Rivers’s face lit with the beatific smile of a cat at a promising mouse-hole. “Ah, excuse me, Mr. Rand.” He crossed to the desk, picked up the phone and spoke into it. “This is Arnold Rivers,” he said, much as Edward Murrow used to say, This—is London! The telephone sputtered for a moment. “Ah, yes indeed, Mr. Verral. Quite well, I thank you. And you? … No, it hasn’t been sold yet. Do you wish me to ship it to you? … On approval; certainly. … Of course it’s an original flintlock; I didn’t list it as re-altered, did I? … No, not at all; the only replacement is the small spring inside the patchbox. … Yes, the rifling is excellent. … Of course; I’ll ship it at once. … Goodbye, Mr. Verral.”
He hung up and turned to his hireling, fairly licking his chops.
“Cecil, Mr. Verral, in Milwaukee, whose address we have, has just ordered 6288, the F. Zorger flintlock Kentuck. Will you please attend to it?”
“Right away, Mr. Rivers.” Gillis went to one of the racks under the windows and selected a long flintlock rifle, carrying it out the door at the rear.
“I issued a list, a few days ago,” Rivers told Rand. “When Cecil comes back, I’ll have him get you a copy. I’ve been receiving calls ever since; this is the twelfth long-distance call since Tuesday.”
“Business must be good,” Rand commented. “I understand you’ve offered to buy the Lane Fleming collection. For ten thousand dollars.”
“Where did you hear that?” Rivers demanded, looking up from the drawer in which he was filing the card on the Leech & Rigdon.
“From Mrs. Fleming.” Rand released a puff of pipe smoke and watched it draw downward into the fireplace. “I’ve been retained to handle the sale of that collection; naturally, I’d know who was offering how much.”
Rivers’s eyes narrowed. He came around the desk, loading another cigarette into his holder.
“And just why, might I ask, did Mrs. Fleming think it in order to employ a detective in a matter like that?” he wanted to know.
Rand let out more smoke. “She didn’t. She employed an arms-expert, a Colonel Jefferson Davis Rand, U.S.A., O.R.C., who is a well-known contributor to the American Rifleman and the Rifleman and Antiques and the old Gun Report. You’ve read some of his articles, I believe?”
“Then you’re not making an investigation?”
“What in the world is there to investigate?” Rand asked. “I’m just selling a lot of old pistols for the Fleming estate.”
“I thought Fred Dunmore was doing that.”
“So did Fred. You’re both wrong, though. I am.” He got out Goode’s letter of authorization and handed it to Rivers, who read it through twice before handing it back. “You see anything in that about Fred Dunmore, or any of the other relatives-in-law?” he asked.
“Well, I didn’t understand; I’m glad to know what the situation really is.” Rivers frowned. “I thought you were making some kind of an investigation, and as I’m the only party making any serious offer to buy those pistols, I wanted to know what there was to investigate.”
“Do you consider ten thousand dollars to be a serious offer?” Rand asked. “And aren’t you forgetting Stephen Gresham and his friends?”
“Oh, those people!” Rivers scoffed. “Mr. Rand, you certainly don’t expect them to be able to handle anything like this, do you?”
“Well, the banks speak well of them,” Rand replied. “Some of them have good listings in Dun & Bradstreet’s, too.”
“Well, so do I,” Rivers reported. “I can top any offer that crowd makes. What do you expect to get out of them, anyhow?”
“I haven’t talked price with them, yet. A lot more than ten thousand dollars, anyhow.”
Rivers forced a laugh. “Now, Mr. Rand! That was just an opening offer. I thought Fred Dunmore was handling the collection.” He grimaced. “What do you think it’s really worth?”
Rand shrugged. “It probably has a dealer’s piece-by-piece list-value of around seventy thousand. I’m not nuts enough to expect anything like that in a lump sum, but please, let’s not mention ten thousand dollars in this connection any more. That’s on the order of Lawyer Marks bidding seventy-five cents for Uncle Tom; it’s only good for laughs.”
“Well, how much more than that do you think Gresham and his crowd will offer?”
“I haven’t talked price with them, yet,” Rand repeated. “I mean to, as soon as I can.”
“Well, you get their offer, and I’ll top it,” Rivers declared. “I’m willing to go as high as twenty-five thousand for that collection; they won’t go that high.”
Although he just managed not to show it, Rand was really surprised. Even a consciousness of abstracting had not prepared him for the shock of hearing Arnold Rivers raise his own offer to something resembling an acceptable figure. A good case, he reflected, could be made of that for the actuality of miracles.
He rose, picking up his trench coat.
“Well! That’s something like it, now,” he said. “I’ll see you later; I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get a list prepared, and circularize the old-arms trade. I should hear from everybody who’s interested in a few weeks. You can be sure I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
He slipped into the coat and put on his hat, and then picked up the package containing the Confederate revolver. Rivers had risen, too; he was watching Rand nervously. When Rand tucked the package under his arm and began drawing on his gloves, Rivers cleared his throat.
“Mr. Rand, I’m dreadfully sorry,” he began, “but I’ll have to return your money and take back that revolver. It should not have been sold.” He got Rand’s sixty dollars out of his pocket as though he expected it to catch fire, and held it out.
Rand favored him with a display of pained surprise.
“Why, I can’t do that,” he replied. “I bought this revolver in good faith, and you accepted payment and were satisfied with the transaction. The sale’s been made, now.”
Rivers seemed distressed. It was probably the first
