“Well, not exactly.  But this afternoon, Fred Dunmore and Anton Varcek came to my office, separately, of course, and each of them wanted to know if I had any reason to suspect that the, uh, tragedy, was actually a case of murder.  Both had the impression that you were conducting an investigation under cover of your work on the pistol collection, and wanted to know whether Mrs. Fleming or I had employed you to do so.”

“And you denied it, giving them the impression that Mrs. Fleming had?” Rand asked.  “I hope you haven’t put her in any more danger than she is now, by doing so.”

Goode looked startled.  “Colonel Rand!  Do you actually mean that...?” he began.

“You were Lane Fleming’s attorney, and board chairman of his company,” Rand said.  “You can probably imagine why he was killed.  You can ask yourself just how safe his principal heir is now.”  Without giving Goode a chance to gather his wits, he pressed on:  “Well, what’s your opinion about Fleming’s death?  After all, you did go out of your way to create a false impression that he had committed suicide.”

Goode, still bewildered by Rand’s deliberately cryptic hints and a little frightened, had the grace to blush at that.

“I admit it; it was entirely unethical, and I’ll admit that, too,” he said.  “But....  Well, I’m buying all the Premix stock that’s out in small blocks, and so are Mr. Dunmore and Mr. Varcek.  We all felt that such rumors would reduce the market quotation, to our advantage.”

Rand nodded.  “I picked up a hundred shares, the other day, myself.  Your shenanigans probably chipped a little off the price I had to pay, so I ought to be grateful to you.  But we’re talking about murder, not market manipulation.  Did either Varcek or Dunmore express any opinion as to who might have killed Fleming?”

The outside telephone rang before Goode could answer.  Rand scooped it up at the end of the first ring and named himself into it.  It was Mick McKenna calling.

“Well, we checked up on that cap-and-ball six-shooter you left with me,” he said.  “This gunsmith, Umholtz, refinished it for Rivers last summer.  He showed the man who was to see him the entry in his job-book:  make, model, serials and all.”

“Oh, fine!  And did you get anything out of young Gillis?” Rand asked.

“The gun was in Rivers’s shop from the time Umholtz rejuvenated it till around the first of November.  Then it was sold, but he doesn’t know who to.  He didn’t sell it himself; Rivers must have.”

“I assumed that; that’s why he’s still alive.  Well, thanks, Mick.  The case is getting tighter every minute.”

“You haven’t had any trouble yet?” McKenna asked anxiously.  “How’s the whoozis doing?”

“About as you might expect,” Rand told him, mopping his face again.  “Thanks for that, too.”

He hung up and turned back to Goode.  “Pardon the interruption,” he said.  “Sergeant McKenna, of the State Police.  The officer who made the arrest on Walters and Gwinnett.  Well, I suppose Dunmore and Varcek are each trying to blame the other,” he said.