“Well, for one, there’s Arnold Rivers; he’s offering ten thousand for the collection. I suppose you know of him; he has an antique-arms business at Rosemont.”
“I’ve done some business with him,” Rand admitted. “Who else?”
“There’s a commission-dealer named Carl Gwinnett, who wants to handle the collection for us, for twenty percent. I’m told that that isn’t an unusually exorbitant commission, but I’m not exactly crazy about the idea.”
“You shouldn’t be, if you want your money in a hurry,” Rand told her. “He’d take at least five years to get everything sold. He wouldn’t dump the whole collection on the market at once, upset prices, and spoil his future business. You know, two thousand five hundred pistols of the sort Mr. Fleming had, coming on the market in a lot, could do just that. The old-arms market isn’t so large that it couldn’t be easily saturated.”
“That’s what I’d been thinking. … And then, there are some private collectors, mostly friends of Lane’s—Mr. Fleming’s—who are talking about forming a pool to buy the collection for distribution among themselves,” she continued.
“That’s more like it,” Rand approved. “If they can raise enough money among them, that is. They won’t want the stuff for resale, and they may pay something resembling a decent price. Who are they?”
“Well, Stephen Gresham appears to be the leading spirit,” she said. “The corporation lawyer, you know. Then, there is a Mr. Trehearne, and a Mr. MacBride, and Philip Cabot, and one or two others.”
“I know Gresham and Cabot,” Rand said. “They’re both friends of mine, and I have an account with Cabot, Joyner & Teale, Cabot’s brokerage firm. I’ve corresponded with MacBride; he specializes in Colts. … You’re the sole owner, I take it?”
“Well, no.” She paused, picking her words carefully. “We may just run into a little trouble, there. You see, the collection is part of the residue of the estate, left equally to myself and my two stepdaughters, Nelda Dunmore and Geraldine Varcek. You understand, Mr. Fleming and I were married in 1941; his first wife died fifteen years before.”
“Well, your stepdaughters, now; would they also be my clients?”
“Good Lord, no!” That amused her considerably more than it did Rand. “Of course,” she continued, “they’re just as interested in selling the collection for the best possible price, but beyond that, there may be a slight divergence of opinion. For instance, Nelda’s husband, Fred Dunmore, has been insisting that we let him handle the sale of the pistols, on the grounds that he is something he calls a businessman. Nelda supports him in this. It was Fred who got this ten-thousand-dollar offer from Rivers. Personally, I think Rivers is playing him for a sucker. Outside his own line, Fred is an awful innocent, and I’ve never trusted this man Rivers. Lane had some trouble with him, just before …”
“Arnold Rivers,” Rand said, when it was evident that she was not going to continue, “has the reputation, among collectors, of being the biggest crook in the old-gun racket, a reputation he seems determined to live up—or down—to. But here; if your stepdaughters are co-owners, what’s my status? What authority, if any, have I to do any negotiating?”
Gladys Fleming laughed musically. “That, my dear Colonel, is where you earn your fee,” she told him. “Actually, it won’t be as hard as it looks. If Nelda gives you any argument, you can count on Geraldine to take your side as a matter of principle; if Geraldine objects first, Nelda will help you steamroll her into line. Fred Dunmore is accustomed to dealing with a lot of yes-men at the plant; you shouldn’t have any trouble shouting him down. Anton Varcek won’t be interested, one way or another; he has what amounts to a pathological phobia about firearms of any sort. And Humphrey Goode, our attorney, who’s executor of the estate, will welcome you with open arms, once he finds out what you want to do. That collection has him talking to himself, already. Look; if you come out to our happy home in the early afternoon, before Fred and Anton get back from the plant, we ought to ram through some sort of agreement with Geraldine and Nelda.”
“You and whoever else sides with me will be a majority,” Rand considered. “Of course, the other one may pull a Gromyko on us, but … I think I’ll talk to Goode, first.”
“Yes. That would be smart,” Gladys Fleming agreed. “After all, he’s responsible for selling the collection.” She crossed to the desk and sat down in Rand’s chair while she wrote out the check and a short letter of authorization, then she returned to her own seat.
“There’s another thing,” she continued, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Because of the manner of Mr. Fleming’s death, the girls have a horror of the collection almost—but not quite—as strong as their desire to get the best possible price for it.”
“Yes. I’d heard that Mr. Fleming had been killed in a firearms accident, last November,” Rand mentioned.
“It was with one of his collection-pieces,” the widow replied. “One he’d bought just that day; a Confederate-made Colt-type percussion .36 revolver. He’d brought it home with him, simply delighted with it, and started cleaning it at once. He could hardly wait until dinner was over to get back to work on it.
“We’d finished dinner about seven, or a little after. At about half-past, Nelda went out somewhere in the coupé. Anton had gone up to his laboratory, in the attic—he’s one of these fortunates whose work is also his hobby; he’s a biochemist and dietitian—and Lane was in the gunroom, on the second floor, working on his new revolver. Fred Dunmore was having a bath, and Geraldine and I had taken our coffee into the east parlor. Geraldine put on the radio, and we were listening to it.
“It must have been about 7:47 or 7:48, because the program had changed and the first commercial was just over, when we heard a loud noise from
