“Cylinder. How was he cleaning it?” Rand asked.
“He was using a small brush, like a test-tube brush; he was scrubbing out the holes. The chambers. He was using a solvent that smelled something like banana-oil.”
Rand nodded. He could visualize the progress Fleming had made. If Varcek was telling the truth, and he remembered what Walters had told him, the last flicker of possibility that Lane Fleming’s death had been accidental vanished.
“I talked with him for some ten minutes or so,” Varcek continued, “about some technical problems at the plant. All the while, he kept on working on this revolver, and finished cleaning out the cylinder, and also the barrel. He was beginning to put the revolver together when I left him and went up to my laboratory.
“About fifteen minutes later I heard the shot. For a moment, I debated with myself as to what I had heard, and then I decided to come down here. But first I had to take a solution off a Bunsen burner, where I had been heating it, and take the temperature of it, and then wash my hands, because I had been working with poisonous materials. I should say all this took me about five minutes.
“When I got down here, the door of this room was closed and locked. That was most unusual, and I became really worried. I pounded on the door, and called out, but I got no answer. Then Fred Dunmore came out of the bathroom attached to his room, with nothing on but a bathrobe. His hair was wet, and he was in his bare feet and making wet tracks on the floor.”
From there on, Varcek’s story tallied closely with what Rand had heard from Gladys and from Walters. Everybody’s story tallied, where it could be checked up on.
“You think the murderer locked the door behind him, when he came out of here?” Varcek asked.
“I think somebody locked the door, sometime. It might have been the murderer, or it might have been Fleming at the murderer’s suggestion. But why couldn’t the murderer have left the gunroom by that stairway?”
Varcek looked around furtively and lowered his voice. Now he looked like Rudolf Hess discussing what to do about Ernst Roehm.
“Colonel Rand; don’t you think that Fred Dunmore could have shot Lane Fleming, and then have gone to his room and waited until I came downstairs?” he asked.
Here we go again! Rand thought. Just like the Rivers case; everybody putting the finger on everybody else. …
“And have undressed and taken a bath, while he was waiting?” he inquired. “You came down here only five minutes after the shot. In that time, Dunmore would have had to wipe his fingerprints off the revolver, leave it in Fleming’s hand, put that oily rag in his other hand, set the deadlatch, cross the hall, undress, get into the bathtub and start bathing. That’s pretty fast work.”
“But who else could have done it?”
“Well, you, for one. You could have come down from your lab, shot Fleming, faked the suicide, and then gone out, locking the door behind you, and made a demonstration in the hall until you were joined by Dunmore and the ladies. Then, with your innocence well established, you could have waited until your wife prompted you, as she or somebody else was sure to, and then have gone down to the library and up the spiral,” Rand said. “That’s about as convincing, no more and no less, as your theory about Dunmore.”
Varcek agreed sadly. “And I cannot prove otherwise, can I?”
“You can advance your Dunmore theory to establish reasonable doubt,” Rand told him. “And if Dunmore’s accused, he can do the same with the theory I’ve just outlined. And as long as reasonable doubt exists, neither of you could be convicted. This isn’t the Third Reich or the Soviet Union; they wouldn’t execute both of you to make sure of getting the right one. Both of you had a motive in this Mill-Pack merger that couldn’t have been negotiated while Fleming lived. One or the other of you may be guilty; on the other hand, both of you may be innocent.”
“Then who … ?” Varcek had evidently bet his roll on Dunmore. “There is no one else who could have done it.”
“The garage doors were open, if I recall,” Rand pointed out. “Anybody could have slipped in that way, come through the rear hall to the library and up the spiral, and have gone out the same way. Some of the French Maquis I worked with, during the war, could have wiped out the whole family, one after the other, that way.”
A look of intense concentration settled upon Varcek’s face. He nodded several times.
“Yes. Of course,” he said, his thought-chain complete. “And you spoke of motive. From what you must have heard, last evening, Humphrey Goode was no less interested in the merger than Fred Dunmore or myself. And then there is your friend Gresham; he is quite familiar with the interior of this house, and who knows what terms National Milling & Packaging may have made with him, contingent upon his success in negotiating the merger?”
“I’m not forgetting either of them,” Rand said. “Or Fred Dunmore, or you. If you did it, I’d advise you to confess now; it’ll save everybody, yourself included, a lot of trouble.”
Varcek looked at him, fascinated. “Why, I believe you regard all of us just as I do my fruit flies!” he said at length. “You know, Colonel Rand, you are not a comfortable sort of man to have around.” He rose slowly. “Naturally, I’ll not mention this interview. I suppose you won’t want to, either?”
“I’d advise you not to talk about it, at that,” Rand said. “The situation here seems to be very delicate, and rather explosive. … Oh, as
