“Now you’re being unreasonable, Mr. Rand,” he protested. “Look here; I’ll give you seventy-five dollars’ credit on anything else in the shop. You certainly can’t find fault with an offer like that.”
“I don’t want anything else in the shop; I want this revolver you sold me.” Rand gave him a look of supercilious insolence that was at least a two hundred percent improvement on Rivers at his most insolent. “You know, I’ll begin to acquire a poor idea of your business methods before long,” he added.
Rivers laughed ruefully. “Well, to tell the truth, I just remembered a customer of mine who specializes in Confederate arms, who would pay me at least eighty for that item,” he admitted. “I thought …”
Rand shook his head. “I have a special fondness for Confederate arms, myself. One of my grandfathers was in Mosby’s Rangers, and the other was with Barksdale, to say nothing of about a dozen great-uncles and so on.”
“Well, you’re entirely within your rights, Mr. Rand,” Rivers conceded. “I should apologize for trying to renege on a sale, but. … Well, I hope to see you again, soon.” He followed Rand to the door, shaking hands with him. “Don’t forget; I’m willing to pay anything up to twenty-five thousand for the Fleming collection.”
VI
The Fleming butler—Walters, Rand remembered Gladys Fleming having called him—became apologetic upon learning who the visitor was.
“Forgive me, Colonel Rand, but I’m afraid I must put you to some inconvenience, sir,” he said. “You see, we have no chauffeur, at present, and I don’t drive very well, myself. Would you object to putting up your own car, sir? The garage is under the house, at the rear; just follow the driveway around. I’ll go through the house and meet you there for the luggage. I’m dreadfully sorry to put you to the trouble, but. …”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Rand comforted him. “Just as soon do it, myself, now, anyhow. I expect to be in and out with the car while I’m here, and I’d better learn the layout of the garage now.”
“You may back in, sir, or drive straight in and back out,” the butler told him. “One way’s about as easy as the other.”
Rand returned to his car, driving around the house. A row of doors opened out of the basement garage; Walters, who must have gone through the house on the double, was waiting for him. Having what amounted to a conditioned reflex to park his car so that he could get it out as fast as possible, he cut over to the right, jockeyed a little, and backed in. There were already two cars in the garage; a big maroon Packard sedan, and a sand-colored Packard station-wagon, standing side by side. Rand put his Lincoln in on the left of the sedan.
“Bags in the luggage-compartment; it isn’t locked,” he told the butler, making sure that the glove-compartment, where he had placed the Leech & Rigdon revolver, was locked. As he got out, the servant went to the rear of the car and took out the Gladstone and the B-4 bag Rand had brought with him.
“If you don’t mind entering the house from the rear, sir, we can go up those steps, there, and through the rear hall,” the butler suggested, almost as though he were making some indecent and criminal proposal.
Rand told him to forget the protocol and lead the way. The butler picked up the bags and conducted him up a short flight of concrete steps to a landing and a door opening into a short hall above. An open door from this gave access to a longer hall, stretching to the front of the house, and there was a third door, closed, which probably led to the servants’ domain.
Rand followed his guide through the open door and into the long hall, which passed under an arch to extend to the front door. There was a door on either side, about midway to the arch under the front stairway; the one on the right was the dining-room, Walters explained, and the one on the left was the library. He seemed to be still suffering from the ignominy of admitting a house-guest through any but the main portal.
Emerging into the front hallway, he put down the bags, took Rand’s hat and coat and laid them on top of the luggage, and then went to an open doorway on the right, standing in it and coughing delicately, before announcing that Colonel Rand was here.
Gladys Fleming, wearing a pale blue frock, came forward as Rand entered the parlor, her hand extended. The two other women in the big parlor remained motionless. They would be the sisters, Geraldine Varcek and Nelda Dunmore. Rand didn’t wonder that they resented Gladys so bitterly; economic considerations aside, girls seldom enthuse over a stepmother so near their own age who is so much more beautiful.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Rand,” Gladys said. “This is Mrs. Varcek.” She indicated a very pale blonde who sat slumped in a deep chair beside a low cocktail-table, a highball in her hand. “And Mrs. Dunmore.” She was the brunette with the full bust and hips, in the short black skirt and the tight white sweater, who was standing by the fireplace.
“H’lo.” The blonde—Geraldine—smiled shyly at him. She had big blue eyes, and delicately tinted rose-petal lips that seemed to be trying not to laugh at some private joke. She wasn’t exactly blotto, but she had evidently laid a good foundation for a first-class jag. After all, it was only two thirty in the afternoon.
The other sister—Nelda—didn’t say anything. She merely stood and stared at Rand distrustfully. Rand doubted that she ordinarily gave men the hostile eye. The full, dark-red lips; the lush figure; the way she draped it against the side of the fireplace, to catch the ruddy light on her more interesting curves and bulges—there was a bimbo just made to be leered at, and
