he 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."

"That's a good report, mister," the corporal approved. "You stick around;
we'll be right along. You haven't touched anything, have you?"

"Not around the body. How long will it take you to get here?"

"About ten minutes. I'll tell Sergeant McKenna right away."

Rand hung up and glanced at his watch. Ten twenty-two; he gave himself
seven minutes and went around the room rapidly, looking only at pistols.
He saw nothing that might have come from the Fleming collection. Finally,
he opened the front door, just as a white State Police car was pulling up
at the end of the walk.

Sergeant Ignatius Loyola McKenna--customarily known and addressed as
Mick--piled out almost before it had stopped. The driver, a stocky,
blue-eyed Finn with a corporal's chevrons, followed him, and two privates
got out from behind, dragging after them a box about the size and shape
of an Army footlocker. McKenna was halfway up the drive before he
recognized Rand. Then he stopped short.

"Well, Jaysus-me-beads!" He turned suddenly to the corporal. "My God,
Aarvo; you said his name was Grant!"

"That's what I thought he said." Rand recognized the singsong accent he
had heard on the phone. "You know him?"

"Know him?" McKenna stepped aside quickly, to avoid being overrun by