Pre-dinner cocktails in the library seemed to be a sort of household
rite--a self-imposed Truce of Bacchus before the resumption of
hostilities in the dining-room. It lasted from six forty-five to seven;
everybody sipped Manhattans and kept quiet and listened to the radio
newscast. The only new face, to Rand, was Fred Dunmore's.
It was a smooth, pinkly-shaven face, decorated with octagonal rimless
glasses; an entirely unremarkable face; the face of the type that used to
be labeled "Babbitt." The corner of Rand's mind that handled such data
subconsciously filed his description: forty-five to fifty, one-eighty,
five feet eight, hair brown and thinning, eyes blue. To this he added the
Rotarian button on the lapel, and the small gold globule on the watch
chain that testified that, when his age and weight had been considerably
less, Dunmore had played on somebody's basketball team. At that time he
had probably belonged to the Y.M.C.A., and had thought that Mussolini was
doing a splendid job in Italy, that H. L. Mencken ought to be deported to
Russia, and that Prohibition was here to stay. At company sales meetings,
he probably radiated an aura of synthetic good-fellowship.
As Rand followed Walters down the spiral from the gunroom, the radio
commercial was just starting, and Geraldine was asking Dunmore where
Anton was.
"Oh, you know," Dunmore told her, impatiently. "He had to go to
Louisburg, to that Medical Association meeting; he's reading a paper
about the new diabetic ration."
He broke off as Rand approached and was introduced by Gladys, who handed
both men their cocktails. Then the news commentator greeted them out of
the radio, and everybody absorbed the day's news along with their
Manhattans. After the broadcast, they all crossed the hall to the
dining-room, where hostilities began almost before the soup was cool
enough to taste.
"I don't see why you women had to do this," Dunmore huffed. "Rivers has
made us a fair offer. Bringing in an outsider will only give him the
impression that we lack confidence in him."
"Well, won't that be just too, too bad!" Geraldine slashed at him. "We
mustn't ever hurt dear Mr. Rivers's feelings like that. Let him have the
collection for half what it's worth, but never, never let him think we
know what a God-damned crook he is!"
Dunmore evidently didn't think that worth dignifying with an answer.
Doubtless he expected Nelda to launch a counter-offensive, as a matter of
principle. If he did, he was disappointed.
"Well?" Nelda demanded. "What did you want us to do; give the collection
away?"
"You don't understand," Dunmore told her. "You've probably heard somebody
say what the collection's worth, and you never stopped to realize that
it's only worth that to a dealer, who can sell it item by item. You can't
expect ..."
"We can expect a lot more than ten thousand dollars," Nelda retorted. "In
fact, we can expect more than that from Rivers. Colonel Rand was talking
to Rivers, this afternoon. Colonel Rand doesn't have any confidence in
Rivers at all, and he doesn't care who knows it."
"You were talking to Arnold Rivers, this afternoon, about the
collection?" Dunmore demanded of Rand.
"That's right," Rand confirmed. "I told him his ten thousand dollar offer
was a joke. Stephen Gresham and his friends can top that out of one
pocket. Finally, he got around to admitting that he's willing to pay up
to twenty-five thousand."
"I don't believe it!" Dunmore exclaimed angrily. "Rivers told me
personally, that neither he nor any other dealer could hope to handle
that collection profitably at more than ten thousand."
"And you believed that?" Nelda demanded. "And you're a business man? _My
God!_"
"He's probably a good one, as long as he sticks to pancake flour,"
Geraldine was generous enough to concede. "But about guns, he barely
knows which end the bullet comes out at. Ten thousand was probably his
idea of what we'd think the pistols were worth."
Dunmore ignored that and turned to Rand. "Did Arnold Rivers actually tell
you he'd pay twenty-five thousand dollars for the collection?" he asked.
"I can't believe that he'd raise his own offer like that."
"He didn't raise his offer; I threw it out and told him to make one that
could be taken seriously." Rand repeated, as closely as he could, his
conversation with the arms-dealer. When he had finished, Dunmore was
frowning in puzzled displeasure.
"And you think he's actually willing to pay that much?"
"Yes, I do. If he handles them right, he can double his money on the
pistols inside of five years. I doubt if you realize how valuable those
pistols are. You probably defined Mr. Fleming's collection as a 'hobby'
and therefore something not to be taken seriously. And, aside from the
actual profit, the prestige of handling this collection would be worth
a good deal to Rivers, as advertising. I haven't the least doubt that he
can raise the money, or that he's willing to pay it."
Dunmore was still frowning. Maybe he hated being proved wrong in front of
the women of the family.
"And you think Gresham and his friends will offer enough to force him to
pay the full amount?"
Rand laughed and told him to stop being naive. "He's done that, himself,
and what's more, he knows it. When he told me he was willing to go as
high as twenty-five thousand, he fixed the price. Unless somebody offers
more, which isn't impossible."
"But maybe he's just bluffing." Dunmore seemed to be following Gwinnett's
line of thought. "After he's bluffed Gresham's crowd out, maybe he'll go
back to his original ten thousand offer."
"Fred, please stop talking about that ten thousand dollars!" Geraldine
interrupted. "How much did Rivers actually tell you he'd pay? Twenty-five
thousand, like he did Colonel Rand?"
Dunmore turned in his chair angrily. "Now, look here!" he shouted.
"There's a limit to what I've got to take from you...."
He stopped short, as Nelda, beside him, moved slightly, and his words
ended in something that sounded like a smothered moan. Rand suspected
that she had kicked her husband painfully under the table. Then Walters
came in with the meat course, and firing ceased until the butler had
retired.
"By the way," Rand tossed into the conversational vacuum that followed
his exit, "does anybody know anything about a record Mr. Fleming kept of
his collection?"
"Why, no; can't say I do," Dunmore replied promptly, evidently grateful
for the change of subject. "You mean, like an inventory?"
"Oh, Fred, you do!" Nelda told him impatiently. "You know that big gray
book Father kept all his pistols entered in."
"It was a gray ledger, with a black leather back," Gladys said. "He kept
it in the little bookcase over the workbench in the gunroom."
"I'll look for it," Rand said. "Sure it's still there? It would be a big
help to me."
The rest of the dinner passed in relative tranquillity. The conversation
proceeded in fairly safe channels. Dunmore was anxious to avoid any
further reference to the sum of ten thousand dollars; when Gladys induced
Rand to talk about his military experiences, he lapsed into preoccupied
silence. Several times, Geraldine and Nelda aimed halfhearted feline
swipes at one another, more out of custom than present and active
rancor. The women seemed to have erected a temporary tri-partite
_Entente_-more-or-less-_Cordiale_.
Finally, the meal ended, and the diners drifted away from the table. Rand
went to his room for a few moments, then went to the gunroom to get the
notes he had made. Fred Dunmore was using the private phone as he
entered.
"Well, never mind about that, now," he was saying. "We'll talk about
it when I see you.... Yes, of course; so am I.... Well, say about
eleven.... Be seeing you."
He hung up and turned to Rand. "More God-damned union trouble," he said.
"It's enough to make a saint lose his religion! Our factory-hands are
organized in the C.I.O., and our warehouse, sales, and shipping personnel
are in the A.F. of L., and if they aren't fighting the company, they're
fighting each other. Now they have some damn kind of a jurisdictional
dispute.... I don't know what this country's coming to!" He glared
angrily through his octagonal glasses for a moment. Then his voice took
on an ingratiating note. "Look here, Colonel; I just didn't understand
the situation, until you explained it. I hope you aren't taking anything
that sister-in-law of mine said seriously. She just blurts out the first
thing that comes into her so-called mind; why, only yesterday she was
accusing Gladys of bringing you into this to help her gyp the rest of us.
And before that ..."
"Oh, forget it." Rand dismissed Geraldine with a shrug. "I know she was
talking through a highball glass. As far as selling the collection is
concerned, you just let Rivers sell you a bill of something you hadn't
gotten a good look at. He's a smart operator, and he's crooked as a
wagon-load of blacksnakes. Maybe you never realized just how much money
Fleming put into this collection; naturally you wouldn't realize how much
could be gotten out of it again. A lot of this stuff has been here for
quite a while, and antiques of any kind tend to increase in value."
"Well, I want you to know that I'm just as glad as anybody if you can get
a better price out of him than I could." Dunmore smiled ruefully. "I
guess he's just a better poker player than I am."
"Not necessarily. He could see your hand, and you couldn't see his," Rand
told him.
"You going to see Gresham and his friends, this evening?" Dunmore asked.
"Well, when you get back, if you find four cars in the garage, counting
the station-wagon, lock up after you've put your own car away. If you
find only three, then you'll know that Anton Varcek's still out, so leave
it open for him. That's the way we do here; last one in locks up."