Finally Dunmore got up, wiping his mouth on a napkin.
“Well, it’s about time to get to work,” he said. “We might as well save gas and both use my car. Coming, Anton?”
“I’m sorry, Fred; I can’t leave, yet. I have some notes upstairs I have to get in order. I was working on this new egg-powder, last evening, and I want to continue the experiments at the plant laboratory. I think I know how we’ll be able to cut production costs on it, about five percent.”
“And boy, can we stand that!” Dunmore grunted. “Well, be seeing you at the plant.”
Rand waited until Dunmore had left, then went across to the library and up to the gunroom. As soon as he entered the room above, he saw what was wrong. The previous thefts had been masked by substitutions, but whoever had helped himself to one of the more recent metallic-cartridge specimens, the night before, hadn’t bothered with any such precaution, and a pair of vacant screwhooks disclosed the removal. A second look told Rand what had been taken: the little .25 Webley & Scott from the Pollard collection, with the silencer.
The pistol-trade which had been imposed on him had disquieted him; now, he had no hesitation in admitting to himself, he was badly scared. Whoever had taken that little automatic had had only one thought in mind—noiseless and stealthy murder. Very probably with one Colonel Jefferson Davis Rand in mind as the prospective corpse.
He sat down at the desk and started typing, at the same time trying to keep the hall door and the head of the spiral stairway under observation. It was an attempt which was responsible for quite a number of typographical errors. Finally, Anton Varcek came in from the hallway, approached the desk, and sat down in an armchair.
“Colonel Rand,” he began, in a low voice, “I have been thinking over a remark you made, last evening. Were you serious when you alluded to the possibility that Lane Fleming had been murdered?”
“Well, the idea had occurred to me,” Rand understated, keeping his right hand close to his left coat lapel. “I take it you have begun to doubt that it was an accident?”
“I would doubt a theory that a skilled chemist would accidentally poison himself in his own laboratory,” Varcek replied. “I would not, for instance, pour myself a drink from a bottle labeled HNO3 in the belief that it contained vodka. I believe that Lane Fleming should be credited with equal caution about firearms.”
“Yet you were the first to advance the theory that the shooting had been an accident,” Rand pointed out.
“I have a strong dislike for firearms.” Varcek looked at the pistols on the desk as though they were so many rattlesnakes. “I have always feared an accident, with so many in the house. When I saw him lying dead, with a revolver in his hand, that was my first thought. First thoughts are so often illogical, emotional.”
“And you didn’t consider the possibility of suicide?”
“No! Absolutely not!” The Czech was emphatic. “The idea never occurred to me, then or since. Lane Fleming was not the man to do that. He was deeply religious, much interested in church work. And, aside from that, he had no reason to wish to die. His health was excellent; much better than that of many men twenty years his junior. He had no business worries. The company is doing well, we had large Government contracts during the war and no reconversion problems afterward, we now have more orders than we have plant capacity to fill, and Mr. Fleming was consulting with architects about plant expansion. We have been spared any serious labor troubles. And Mr. Fleming’s wife was devoted to him, and he to her. He had no family troubles.”
Rand raised an eyebrow over that last. “No?” he inquired.
Varcek flushed. “Please, Colonel Rand, you must not judge by what you have seen since you came here. When Lane Fleming was alive, such scenes as that in the library last evening would have been unthinkable. Now, this family is like a ship without a captain.”
“And since you do not think that he shot himself, either deliberately or inadvertently, there remains the alternative that he was shot by somebody else, either deliberately or, very improbably, by inadvertence,” Rand said. “I think the latter can be safely disregarded. Let’s agree that it was murder and go on from there.”
Varcek nodded. “You are investigating it as such?” he asked.
“I am appraising and selling this pistol collection,” Rand told him wearily. “I am curious about who killed Fleming, of course; for my own protection I like to know the background of situations in which I am involved. But do you think Humphrey Goode would bring me here to stir up a lot of sleeping dogs that might awake and grab him by the pants-seat? Or did you think that uproar in the library last evening was just a prearranged act?”
“I had not thought of Humphrey Goode. It was my understanding that Mrs. Fleming brought you here.”
“Mrs. Fleming wants her money out of the collection, as soon as possible,” Rand said. “To reopen the question of her husband’s death and start a murder investigation wouldn’t exactly expedite things. I’m just a more or less innocent bystander, who wants to know whether there is going to be any trouble or not . … Now, you came here to tell me what happened on the night of Lane Fleming’s death, didn’t you?”
“Yes. We had finished dinner at about seven,” Varcek said. “Lane had been up here for about an hour before dinner, working on his new revolver; he came back here immediately after he was through eating. A little later, when I had finished my coffee, I came upstairs, by the main stairway. The
