“Mostly look about,” Rand said. “Is Mr. Rivers in?”
“Mr. Rivers is having luncheon. He’ll be finished before long, if you care to wait. … Have you ever been here before?”
“Not for some time,” Rand said. “When I was here last, there was a young fellow named Jordan, or Gordon, or something like that.”
“Oh. He was before my time.” The present functionary introduced himself as Cecil Gillis. Rand gave his name and shook hands with him. Young Gillis wanted to know if Rand was a collector.
“In a small way. General-pistol collector,” Rand told him. “Have you many Colts, now?”
There was a whole table devoted to Colts. No spurious Whitneyville Walkers; after all, a dealer can sell just so many of such top-drawer rarities before the finger of suspicion begins leveling itself in his direction, and Arnold Rivers had long ago passed that point. There were several of the commoner percussion models, however, with lovely, perfect bluing that was considerably darker than that applied at the Colt factory during the ’fifties and ’sixties of the last century. The silver plating on backstraps and trigger-guards was perfect, too, but the naval-battle and stagecoach-holdup engravings on the cylinders were far from clear—in one case, completely obliterated. The cylinder of one 1851 Navy bore serial numbers that looked as though they had been altered to conform to the numbers on other parts of the weapon. Many of the Colts, however, were entirely correct, and all were in reasonably good condition.
Rand saw something that interested him, and picked it up.
“That isn’t a real Colt,” the exquisite Mr. Gillis told him. “It’s a Confederate copy; a Leech & Rigdon.”
“So I see. I have a Griswold & Grier, but no Leech & Rigdon.”
“The Griswold & Grier; that’s the one with the brass frame,” Cecil Gillis said. “Surprising how many collectors think all Confederate revolvers had brass frames, because of the Griswold & Grier, and the Spiller & Burr. … That’s an unusually fine specimen, Mr. Rand. Mr. Rivers got it sometime in late December or early January; from a gentleman in Charleston, I understand. I believe it had been carried during the Civil War by a member of the former owner’s family.”
Rand looked at the tag tied to the trigger-guard; it was marked, in letter-code, with three different prices. That was characteristic of Arnold Rivers’s business methods.
“How much does Mr. Rivers want for this?” he asked, handing the revolver to young Gillis.
The clerk mentally decoded the three prices and vacillated for a moment over them. He had already appraised Rand, from his twenty-dollar Stetson past his Burberry trench coat to his English hand-sewn shoes, and placed him in the pay-dirt bracket; however, from some remarks Rand had let drop, he decided that this customer knew pistols, and probably knew values.
“Why, that is sixty dollars, Mr. Rand,” he said, with the air of one conferring a benefaction. Maybe he was, at that, Rand decided; prices had jumped like the very devil since the war.
“I’ll take it.” He dug out his billfold and extracted three twenties. “Nice clean condition; clean it up yourself?”
“Why, no. Mr. Rivers got it like this. As I said, it’s supposed to have been a family heirloom, but from the way it’s been cared for, I would have thought it had been in a collection,” the clerk replied. “Shall I wrap it for you?”
“Yes, if you please.” Rand followed him to the rear, laying aside his coat and hat. Gillis got some heavy paper out of a closet and packaged it, then hunted through a card-file in the top drawer of the desk, until he found the card he wanted. He made a few notes on it, and was still holding it and the sixty dollars when he rejoined Rand by the fire.
In spite of his effeminate appearance and overrefined manner, the young fellow really knew arms. The conversation passed from Confederate revolvers to the arms of the Civil War in general, and they were discussing the changes in tactics occasioned by the introduction of the revolver and the repeating carbine when the door from the house opened and Arnold Rivers appeared on the landing.
He looked older than when Rand had last seen him. His hair was thinner on top and grayer at the temples. Never particularly robust, he had lost weight, and his face was thinner and more hollow-cheeked. His mouth still had the old curve of supercilious insolence, and he was still smoking with the six-inch carved ivory cigarette-holder which Rand remembered.
He looked his visitor over carefully from the doorway, decided that he was not soliciting magazine subscriptions or selling Fuller brushes, and came down the steps. As he did, he must have recognized Rand; he shifted the cigarette-holder to his left hand and extended his right.
“Mr. Rand, isn’t it?” he asked. “I thought I knew you. It’s been some years since you’ve been around here.”
“I’ve been a lot of places in the meantime,” Rand said.
“You were here last in October, ’41, weren’t you?” Rivers thought for a moment. “You bought a Highlander, then. By Alexander Murdoch, of Doune, wasn’t it?”
“No; Andrew Strahan, of Edzel,” Rand replied.
Rivers snapped his fingers. “That’s right! I sold both of those pistols at about the same time; a gentleman in Chicago got the Murdoch. The Strahan had a star-pierced lobe on the hammer. Did you ever get anybody to translate the Gaelic inscription on the barrel?”
“You’ve a memory like Jim Farley,” Rand flattered. “The inscription was the clan slogan of the Camerons; something like: Sons of the hound, come and get flesh! I won’t attempt the original.”
“Mr. Rand just bought 6524, the Leech & Rigdon .36,” Gillis interjected, handing Rivers the card and the money. Rivers looked at both, saw how much Rand had been taken for, and nodded.
“A nice item,” he faintly praised, as though anything selling for less than a hundred dollars was so much garbage. “Considering the condition in which Confederate arms are usually found, it’s really first-rate. I think you’ll like it, Mr. Rand.”
The telephone rang, Cecil
