“That’s correct,” Rand informed him.  Then he turned to Gladys.  “Just for the record, Mrs. Fleming, do you recall any stipulation to the effect that the business of handling this pistol-collection should have the exclusive attention of my agency?  I certainly don’t recall anything of the sort.”

“No, of course not,” she replied.  “As long as the collection is sold to the best advantage, I haven’t any interest in any other business of your agency, and have no right to have.”  She turned to the others.  “I thought I made that clear to all of you.”

“You didn’t answer my question!” Dunmore yelled at him.

“I don’t intend to.  You aren’t my client, and I’m not answerable to you.”

“Well, you carry my authorization,” Goode supported him.  “I think I have a right to know what’s being done.”

“As far as the collection’s concerned, yes.  As for the Rivers murder, or my armored-car service, or any other business of the Tri-State Agency, no.”

“Well, you made use of my authorization to get that revolver from Kirchner—­” Goode began.

“Aah!” Rand cried.  “So that concerns the Rivers murder, does it?  Well!  When did you find that out, now?  When Kirchner called you, you had no objection to his giving me that revolver.  What changed your mind for you?  Didn’t you know that Rivers was dead, then?” Rand watched Goode trying to assimilate that.  “Or didn’t you think I knew?”

Goode cleared his throat noisily, twisting his mouth.  The others were looking back and forth from him to Rand, in obvious bewilderment; they realized that Rand had pulled some kind of a rabbit out of a hat, but they couldn’t understand how he’d done it.

“What I mean is that since then you have allowed yourself to become involved in this murder case.  You have let it be publicly known that you are a private detective, working for the Fleming family,” Goode orated.  “How long, then, will it be before it will be said, by all sorts of irresponsible persons, that you are also investigating the death of Lane Fleming?”

“Well?” Rand asked patiently.  “Are you afraid people will start calling that a murder, too?”

Gladys was looking at him apprehensively, as though she were watching him juggle four live hand grenades.

“Is anybody saying that now?” Varcek asked sharply.

“Not that I know of,” Rand lied.  “But if Goode keeps on denying it, they will.”

“You know perfectly well,” Goode exploded, “that I am alluding to these unfounded and mischievous rumors of suicide, which are doing the Premix Company so much harm.  My God, Mr. Rand, can’t you realize—­”

“Oh, come off it, Goode,” Varcek broke in amusedly.  “We all—­Colonel Rand included—­know that you started those rumors yourself.  Very clever—­to start a rumor by denying it.  But scarcely original.  Doctor Goebbels was doing it almost twenty years ago.”

“My God, is that true?” Nelda demanded.  “You mean, he’s been going around starting all these stories about Father committing suicide?” She turned on Goode like an enraged panther.  “Why, you lying old son of a bitch!” she screamed at him.