Murder in the Gunroom, H. Beam Piper [ebook reader color screen .txt] 📗

were wheel locks, apparently sixteenth-century South German; they were a good two feet in overall length, with ball-pommels the size of oranges, and long steel belt-hooks. The stocks were so covered with ivory inlay that the wood showed only in tiny interstices; the metalwork was lavishly engraved and gold-inlaid. To the trigger-guards were attached tags marked Fleming vs. Rivers.

Rand examined each pistol separately, then compared them. Finally, he took a six-inch rule from his pocket and made measurements, first with one edge and then with the other.

“Well, I’m damned,” he said, laying them on the desk. “These things are the most complete fakes I ever saw⁠—locks, stocks, barrels and mountings. They’re supposed to be late sixteenth-century; I doubt if they were made before 1920. As far as I can see or measure, there isn’t the slightest difference between them, except on some of the decorative inlay. The whole job must have been miked in ten-thousandths, and what’s more, whoever made them used metric measurements. You’ll find pairs of English dueling pistols as early as 1775 that are almost indistinguishable, but in 1575, when these things were supposed to have been made, a gunsmith was working fine when he was working in sixteenth-inches. They just didn’t have the measuring instruments, at that time, to do closer work. I won’t bother taking these things apart, but if I did, I’d bet all Wall Street to Junior’s piggy-bank that I’d find that the screws were machine-threaded and the working-parts interchanged. I’ve heard about fakes like these,”⁠—he named a famous, recently liquidated West Coast collection⁠—“but I’d never hoped to see an example like this.”

Goode gave a hacking chuckle. “You’ll do as an arms-expert, Mr. Rand,” he said. “And you’d win the piggy-bank. It seems that after Mr. Fleming bought them, he took them apart, and found, just as you say, that the screw-threads had been machine-cut, and that the working-parts were interchangeable from one pistol to the other. There were a lot of papers accompanying them⁠—I have them here⁠—purporting to show that they had been sold by some Austrian nobleman, an anti-Nazi refugee, in whose family they had been since the reign of Maximilian II. They are, of course, fabrications. I looked up the family in the Almanach de Gotha; it simply never existed. At first, Mr. Fleming had been inclined to take the view that Rivers had been equally victimized with himself. However, when Rivers refused to take back the pistols and refund the purchase price, he altered his opinion. He placed them in my hands, instructing me to bring suit and also start criminal action; he was in a fearful rage about it, and swore that he’d drive Rivers out of business. However, before I could start action, Mr. Fleming was killed in that accident, and as he was the sole witness to the fact of the sale, and as none of the heirs was interested, I did nothing about it. In fact, I advised them that action against Rivers would cost the estate more than they could hope to recover in damages.” He picked up one of the pistols and examined it. “Now, I don’t know what to do about these.”

“Take them home and hang them over the mantel,” Rand advised. “If I’m going to have anything to do with selling the collection, I don’t want anything to do with them.”

Goode was peering at the ivory inlay on the underbelly of the stock.

“They are beautiful, and I don’t care when they were made,” he said. “I think, if nobody else wants them, I’ll do just that.⁠ ⁠… Now, Mr. Rand, what had you intended doing about the collection?”

“Well, that’s what I came to see you about, Mr. Goode. As I understand it, it is you who are officially responsible for selling the collection, and the proceeds would be turned over to you for distribution to Mrs. Fleming, Mrs. Dunmore and Mrs. Varcek. Is that correct?”

“Yes. The collection, although in the physical possession of Mrs. Fleming, is still an undistributed asset.”

“I thought so.” Rand got out Gladys Fleming’s letter of authorization and handed it to Goode. “As you’ll see by that, I was retained by, and only by, Mrs. Fleming,” he said. “I am assuming that her interests are identical with those of the other heirs, but I realize that this is true only to a very limited extent. It’s my understanding that relations between the three ladies are not the most pleasant.”

Goode produced a short, croaking laugh. “Now there’s a cautious understatement,” he commented. “Mr. Rand, I feel that you should know that all three hate each other poisonously.”

“That was rather my impression. Now, I expect some trouble, from Mrs. Dunmore and/or Mrs. Varcek, either or both of whom are sure to accuse me of having been brought into this by Mrs. Fleming to help her defraud the others. That, of course, is not the case; they will all profit equally by my participation in this. But I’m going to have trouble convincing them of that.”

“Yes. You will,” Goode agreed. “Would you rather carry my authorization than Mrs. Fleming’s?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Goode. To tell the truth, that was why I came here, for one reason. You will not be obligated in any way by authorizing me to act as your agent⁠—I’m getting my fee from Mrs. Fleming⁠—but I would be obligated to represent her only as far as her interests did not improperly conflict with those of the other heirs, and that’s what I want made clear.”

Goode favored the detective with a saurian smile. “You’re not a lawyer, too, Mr. Rand?” he asked.

“Well, I am a member of the Bar in the State of Mississippi, though I never practiced,” Rand admitted. “Instead of opening a law-office, I went into the F.B.I., in 1935, and then opened a private agency a couple of years later. But if I had to, which God forbid, I could go home tomorrow and hang out my shingle.”

“You seem to have had quite an eventful career,” Goode remarked, with a queer combination of envy and disapproval. “I understand that, until recently, you