Then Rand used the phone to call his office in New Belfast.  He talked to Dave Ritter, explaining the situation to date.

“I’m going to need some help,” he continued.  “I want you to come here and get a room at the Rosemont Inn, under your own name.  I’ll see you there about five thirty.  And bring with you a suit of butler’s livery, or reasonable facsimile.  I believe there will be a vacancy in the Fleming household tomorrow or the next day, and I want you ready to take over.  And bring a small gun with you; something you can wear under said livery.  That .357 Colt of yours is a little too conspicuous.  You’ll find a .380 Beretta in the top right-hand drawer of my office desk, with a box of ammunition and a couple of spare clips.”

“Right.  I’ll be at Rosemont Inn at five thirty,” Ritter promised.  “And say, Tip was in, this morning, with a lot of dope on the Fleming estate.  Want me to let you have it now, or shall I give it to you when I see you?”

“You have notes?  Bring them along; I’ll be seeing you in a couple of hours.”

He parted from Gresham, going out and getting in his car.  As Gresham got his own car out of the garage and drove off toward Pierre Jarrett’s house, Rand started in the opposite direction, toward Rosemont.

About a half-mile from Gresham’s he caught an advancing gleam of white on the highway ahead of him and pulled to the side of the road, waiting until the State Police car drew up and stopped.  In it were Mick McKenna, Aarvo Kavaalen, and a third man, a Nordic type, in an untidy brown suit.

“Hi, Jeff,” McKenna greeted him, as Rand got out of his car and came across the road.  “This is Gus Olsen, investigator for the D.A.’s office.  Jeff Rand; Tri-State Agency,” he introduced.

“Hey!” Olsen yelled.  “We been lookin’ for you!  Where you been?”

Rand raised an eyebrow at McKenna.

“You just came from where we’re going,” the State Police sergeant surmised.  “Was Gresham at home?”

“He was; he’s gone now,” Rand said.  “He and another man are going to help me check up on what’s missing from the Fleming collection.”

“Hey!” Olsen exploded.  “What I told you, now; he run ahead of us with a tip-off!  Gresham’s skipped out, now!”

“What is all this?” Rand wanted to know.  “What’s he screaming about, Mick?”

“Like he don’t know!” Olsen vociferated.  “He tipped off Gresham so’s he could skip out; I’ll bet he’s in it with Gresham!”

“Pay no attention,” McKenna advised.  “He doesn’t know what the score is; hell, he doesn’t even know what teams are playing.”

“Now you look here!” Olsen bawled.  “We’ll see what Mr. Farnsworth has to say about this.  You’re supposed to cooperate with us, not go fraternizin’ with a lot of suspects.  Why, it’s plain as anything; him and Gresham’s in it together.  I bet that was why he come around, the first thing in the morning, to find the body!”