ham replied. "Rivers sold it to,"--he
named a moving-picture bigshot--"for twenty-five hundred dollars. His
story was that he picked it up in Mexico, in 1938; traded a .38-special
to some halfbreed goat-herder for it."

"This fellow who bought it, now; did he see Belden and Haven's Colt book,
when it came out in 1940?"

"Yes, and he was plenty burned up, but what could he do? Rivers was dug
in behind this innocent-purchase-and-sale-in-good-faith Maginot Line of
his. You know, that bastard took me, once, just one-tenth as badly, with
a fake U.S. North & Cheney Navy flintlock 1799 Model that had been made
out of a French 1777 Model." The lawyer muttered obscenely.

"Why didn't you sue hell out of him?" Rand asked. "You might not have
gotten anything, but you'd have given him a lot of dirty publicity.
That's all Fleming was expecting to do about those wheel locks."

"I'm not Fleming. He could afford litigation like that; I can't. I want
my money, and if I don't get it in cash, I'm going to beat it out of that
dirty little swindler's hide," Gresham replied, an ugly look appearing on
his face.

"I wouldn't blame you. You could find plenty of other collectors who'd
hold your coat while you were doing it," Rand told him. Then he inquired,
idly: "What sort of a pistol was it that Lane Fleming is supposed to have
shot himself with?"

Gresham frowned. "I really don't know; I didn't see it. It's supposed
to have been a Confederate Leech & Rigdon .36; you know, one of those
imitation Colt Navy Models that were made in the South during the Civil
War."

Rand nodded. He was familiar with the type.

"The story is that Fleming found it hanging back of the counter at some
roadside lunch-stand, along with a lot of other old pistols, and talked
the proprietor into letting it go for a few dollars," Gresham continued.
"It was supposed to have been loaded at the time, and went off while
Fleming was working on it, at home." He shook his head. "I can't believe
that, Jeff. Lane Fleming would know a loaded revolver when he saw one. I
believe he deliberately shot himself, and the family faked the accident
and fixed the authorities. The police never made any investigation; it
was handled by the coroner alone. And our coroner, out in Scott County,
is eminently fixable, if you go about it right; a pitiful little
nonentity with a tremendous inferiority complex."

"But good Lord, why?" Rand demanded. "I never heard of Fleming having any
trou