Murder in the Gunroom | Page 6

you use oily rags on guns," Kathie objected. "I've seen both of you, often enough."
"When we're all through, honey," Ritter told her.
"Yes. When he brought home that revolver, it was in neglected condition," Rand said.
"Either surface-rusted, or filthy with gummed oil and dirt. Even if Mrs. Fleming hadn't
mentioned that point, the length of time he spent cleaning it would justify such an
inference. He would have taken it apart, down to the smallest screw, and cleaned
everything carefully, and then put it together again, and then, when he had finished, he
would have gone over the surface with an oiled rag, before hanging it on the wall. He
would certainly not have surface-oiled it before removing the charges, if there ever were
any. I assume the revolver he was found holding, presumably the one with which he was
killed, was another one. And I would further assume that the killer wasn't particularly
familiar with the subject of firearms, antique, care and maintenance of."
"And with all the hollering and whooping and hysterics-throwing, nobody noticed the
switch," Ritter finished. "Wonder what happened to the one he was really cleaning."
"That I may possibly find out," Rand said. "The general incompetence with which this
murder was committed gives me plenty of room to hope that it may still be lying around
somewhere."
"Well, have you thought that it might just be suicide?" Kathie asked.
"I have, very briefly; I dismissed the thought, almost at once," Rand told her. "For two
reasons. One, that if it had been suicide, Mrs. Fleming wouldn't want it poked into; she'd
be more than willing to let it ride as an accident. And, two, I doubt if a man who prided
himself on his gun-knowledge, as Fleming did, would want his self-shooting to be taken
for an accident. I'm damn sure I wouldn't want my friends to go around saying: 'What a
dope; didn't know it was loaded!' I doubt if he'd even expect people to believe that it had
been an accident." He shook his head. "No, the only inference I can draw is that

somebody murdered Fleming, and then faked evidence intended to indicate an accident."
He rose. "I'll be back, in a little; think it over, while I'm gone."
* * * * *
Carter Tipton had his law-office on the floor above the Tri-State Detective Agency. He
handled all Rand's not infrequent legal involvements, and Rand did all his investigating
and witness-chasing; annually, they compared books to see who owed whom how much.
Tipton was about five years Rand's junior, and had been in the Navy during the war. He
was frequently described as New Belfast's leading younger attorney and most eligible
bachelor. His dark, conservatively cut clothes fitted him as though they had been sprayed
on, he wore gold-rimmed glasses, and he was so freshly barbered, manicured, valeted and
scrubbed as to give the impression that he had been born in cellophane and just
unwrapped. He leaned back in his chair and waved his visitor to a seat.
"Tip, do you know anything about this Fleming family, out at Rosemont?" Rand began,
getting out his pipe and tobacco.
"The Premix-Foods Flemings?" Tipton asked. "Yes, a little. Which one of them wants
you to frame what on which other one?"
"That'll do for a good, simplified description, to start with," Rand commented. "Why, my
client is Mrs. Gladys Fleming. As to what she wants...."
He told the young lawyer about his recent interview and subsequent conclusions.
"So you see," he finished, "she won't commit herself, even with me. Maybe she thinks I
have more official status, and more obligations to the police, than I have. Maybe she isn't
sure in her own mind, and wants me to see, independently, if there's any smell of
something dead in the woodpile. Or, she may think that having a private detective called
in may throw a scare into somebody. Or maybe she thinks somebody may be fixing up an
accident for her, next, and she wants a pistol-totin' gent in the house for a while. Or any
combination thereof. Personally, I deplore these clients who hire you to do one thing and
expect you to do another, but with five grand for sweetening, I can take them."
"Yes. You know, I've heard rumors of suicide, but this is the first whiff of murder I've
caught." He hesitated slightly. "I must say, I'm not greatly surprised. Lane Fleming's
death was very convenient to a number of people. You know about this Premix Company,
don't you?"
"Vaguely. They manufacture ready-mixed pancake flour, and ready-mixed ice-cream and
pudding powders, and this dehydrated vegetable soup--pour on hot water, stir, and
serve--don't they? My colored boy, Buck, got some of the soup, once, for an experiment.
We unanimously