The girl dealer was inside, with a visitor, a sallow-faced, untidy-looking man of indeterminate age who was opening newspaper-wrapped packages on a tabletop. Karen greeted Rand by name and military rank; Rand told her he’d just look around till she was through. She tossed him a look of comic reproach, as though she had counted on him to rid her of the man with the packages.
“Now, just you look at this-here, Miss Lawrence,” the man was enthusing, undoing another package. “Here’s something I know you’ll want; I think this-here is real quaint! Just look, now!” He displayed some long, narrow, dark object, holding it out to her. “Ain’t this-here an interestin’ item, now, Miss Lawrence?”
“Ooooooh! What in heaven’s name is that thing?” she demanded.
“That-there’s a sword. A real African native sword. Look at that scabbard, now; made out of real crocodile-skin. A whole young crocodile, head, feet, an’ all. I tell you, Miss Lawrence, that-there item is unique!”
“It’s revolting! It’s the most repulsive object that’s ever been brought into this shop, which is saying quite a lot. Colonel Rand! If you don’t have a hangover this morning, will you please come here and look at this thing?”
Rand laid down the Merril carbine he had been examining and walked over beside Karen. The man—whom Rand judged to be some rural freelance antique-prospector—extended the object of the girl’s repugnance. It was an African sword, all right, with a plain iron hilt and cross-guard. The design looked Berber, but the workmanship was low-grade, and probably attributable to some even more barbarous people. The scabbard was what was really surprising, if you liked that kind of surprises. It was an infant crocodile, rather indifferently smoke-cured; the sword simply went in between the creature’s jaws and extended the length of the body and into the tail. Either end of a moldy-green leather thong had been fastened to the two front paws for a shoulder-baldric. When new, Rand thought, it must have given its wearer a really distinctive aroma, even for Africa. He drew the blade gingerly, looked at it, and sheathed it with caution.
“East African; Danakil, or Somali, or something like that,” he commented. “Be damn good and careful not to scratch yourself on that; if you do, you’ll need about a gallon of anti-tetanus shots.”
“Y’think it might be poisoned?” the man with the dirty neck and the month-old haircut inquired eagerly. “See, Miss Lawrence? What I told you; a real African native sword. I got that-there from Hen Sourbaw, over at Feltonville; his uncle, the Reverend Sourbaw, that used to preach at Hemlock Gap Church, brung it from Africa, himself, about fifty years ago. He used to be a missionary, in his younger days. … I can make you an awful good price on that-there item, Miss Lawrence.”
“God forbid!” she exclaimed. “All my customers are heavy drinkers; I wouldn’t want to answer for what might happen if some of them saw that thing, suddenly.”
“Oh, well. … How about that-there little amethyst bottle, then?”
“Well … I would give you seven dollars for that,” she grudged.
“Y’would? Well, it’s yours, then. An’ how about them-there saltcellars, an’ that-there knife-box?”
Rand wandered back to examining firearms. Eventually, after buying the knife-box, Karen got rid of the man with the antiques. When he had gone, she found a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Rand and lit one for herself.
“Well, now you see why girls leave home and start antique shops,” she said. “Never a dull moment. … Wasn’t that sword the awfullest thing you ever saw, though?”
“Well, one of the ten awfullest,” Rand conceded. “I just stopped in to give you some good news. You won’t need to consider that offer of Arnold Rivers’s, any more. He is no longer interested in the Fleming collection.”
“He isn’t?” An eager, happy light danced up in her eyes. “You saw him again this morning? What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He isn’t talking any more, either. Fact is, he isn’t even breathing any more.”
“He. … You mean he’s dead?” She was surprised, even shocked. The shock was probably a concession to good taste, but the surprise looked genuine. “When did he die? It must have been very sudden; I saw him a few days ago, and he looked all right. Of course, he’s been having trouble with his lungs, but—”
“It was very sudden. Some time last night, some person or persons unknown gave him a butt-and-bayonet job with a German Mauser out of a rack in his shop. A most unpleasantly thorough job. I went to see him this morning, hoping to badger something out of him about those pistols that are missing from the Fleming collection, and found the body. I notified the State Police, and just came from there.”
“For God’s sake!” The shock was genuine, too, now. “Have the police any idea—?”
“Not the foggiest. If some of the Fleming pistols turn up at his place, I might think that had something to do with it. So far, though, they haven’t. I gave the shop a once-over-lightly before the cops arrived, and couldn’t find anything.”
She tried to take a puff from her cigarette and found that she had broken it in her fingers. She lit a new one from the mangled butt.
“When did it happen?” She tried to make the question sound casual.
“That I couldn’t say, either. Around midnight, would be my guess. They might be able to fix a no-earlier time.” An idea occurred to him, and he smiled.
“But that’s dreadful!” She really meant that. “It’s a terrible thing to happen to anybody, being killed like that.” She stopped just short of adding: “even Rivers.” Instead, she continued: “But I can’t say I’m really very sorry he’s dead, Colonel.”
“Outside of maybe his wife, and the gunsmith who made his fake Walker Colts and North & Cheney
