He didn’t seem averse to talking about it, and went on at some length. His story closely paralleled that of Gladys Fleming.
“Mr. Varcek called the doctor immediately,” he said. “Then Mr. Dunmore pointed out that the doctor would be obliged to notify either the coroner or the police, so he called Mr. Goode, the family solicitor. That was about twenty minutes after the shot. Mr. Goode arrived directly; he was here in about ten minutes. I must say, sir, I was glad to see him; to tell the truth, I had been afraid that the authorities might claim that Mr. Fleming had shot himself deliberately.”
Somebody else doesn’t like the smell of that accident, Rand thought. Aloud, he said:
“Mr. Goode lives nearby, then, I take it?”
“Oh, yes, sir. You can see his house from these windows. Over here, sir.”
Rand looked out the window. The rain-soaked lawn of the Fleming residence ended about a hundred yards to the west; beyond it, an orchard was beginning to break into leaf, and beyond the orchard and another lawn stood a half-timbered Tudor-style house, somewhat smaller than the Fleming place. A path led down from it to the orchard, and another led from the orchard to the rear of the house from which Rand looked.
“Must be comforting to know your lawyer’s so handy,” he commented. “And what do you think, Walters? Are you satisfied, in your own mind, that Mr. Fleming was killed accidentally?”
The servant looked at him seriously. “No, sir; I’m not,” he replied. “I’ve thought about it a great deal, since it happened, sir, and I just can’t believe that Mr. Fleming would have that revolver, and start working on it, without knowing that it was loaded. That just isn’t possible, if you’ll pardon me, sir. And I can’t understand how he would have shot himself while removing the charges. The fact is, when I came up here at quarter of seven, to call him for cocktails, he had the whole thing apart and spread out in front of him.” The butler thought for a moment. “I believe Mr. Dunmore had something like that in mind when he called Mr. Goode.”
“Well, what happened?” Rand asked. “Did the coroner or the doctor choke on calling it an accident?”
“Oh no, sir; there was no trouble of any sort about that. You see, Dr. Yardman called the coroner, as soon as he arrived, but Mr. Goode was here already. He’d come over by that path you saw, to the rear of the house, and in through the garage, which was open, since Mrs. Dunmore was out with the coupé. They all talked it over for a while, and the coroner decided that there would be no need for any inquest, and the doctor wrote out the certificate. That was all there was to it.”
Rand looked at the section of pistol-rack devoted to Colts.
“Which one was it?” he asked.
“Oh it’s not here, sir,” Walters replied. “The coroner took it away with him.”
“And hasn’t returned it yet? Well, he has no business keeping it. It’s part of the collection, and belongs to the estate.”
“Yes, sir. If I may say so, I thought it was a bit high-handed of him, taking it away, myself, but it wasn’t my place to say anything about it.”
“Well, I’ll make it mine. If that revolver’s what I’m told it is, it’s too valuable to let some damned county-seat politician walk off with.” A thought occurred to him. “And if I find that he’s disposed of it, this county’s going to need a new coroner, at least till the present incumbent gets out of jail.”
The buzzer of the extension phone went off like an annoyed rattlesnake. Walters scooped it up, spoke into it, listened for a moment, and handed it to Rand.
“For you, sir; Mrs. Fleming.”
“Colonel Rand, Carl Gwinnett, the commission-dealer I told you about is here,” Gladys told him. “Do you want to talk to him?”
“Why, yes. Do I understand, now, that you and the other ladies want cash, and don’t want the collection peddled off piecemeal? … All right, send him up. I’ll talk to him.”
A few minutes later, a short, compact-looking man of forty-odd entered the gunroom, shifting a brief case to his left hand and extending his right. Rand advanced to meet him and shook hands with him.
“You’re Colonel Rand? Enjoyed your articles in the Rifleman,” he said. “Mrs. Fleming tells me you’re handling the sale of the collection for the estate.”
“That’s right, Mr. Gwinnett. Mrs. Fleming tells me you’re interested.”
“Yes. Originally, I offered to sell the collection for her on a commission basis, but she didn’t seem to care for the idea, and neither do the other ladies. They all want spot cash, in a lump sum.”
“Yes. Mrs. Fleming herself might have been interested in your proposition, if she’d been sole owner. You could probably get more for the collection, even after deducting your commission, than I’ll be able to, but the collection belongs to the estate, and has to be sold before any division can be made.”
“Yes, I see that. Well, how much would the estate, or you, consider a reasonable offer?”
“Sit down, Mr. Gwinnett,” Rand invited. “What would you consider a reasonable offer, yourself? We’re not asking any specific price; we’re just taking bids, as it were.”
“Well, how much have you been offered, to date?”
“Well, we haven’t heard from everybody. In fact, we haven’t put out a list, or solicited offers, except locally, as yet. But one gentleman has expressed a willingness to pay up to twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Gwinnett’s face expressed polite skepticism. “Colonel Rand!” he protested. “You certainly don’t take an offer like that seriously?”
“I think it was made seriously,” Rand replied. “A respectable profit could be made on the collection, even at that price.”
Gwinnett’s eyes shifted over the rows of horizontal barrels on the walls. He was almost visibly wrestling with mental arithmetic, and at the same time trying to keep any hint of his notion of the collection’s real value out of his face.
“Well, I doubt if I
