"I--I hadn't a thing to go on," she replied. "I was afraid, if I came outand told you what I suspected, that you'd think it was just another caseof feminine dam-foolishness, and dismiss it as such. I knew it wasn't anaccident; Lane didn't have accidents with guns. And if he'd wanted tokill himself, he'd have done it and left a note explaining why he had to.But I didn't have a single fact to give you. I thought that if you camehere and started working on the collection, you'd find something."
"You should have taken a chance and told me what you suspected," Randsaid. "I've taken a lot of cases on flimsier grounds than this. The factis, you practically told me it was murder, when you were talking to me inmy office."
"Jeff, I never was what the soap-operas call being 'in love' with Lane,"she continued. "But he was wonderful to me. He gave me everything a girlwho grew up in a sixteen-dollar apartment over a fruit store could want.And then somebody killed him, just as you'd step on a cockroach, becausehe got in the way of a business deal. I'm glad to be able to spend moneyto help catch whoever did it. It won't help him, but it'll make me feel alot better.... You will catch him, won't you?"
Rand nodded. "I don't know whether he'll ever go to trial and beconvicted," he said. "I don't think he will. But you can take my word forit; he won't get away with it. Tomorrow, I think the lid's going to blowoff. Maybe you'd better be away from home when it does. Take Nelda andGeraldine with you, and go somewhere. There's likely to be some uproar."
"Well, Nelda and Geraldine and I are going to church, in the morning,"Gladys said. "It's a question of face. We have a rented pew--Lane wasquite active in church work--and none of us are willing to let ourselvesget squeezed out of it. We all go; even Geraldine manages to drag herselfto the Lord's House through an alcoholic fog. And we'll have to be backin time for dinner. It would look funny if we weren't."
"Well, if nothing's happened by the time you get back, I want you to talkthe girls into going somewhere with you in the afternoon, and stay awaytill evening. And don't get the idea that you could help me here," headded, stopping an objection. "I know what I'm talking about. Thepresence of any of you here would only delay matters and make it harderfor me."
Then Ritter came in, a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, carrying atray on which were a bottle of Bourbon, a bottle of Scotch, a siphon anda couple of bottles of beer.
Murder in the Gunroom Page 19
