agine why he was killed. You can ask
yourself just how safe his principal heir is now." Without giving Goode
a chance to gather his wits, he pressed on: "Well, what's your opinion
about Fleming's death? After all, you did go out of your way to create
a false impression that he had committed suicide."

Goode, still bewildered by Rand's deliberately cryptic hints and a little
frightened, had the grace to blush at that.

"I admit it; it was entirely unethical, and I'll admit that, too," he
said. "But.... Well, I'm buying all the Premix stock that's out in small
blocks, and so are Mr. Dunmore and Mr. Varcek. We all felt that such
rumors would reduce the market quotation, to our advantage."

Rand nodded. "I picked up a hundred shares, the other day, myself. Your
shenanigans probably chipped a little off the price I had to pay, so I
ought to be grateful to you. But we're talking about murder, not market
manipulation. Did either Varcek or Dunmore express any opinion as to who
might have killed Fleming?"

The outside telephone rang before Goode could answer. Rand scooped it up
at the end of the first ring and named himself into it. It was Mick
McKenna calling.

"Well, we checked up on that cap-and-ball six-shooter you left with me,"
he said. "This gunsmith, Umholtz, refinished it for Rivers last summer.
He showed the man who was to see him the entry in his job-book: make,
model, serials and all."

"Oh, fine! And did you get anything out of young Gillis?" Rand asked.

"The gun was in Rivers's shop from the time Umholtz rejuvenated it till
around the first of November. Then it was sold, but he doesn't know who
to. He didn't sell it himself; Rivers must have."

"I assumed that; that's why he's still alive. Well, thanks, Mick. The
case is getting tighter every minute."

"You haven't had any trouble yet?" McKenna asked anxiously. "How's the
whoozis doing?"

"About as you might expect," Rand told him, mopping his face again.
"Thanks for that, too."

He hung up and turned back to Goode. "Pardon the interruption," he said.
"Sergeant McKenna, of the State Police. The officer who made the arrest
on Walters and Gwinnett. Well, I suppose Dunmore and Varcek are each
trying to blame the other," he said.

"Well, yes; I rather got that impression," Goode admitted.

"And which one do you like for the murderer? Or haven't you picked yours,
yet?"

"You mean.... Yes, of course," Goode said slowly. "It must have been one
or the ot