Murder in the Gunroom - H. Beam Piper (digital ebook reader .TXT) 📗

There was a brief discussion of drinks. The butler received his instructions and went down the stairway; Rand broke up the feminine formation around him and ushered the ladies ahead of him into the gunroom.

It was much as he remembered it from his visit of two years before. There was a desk in one corner, and back of it a short workbench and tool-cabinet. There was a long table in the middle of the room, its top covered with green baize, upon which many flat rectangular boxes of hardwood rested⁠—some walnut, some rosewood, some quartered oak. Each would contain a pistol or pair of pistols, with cleaning and loading tools. In the corner farthest from the desk, he saw the head of the spiral stairway from the library below, mentioned by Gladys Fleming. There were ashstands and a couple of cocktail-tables, and a number of chairs, and the old maple cobbler’s bench on which Lane Fleming had died. The only books in the room were in a small case over the workbench; they were all arms-books.

Then he looked at the walls. On both ends, and on the long inside wall, the pistols hung, hundreds and hundreds of them, the cream of a lifetime’s collecting. Horizontal white-painted boards had been fixed to the walls about four feet from the floor, and similar boards had been placed five feet above them. Between, narrow vertical strips, as wide as a lath but twice as thick, were set. Rows of pistols were hung, the barrels horizontal, on pairs of these strips, with screwhooks at grip and muzzle. There were about a hundred such vertical rows of pistols.

Rand was still looking at them when the butler brought in the drinks; when Gladys told the servant that that would be all, he went out, rather reluctantly, by the spiral stairs to the library.

“Well, what do you think of them, Colonel Rand?” Gladys asked.

Rand tasted his whiskey and looked around. “It’s one of the finest collections in the country,” he said. “I may even be able to find somebody who’ll top Rivers’s offer, but don’t be disappointed if I don’t.⁠ ⁠… By the way, did anybody help Mr. Fleming keep this stuff clean? The room seems dry, but even so, they’d need an occasional wiping-off.”

“Oh, Walters was always in here, going over the pistols,” Nelda said. “He’s been in here every day, lately.”

“I wonder if you could spare him to help me a little? I’ll need somebody who knows his way around here, at first.”

“Why, of course,” Gladys agreed. “He isn’t very busy in the mornings, or in the afternoons till close to dinnertime. Are you going to start work today?”

“I’ll have to. I’m going to see Stephen Gresham and his associates this evening, and I’ll want to know what I’m talking about.”

They spent about fifteen minutes over their drinks, talking about the collection. Rand and Gladys did most of the talking, in spite of Nelda’s best efforts to monopolize the conversation. Geraldine, after a few minutes, retired into her private world and only roused herself when her sister and stepmother were about to leave. When they went out, Gladys promised to send Walters up directly; Rand heard her speaking to him at the foot of the main stairway.

When Walters entered, Rand had his pipe lit and was walking slowly around the room, laying out the work ahead of him. Roughly, the earliest pieces were on the extreme left, on the short north wall of the room, and the most recent ones on the right, at the south end. This was, of course, only relatively true; the pistols seemed to have been classified by type in vertical rows, and chronologically from top to bottom in each row. The collection seemed to consist of a number of intensely specialized small groups, with a large number of pistols of general types added. For instance, about midway on the long east wall, there were some thirty-odd all-metal pistols, from wheel lock to percussion. There was a collection of U.S. Martials, with two rows of the regulation pistols, flintlock and percussion, of foreign governments, placed on the left, and the collection of Colts on the right. After them came the other types of percussion revolvers, and the later metallic-cartridge types.

It was an arrangement which made sense, from the arms student’s point of view, and Rand decided that it would make sense to the dealers and museums to whom he intended sending lists. He would save time by listing them as they were hung on the walls. Then, there were the cases between the windows on the west wall, containing the ammunition collection⁠—examples of every type of fixed-pistol ammunition⁠—and the collection of bullet-molds and powder flasks and wheel lock spanners and assorted cleaning and loading accessories. All that stuff would have to be listed, too.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Walters broke in, behind him. “Mrs. Fleming said that you wanted me.”

“Oh, yes.” Rand turned. “Is this the whole thing? What’s on the walls, here?”

“Yes, sir. There is also a wall-case containing a number of modern pistols and revolvers, and several rifles and shotguns, in the room formerly occupied by Mr. Fleming, but they are not part of the collection, and they are now the personal property of Mrs. Fleming. I understand that she intends selling at least some of them, on her own account. Then, there is a quantity of ammunition and ammunition-components in that closet under the workbench⁠—cartridges, primed cartridge-shells, black and smokeless powder, cartridge-primers, percussion caps⁠—but they are not part of the collection, either. I believe Mrs. Fleming wants to sell most of that, too.”

“Well, I’ll talk to her about it. I may want to buy some of the ammunition for myself,” Rand said. “So I only need to bother with what’s on the walls, in this room?⁠ ⁠… By the way, did Mr. Fleming keep any sort of record of his collection? A book, or a card-index, or anything like that?”

“Why no, sir.” Walters was