After ushering his client out the hall door and closing it behind her,
Rand turned and said:
"All right, Kathie, or Dave; whoever's out there. Come on in."
Then he went to his desk and reached under it, snapping off a switch.
As he straightened, the door from the reception-office opened and
his secretary, Kathie O'Grady, entered, loading a cigarette into an
eight-inch amber holder. She was a handsome woman, built on the generous
lines of a Renaissance goddess; none of the Renaissance masters, however,
had ever employed a model so strikingly Hibernian. She had blue eyes, and
a fair, highly-colored complexion; she wore green, which went well with
her flaming red hair, and a good deal of gold costume-jewelry.
Behind her came Dave Ritter. He was Rand's assistant, and also Kathie's
lover. He was five or six years older than his employer, and slightly
built. His hair, fighting a stubborn rearguard action against baldness,
was an indeterminate mousy gray-brown. It was one of his professional
assets that nobody ever noticed him, not even in a crowd of one; when he
wanted it to, his thin face could assume the weary, baffled expression of
a middle-aged book-keeper with a wife and four children on fifty dollars
a week. Actually, he drew three times that much, had no wife, admitted to
no children. During the war, he and Kathie had kept the Tri-State Agency
in something better than a state of suspended animation while Rand had
been in the Army.
Ritter fumbled a Camel out of his shirt pocket and made a beeline for the
desk, appropriating Rand's lighter and sharing the flame with Kathie.
"You know, Jeff," he said, "one of the reasons why this agency never made
any money while you were away was that I never had the unadulterated
insolence to ask the kind of fees you do. I was listening in on the
extension in the file-room; I could hear Kathie damn near faint when
you said five grand."
"Yes; five thousand dollars for appraising a collection they've been
offered ten for, and she only has a third-interest," Kathie said,
retracting herself into the chair lately vacated by Gladys Fleming.
"If that makes sense, now ..."
"Ah, don't you get it, Kathleen Mavourneen?" Ritter asked. "She doesn't
care about the pistols; she wants Jeff to find out who fixed up that
accident for Fleming. You heard that big, long shaggy-dog story about
exactly what happened and where everybody was supposed to have been at
the time. I hope you got all that recorded; it was all told for a
purpose."
Rand had picked up the outside phone and was dialing. In a moment, a
girl's voice answered.
"Carter Tipton's law-office; good afternoon."
"Hello, Rheba; is Tip available?"
"Oh, hello, Jeff. Just a sec; I'll see." She buzzed another phone. "Jeff
Rand on the line," she announced.
A clear, slightly Harvard-accented male voice took over.
"Hello, Jeff. Now what sort of malfeasance have you committed?"
"Nothing, so far--cross my fingers," Rand replied. "I just want a little
information. Are you busy?... Okay, I'll be up directly."
He replaced the phone and turned to his disciples.
"Our client," he said, "wants two jobs done on one fee. Getting the
pistol-collection sold is one job. Exploring the whys and wherefores of
that quote accident unquote is the other. She has a hunch, and probably
nothing much better, that there's something sour about the accident. She
expects me to find evidence to that effect while I'm at Rosemont, going
over the collection. I'm not excluding other possibilities, but I'll work
on that line until and unless I find out differently. Five thousand
should cover both jobs."
"You think that's how it is?" Kathie asked.
"Look, Kathie. I got just as far in Arithmetic, at school, as you did,
and I suspect that Mrs. Fleming got at least as far as long division,
herself. For reasons I stated, I simply couldn't have handled that
collection business for anything like a reasonable fee, so I told her
five thousand, thinking that would stop her. When it didn't, I knew she
had something else in mind, and when she went into all that detail about
the death of her husband, she as good as told me that was what it was.
Now I'm sorry I didn't say ten thousand; I think she'd have bought it at
that price just as cheerfully. She thinks Lane Fleming was murdered.
Well, on the face of what she told me, so do I."
"All right, Professor; expound," Ritter said.
"You heard what he was supposed to have shot himself with," Rand began.
"A Colt-type percussion revolver. You know what they're like. And I know
enough about Lane Fleming to know how much experience he had with old
arms. I can't believe that he'd buy a pistol without carefully examining
it, and I can't believe that he'd bring that thing home and start working
on it without seeing the caps on the nipples and the charges in the
chambers, if it had been loaded. And if it had been, he would have first
taken off the caps, and then taken it apart and drawn the charges. And
she says he started working on it as soon as he got home--presumably
around five--and then took time out for dinner, and then went back to
work on it, and more than half an hour later, there was a shot and he was
killed." Rand blew a Bronx cheer. "If that accident had been the McCoy,
it would have happened in the first five minutes after he started working
on that pistol. No, in the first thirty seconds. And then, when they
found him, he had the revolver in his right hand, and an oily rag in his
left. I hope both of you noticed that little touch."
"Yeah. When I clean a gat, I generally have it in my left hand, and clean
with my right," Ritter said.
"Exactly. And why do you use an oily rag?" Rand inquired.
Ritter looked at him blankly for a half-second, then grinned ruefully.
"Damn, I never thought of that," he admitted. "Okay, he was bumped off,
all right."
"But you use oily rags on guns," Kathie objected. "I've seen both of you,
often enough."
"When we're all through, honey," Ritter told her.
"Yes. When he brought home that revolver, it was in neglected condition,"
Rand said. "Either surface-rusted, or filthy with gummed oil and dirt.
Even if Mrs. Fleming hadn't mentioned that point, the length of time he
spent cleaning it would justify such an inference. He would have taken it
apart, down to the smallest screw, and cleaned everything carefully, and
then put it together again, and then, when he had finished, he would have
gone over the surface with an oiled rag, before hanging it on the wall.
He would certainly not have surface-oiled it before removing the charges,
if there ever were any. I assume the revolver he was found holding,
presumably the one with which he was killed, was another one. And I would
further assume that the killer wasn't particularly familiar with the
subject of firearms, antique, care and maintenance of."
"And with all the hollering and whooping and hysterics-throwing, nobody
noticed the switch," Ritter finished. "Wonder what happened to the one he
was really cleaning."
"That I may possibly find out," Rand said. "The general incompetence with
which this murder was committed gives me plenty of room to hope that it
may still be lying around somewhere."
"Well, have you thought that it might just be suicide?" Kathie asked.
"I have, very briefly; I dismissed the thought, almost at once," Rand
told her. "For two reasons. One, that if it had been suicide, Mrs.
Fleming wouldn't want it poked into; she'd be more than willing to let it
ride as an accident. And, two, I doubt if a man who prided himself on his
gun-knowledge, as Fleming did, would want his self-shooting to be taken
for an accident. I'm damn sure I wouldn't want my friends to go around
saying: 'What a dope; didn't know it was loaded!' I doubt if he'd even
expect people to believe that it had been an accident." He shook his
head. "No, the only inference I can draw is that somebody murdered
Fleming, and then faked evidence intended to indicate an accident." He
rose. "I'll be back, in a little; think it over, while I'm gone."
* * * * *
Carter Tipton had his law-office on the floor above the Tri-State
Detective Agency. He handled all Rand's not infrequent legal
involvements, and Rand did all his investigating and witness-chasing;
annually, they compared books to see who owed whom how much. Tipton was
about five years Rand's junior, and had been in the Navy during the war.
He was frequently described as New Belfast's leading younger attorney and
most eligible bachelor. His dark, conservatively cut clothes fitted him
as though they had been sprayed on, he wore gold-rimmed glasses, and he
was so freshly barbered, manicured, valeted and scrubbed as to give the
impression that he had been born in cellophane and just unwrapped. He
leaned back in his chair and waved his visitor to a seat.
"Tip, do you know anything about this Fleming family, out at Rosemont?"
Rand began, getting out his pipe and tobacco.
"The Premix-Foods Flemings?" Tipton asked. "Yes, a little. Which one of
them wants you to frame what on which other one?"
"That'll do for a good, simplified description, to start with," Rand
commented. "Why, my client is Mrs. Gladys Fleming. As to what she
wants...."
He told the young lawyer about his recent interview and subsequent
conclusions.
"So you see," he finished, "she won't commit herself, even with me. Maybe
she thinks I have more official status, and more obligations to the
police, than I have. Maybe she isn't sure in her own mind, and wants me
to see, independently, if there's any smell of something dead in the
woodpile. Or, she may think that having a private detective called in may
throw a scare into somebody. Or maybe she thinks somebody may be fixing
up an accident for her, next, and she wants a pistol-totin' gent in the
house for a while. Or any combination thereof. Personally, I deplore
these clients who hire you to do one thing and expect you to do another,
but with five grand for sweetening, I can take them."
"Yes. You know, I've heard rumors of suicide, but this is the first whiff
of murder I've caught." He hesitated slightly. "I must say, I'm not
greatly surprised. Lane Fleming's death was very convenient to a number
of people. You know about this Premix Company, don't you?"
"Vaguely. They manufacture ready-mixed pancake flour, and ready-mixed
ice-cream and pudding powders, and this dehydrated vegetable soup--pour
on hot water, stir, and serve--don't they? My colored boy, Buck, got some
of the soup, once, for an experiment. We unanimously voted not to try it
again."
"They put out quite a line of such godsends to the neophyte in the
kitchen, the popularity of which is reflected in a steadily rising
divorce-rate," Tipton said. "They advertise very extensively, including
half an hour of tear-jerking drama on a national hookup during soap-opera
time. Your client, the former Gladys Farrand, was on the air for Premix
for a couple of years; that's how Lane Fleming first met her."
"So you think some irate and dyspeptic husband went to the source of his
woes?" Rand inquired.
"Well, not exactly. You see, Premix is only Little Business, as the foods
industry goes, but they have something very sweet. So sweet, in fact,
that one of the really big fellows, National Milling & Packaging, has
been going to rather extreme lengths to effect a merger. Mill-Pack, par
100, is quoted at around 145, and Premix, par 50, is at 75 now, and
Mill-Pack is offering a two-for-one-share exchange, which would be a
little less than four-for-one in value. I might add, for what it's worth,
that this Stephen Gresham you mentioned is Mill-Pack's attorney,
negotiator, and general Mr. Fixit; he has been trying to put over
this merger for Mill-Pack."
"I'll bear that in mind, too," Rand said.
"Naturally, all this is not being shouted from the housetops," Tipton
continued. "Fact is, it's a minor infraction of ethics for me to mention
it to you."
"I'll file it in the burn-box," Rand promised. "What was the matter;
didn't Premix want to merge?"
"Lane Fleming didn't. And since he held fifty-two per cent of the common
stock himself, try and do anything about it."
"Anything short of retiring Fleming to the graveyard, that is," Rand
amended. "That would do for a murder-motive, very nicely.... What were
Fleming's objections to the merger?"
"Mainly sentimental. Premix was his baby, or, at least, his kid brother.
His father started mixing pancake flour back before the First World War,
and Lane Fleming peddled it off a spring wagon. They worked up a nice
little local trade, and finally a state-wide wholesale business. They
incorporated in the early twenties, and then, after the old man died,
Lane Fleming hired an advertising agency to promote his products, and
built up a national distribution, and took on some sidelines. Then,
during the late Mr. Chamberlain's 'Peace in our time,' he picked up a
refugee Czech chemist and foods-expert named Anton Varcek, who whipped
up a lot of new products. So business got better and better, and they
made more money to spend on advertising to get more money to buy more
advertising to make more money, like Bill Nye's Puritans digging clams
in the winter to get strength to hoe corn in the summer to get strength
to dig clams in the winter.
"So Premix became a sort of symbol of achievement to Fleming. Then, he
was one of these old-model paternalistic employers, and he was afraid
that if he relinquished control, a lot of his old retainers would be
turned out to grass. And finally, he was opposed in principle to
concentration of business ownership. He claimed it made business more
vulnerable to government control and eventual socialization."
"I'm not sure he didn't have something there," Rand considered. "We get
all our corporate eggs in a few baskets, and they're that much easier for
the planned-economy boys to grab.... Just who, on the Premix side, was in
favor of this merger?"
"Just about everybody but Fleming," Tipton replied. "His two sons-in-law,
Fred Dunmore and Varcek, who are first and second vice presidents.
Humphrey Goode, the company attorney, who doubles as board chairman.
All the directors. All the New York banking crowd who are interested
in Premix. And all the two-share tinymites. I don't know who inherits
Fleming's voting interest, but I can find out for you by this time
tomorrow."
"Do that, Tip, and bill me for what you think finding out is worth," Rand
said. "It'll be a novel reversal of order for you to be billing me for an
investigation.... Now, how about the family, as distinct from the
company?"
"Well, there's your client, Gladys Fleming. She married Lane Fleming
about ten years ago, when she was twenty-five and he was fifty-five. In
spite of the age difference, I understand it was a fairly happy marriage.
Then, there are two daughters by a previous marriage, Nelda Dunmore and
Geraldine Varcek, and their respective husbands. They all live together,
in a big house at Rosemont. In the company, Dunmore is Sales, and Varcek
is Production. They each have a corner of the mantle of Lane Fleming in
one hand and a dirk in the other. Nelda and Geraldine hate each other
like Greeks and Trojans. Nelda is the nymphomaniac sister, and Geraldine
is the dipsomaniac. From time to time, temporary alliances get formed,
mainly against Gladys; all of them resent the way she married herself
into a third-interest in the estate. You're going to have yourself a
nice, pleasant little stay in the country."
"I'm looking forward to it." Rand grimaced. "You mentioned suicide
rumors. Such as, and who's been spreading them?"
"Oh, they are the usual bodyless voices that float about," Tipton told
him. "Emanating, I suspect, from sources interested in shaking out the
less sophisticated small shareholders before the merger. The story is
always approximately the same: That Lane Fleming saw his company drifting
reefward, was unwilling to survive the shipwreck, and performed
_seppuku_. The family are supposed to have faked up the accident
afterward. I dismiss the whole thing as a rather less than subtle bit of
market-manipulation chicanery."
"Or a smoke screen, to cover the defects in camouflaging a murder as an
accident," Rand added.
Tipton nodded. "That could be so, too," he agreed. "Say somebody dislikes
the looks of that accident, and starts investigating. Then he runs into
all this miasma of suicide rumors, and promptly shrugs the whole thing
off. Fleming killed himself, and the family made a few alterations and
are passing it off as an accident. The families of suicides have been
known to do that."
"Yes. Regular defense-in-depth system; if the accident line is
penetrated, the suicide line is back of it," Rand said. "Well, in the
last few years, we've seen defenses in depth penetrated with monotonous
regularity. I've jeeped through a couple, myself, to interrogate the
surviving ex-defenders. It's all in having the guns and armor to smash
through with."