Karen’s eyes widened. “Cecil Gillis!” she exclaimed softly. “I wonder, now, if he has an alibi for last night!”
“Think he might need one?” Rand asked. “Of course I only saw him once, but he didn’t strike me as a possible candidate. I can’t seem to see young Gillis doing a messy job like this was, or going to all that manual labor when he could have used something neat, like a pistol or a dagger.”
“Well, Cecil isn’t quite the languishing flower he looks,” Karen told him. “He does a lot of swimming, and he’s one of the few people around here who can beat me at tennis. And he has a motive. Maybe two motives.”
“Such as?” Rand prompted.
“Maybe you think Cecil is a—you know—one of those boys,” she euphemized. “Well, he isn’t. He takes a perfectly normal, and even slightly wolfish, interest in the female of his species. And while Arnold Rivers may have been a good provider from a financial standpoint, he wasn’t quite up to his wife’s requirements in another important respect. And Rivers was away a lot, on buying trips and so on, and when he was, nobody ever saw Cecil leave the Rivers place in the evenings. At least, that’s the story; personally, I wouldn’t know. Of course, where there’s smoke, there may be nothing more than somebody with a stogie, but, then, there may be a regular conflagration.”
“That would be a perfectly satisfactory motive, under some circumstances,” Rand admitted. “And the other?”
“Cecil might have been doing funny things with the books, and Rivers might have caught him.”
“That would also be a good enough motive.” It would also, Rand thought, furnish an explanation for the burning of Rivers’s record-cards. “I’ll mention it to Mick McKenna; he’s hard up for a good usable suspect. And by the way, the news of this killing will be out before evening, but in the meantime I wish you wouldn’t mention it to anybody, or mention that I was in here to tell you about it.”
“I won’t. I’m glad you told me, though. … Do you think there may be a chance that we can get the collection, now?”
“I wouldn’t know why not. Rivers’s offer was pretty high; there aren’t many other dealers who would be able to duplicate it. … Well, don’t take any Czechoslovakian Stiegel.”
He moved his car down the street to the Rosemont Inn, where he went into the combination bar and grill and had a Bourbon-and-water at the bar. Then he ordered lunch, and, while waiting for it, went into a phone-booth and dialed the number of Stephen Gresham’s office in New Belfast.
“I’d hoped to catch you before you left for lunch,” he said, when the lawyer answered. “There’s been a new development in the Fleming business.” He had decided to follow the same line as with Karen Lawrence. “You needn’t worry about Arnold Rivers’s offer, any more.”
“Ha! So he backed out?”
“He was shoved out,” Rand corrected. “On the sharp end of a Mauser bayonet, sometime last night. I found the body this morning, when I went to see him, and notified the State Police. They call it murder, but of course, they’re just prejudiced. I’d call it a nuisance-abatement project.”
“Look here, are you kidding?” Gresham demanded.
“I never kid about Those Who Have Passed On,” Rand denied piously. Then he recited the already hackneyed description of what had happened to Rivers, with careful attention to all the gruesome details. “So I called copper, directly. Sergeant McKenna’s up a stump about it, and looking in all directions for a suspect.”
Gresham was silent for a moment, then swore softly.
“My God, Jeff! This is going to raise all kinds of hell!” He was silent for a moment. “Look here, can you see me, at my home, about two thirty this afternoon? I want to talk to you about this.”
Rand smiled happily. This looked like what he had been angling for. Maybe Arnold Rivers hadn’t died in vain, after all.
“Why, yes; I can make it,” he replied.
“Good. See you there, then.”
Rand assured him that he would be on hand. When he returned to his table, he found his lunch waiting for him. He sat down and ate with a good appetite. After finishing, he had another drink, and sat sipping it slowly and smoking his pipe; going over the story Gladys Fleming had told him, and the gossip he had gotten from Carter Tipton, and the other statements which had been made to him by different people about the death of Lane Fleming, and the conclusions he had reached about the theft of the pistols, and the killing of Arnold Rivers; sorting out the inferences from the descriptions, and the descriptive statements of others from the things he himself had observed. When his glass was empty and his pipe burned out, he left a tip beside the ashtray, paid his check and went out.
He had two hours until his meeting with Stephen Gresham; he knew exactly where to spend them. The county seat was a normal twenty minutes’ drive from Rosemont, but with the road relatively free from traffic he was able to cut that to fifteen. Parking his car in front of the courthouse, he went inside.
The coroner, one Jason Kirchner, was an inoffensive-looking little fellow with a Caspar Milquetoast mustache and an underslung jaw. He wore an Elks watchcharm, an Odd Fellows ring, and a Knights of Pythias lapel-pin. He looked at Rand’s credentials, including the letter Humphrey Goode had given him, with some bewilderment.
“You’re working for Mr. Goode?” he asked, rather needlessly. “Yes, I see; handling the sale of Mr. Fleming’s pistols, for the estate. Yes. That must be interesting work, Mr. Rand. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Why, I understand you have an item from that collection, here in your office,” Rand said. “The pistol with which Mr. Fleming shot himself. Regardless of its unpleasant associations,
