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

suppose he came down and shot Fleming, and then went out in the hall, and made that rumpus outside after locking the door behind him?”

“That’s possible,” Rand agreed. “You were taking a bath when you heard the shot, weren’t you?”

Dunmore shook his head. “I suppose so. I didn’t hear any shot, to tell the truth. All I heard was Anton pounding on the door and yelling. I suppose I had my head under the shower, and the noise of the water kept me from hearing the shot.” He stopped short, taking his cigar from his mouth and pointing it at Rand. “And, by God, that would have been about five minutes before he started hammering on the door!” he exclaimed. “Time enough for him to have fixed things to look like an accident, set the deadlatch, and have gone out in the hall, and started making a noise. And another thing. You say that whoever killed Lane also killed this fellow Rivers. Well, on Thursday night, when Rivers was killed, Anton didn’t get home till around twelve.”

“Yes, I’d thought of that. You know, though, that the murderer doesn’t have to be Varcek, or anybody else who was in the house at the time. The garage doors were open⁠—I’m told that your wife was out at the time⁠—and anybody could have sneaked in the back way, up through the library, and out the same way. There are one or two possibilities besides you and Anton Varcek.”

Dunmore’s eyes widened. “Yes, and I can think of one, without half trying, too!” He nodded once or twice. “For instance, the man who was afraid you were investigating Fleming’s death; the man who started that suicide story!” He looked at Rand interrogatively. “Well, I got to go; Nelda’ll be out of the bathroom by now. I want to talk to you about this some more, Colonel.”

After Dunmore had gone out, Rand mopped his face. The room seemed insufferably hot. He found an electric fan over the workbench and plugged it in, but it made enough noise to cover any sounds of stealthy approach, and he shut it off. He had finished revising his list to include the recovered pistols for as far as it was completed, and was hanging them back on the wall when Ritter came in.

“House is clear, now,” his assistant said, stepping out of his P. G. Wodehouse character. “Both pairs left in the Packard, Dunmore driving. Man, what a cat-and-dog show this place is! It’s a wonder our client isn’t nuts.”

“You haven’t seen anything; you ought to have been here last night⁠ ⁠… Where is our client, by the way?”

“Downstairs.” Ritter fished a cigarette out of his livery and appropriated Rand’s lighter. “If we hear her coming, you can grab this.” He brushed a couple of Paterson Colts to one side and sat down on the edge of the desk, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. “What’s the regular law doing, now that young Jarrett is out?”

“I had a long talk with Mick McKenna,” Rand said. “Fortunately, Mick and I have worked together before. I was able to tell him the facts of life, and he’ll be a good boy now. When last heard from, Farnsworth was beginning to blow his hot breath on the back of Cecil Gillis’s neck.”

Ritter picked up the big .44 Colt Walker and tried the balance. “Man, this even makes that Colt Magnum of mine feel light!” he said. “Say, Jeff, if Farnsworth’s going after Gillis, it’s probably on account of those stories about him and Mrs. Rivers. At least, all that stuff would come out if he arrested him. Maybe we could get a fee out of Mrs. Rivers.”

“I’d thought of that. Unfortunately, Mrs. Rivers had a very convenient breakdown, when she heard the news; she is now in a hospital in New York, and won’t be back until after the funeral. Prostrated with grief. Or something. And this case is due to blow up like Hiroshima before then. Well, we can’t get fees from everybody.” That, of course, was one of the sad things of life to which one must reconcile oneself. “I got a call from Pierre Jarrett; Tip’s staying at the Jarrett place tonight. I thought it would be a good idea to have him within reach for a while.”

The private outside phone rang shrilly. Ritter let it go for several rings, then picked it up.

“This is the Fleming residence,” he stated, putting on his character again. “Oh, yes indeed, sir. Colonel Rand is right here, sir; I’ll tell him you’re calling.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Humphrey Goode.”

Rand took the phone and named himself into it.

“I would like to talk to you privately, Colonel Rand,” the lawyer said. “On a subject of considerable importance to our, shall I say, mutual clients. Could you find time to drop over, sometime this evening?”

“Well, I’m very busy, at the moment, Mr. Goode,” Rand regretted. “There have been some rather deplorable developments here, lately. The butler, Walters, has been arrested for larceny. It seems that since Mr. Fleming’s death, he has been systematically looting the pistol-collection. I’m trying to get things straightened out, now.”

“Good heavens!” Goode was considerably shaken. “When did you discover this, Colonel Rand? And why wasn’t I notified before? And are there many valuable items missing?”

“I discovered it as soon as I saw the collection,” Rand began answering his questions in order. “Neither you, nor anybody else was notified, because I wanted to get evidence to justify an arrest first. And nothing is missing; everything has been recovered,” he finished. “That’s what I’m so busy about, now; getting my list revised, and straightening out the collection.”

“Oh, fine!” Goode was delighted. “I hope everything was handled quietly, without any unnecessary publicity? But this other matter; I don’t care to go into it over the phone, and it’s imperative that we discuss it privately, at once.”

“Well, suppose you come over here, Mr. Goode,” Rand suggested. “That way, I won’t have to interrupt my work so much. There’s