Yet, apparently, Rivers had been unaware of his visitor’s murderous intentions, even while the rifle was being taken from the rack.  Rand strolled back through the shop, looking about.  Someone had been here with Rivers for some time; the dealer and another man had sat by the fire, drinking and smoking.  On the low table was a fifth of Haig & Haig, a siphon, two glasses, a glass bowl containing water that had evidently melted from ice-cubes, and an ashtray.  In the ashtray were a number of River’s cigarette butts, all holder-crimped, and a quantity of ash, some of it cigar-ash.  There was no cigar-butt, and no band or cellophane wrapper.

The fire on the hearth had burned out and the ashes were cold.  They were not all wood-ashes; a considerable amount of paper—­no, cardboard—­had been burned there also.  Poking gently with the point of a sword he took from a rack, Rand discovered that what had been burned had been a number of cards, about six inches by four, one of which had, somehow, managed to escape the flames with nothing more than a charred edge.  Improvising tweezers from a pipe-cleaner, he picked this up and looked at it.  It had been typewritten: 

4850: 

English Screw-Barrel F/L Pocket Pistol. Queen Anne type, side hammer with pan attached to barrel, steel barrel and frame.  Marked:  Wilson, Minories, London.  Silver masque butt-cap, hallmarked for 1723. 4-1/2” barrel; 9-1/4” O.A.; cal. abt .44.  Taken in trade, 3/21/’38, from V. Sparling, for Kentuck #2538, along with 4851, 4852, 4853.  App. cost, RLss; Replacement, do.  NLss, OSss, LSss.

To this had been added, in pen: 

Sold, R. Kingsley, St. Louis, Mo., Mail order, 12/20/’42, OSss.

Rand laid the card on the cocktail-table, along with the drinking equipment.  At least, he knew what had gone into the fire:  Arnold Rivers’s card-index purchase and sales record.  He doubted very strongly if that would have been burned while its owner was still alive.  Going over to the desk, he checked; the drawer from which he had seen Cecil Gillis get the card for the Leech & Rigdon had been cleaned out.

Picking up the phone in an awkward, unnatural manner, he used a pencil from his pocket to dial a number with which he was familiar, a number that meant the same thing on any telephone exchange in the state.

“State Police, Corporal Kavaalen,” a voice singsonged out of the receiver.

“My name is Rand,” he identified himself.  “I am calling from Arnold Rivers’s antique-arms shop on Route 19, about a mile and a half east of Rosemont.  I am reporting a homicide.”

“Yeah, go ahead—­Hey!  Did you say homicide?” the other voice asked sharply.  “Who?”

“Rivers himself.  I called at his shop a few minutes ago, found the front door open, and walked in.  I found Rivers lying dead on the floor, just inside the door.  He had been killed with a Mauser rifle—­not shot; clubbed with the butt, and bayoneted.  The body is cold, beginning to stiffen; a pool of blood on the floor is almost completely dried.”