“That’s a new angle, now,” Rand said.  “I suppose that he killed Rivers in order to prevent the latter from incriminating him.  Why didn’t Fred come to me with this?” he asked.

“Eh?” Evidently Varcek hadn’t thought of that.  “Why, I suppose he was concerned about the possibility of repercussions in the business world.  After all, Goode is our board chairman, and maybe he thought that people might begin thinking that the murder had some connection with the affairs of the company.”

“That’s possible, of course,” Rand agreed.  “And what’s your own attitude?”

“Colonel Rand, I cannot allow these facts to be suppressed,” the Czech said.  “My own position is too vulnerable; you’ve showed me that.  Except for the fact that somebody could have entered the house through the garage, the burden of suspicion would lie on me and Fred Dunmore.”

“Well, do you want me to help you with it?” Rand asked.

“Yes, if you will.  It would be helping yourself, also, I believe,” Varcek replied.  “Fred is downstairs, now, in the library; I suggest that you and I go down and have a talk with him.  Maybe you could show him the folly of trying to suppress any facts concerning Lane’s death.”

“Yes, that would be both foolish and dangerous.”  Rand got to his feet, keeping his hand on the .38 Colt.  “Let’s go down and talk to him now.”

They walked side by side toward the spiral, Rand keeping on the right and lagging behind a little, lifting the stubby revolver clear of his pocket.  Yet, in spite of his vigilance, it happened before he could prevent it.

A lance of yellow fire jumped out of the shadows of the stairway, and there was a soft cough of a silenced pistol, almost lost in the click-click of the breech-action.  Rand felt something sledge-hammer him in the chest, almost knocking him down.  He staggered, then swung up the Colt he had drawn from his pocket and blazed two shots into the stairway.  There was a clatter, and the sound of feet descending into the library.  He rushed forward, revolver poised, and then a shot boomed from below, followed by three more in quick succession.

“Okay, Jeff!” Ritter’s voice called out.  “War’s over!”

He managed, somehow, to get down the steep spiral.  The little .25 Webley & Scott was lying on the bottom step; he pushed it aside with his foot, and cautioned Varcek, who was following, to avoid it.  Ritter, still looking like the Perfect Butler in spite of the .380 Beretta in his hand, was standing in the hall doorway.  On the floor, midway between the stairway and the door, lay Fred Dunmore.  His tan coat and vest were turning dark in several places, and Rand’s own Detective Special was lying a few inches from his left hand.

“He came in here and shut the door,” Ritter reported.  “I couldn’t follow him in, so I took a plant in the hall.  When I heard you blasting upstairs, I came in, just in time to see him coming down.  You winged him in the right shoulder; he’d dropped the .25, and he had your gat in his left hand.  When he saw mine, he threw one at me and missed; I gave him three back for it.  See result on floor.”