CHAPTER 4
Stephen Gresham was in his early sixties, but he could have still wornhis World War I uniform without anything giving at the seams, and buckledthe old Sam Browne at the same hole. As Rand entered, he rose from behindhis desk and advanced, smiling cordially.
"Why, hello, Jeff!" he greeted the detective, grasping his hand heartily."You haven't been around for months. What have you been doing, and whydon't you come out to Rosemont to see us? Dot and Irene were wonderingwhat had become of you."
"I'm afraid I've been neglecting too many of my old friends lately,"Rand admitted, sitting down and getting his pipe out. "Been busy as thedevil. Fact is, it was business that finally brought me around here. Iunderstand that you and some others are forming a pool to buy the LaneFleming collection."
"Yes!" Gresham became enthusiastic. "Want in on it? I'm sure the otherswould be glad to have you in with us. We're going to need all the moneywe can scrape together, with this damned Rivers bidding against us."
"I'm afraid you will, at that, Stephen," Rand told him. "And notnecessarily on account of Rivers. You see, the Fleming estate has justemployed me to expertize the collection and handle the sale for them."Rand got his pipe lit and drawing properly. "I hate doing this to you,but you know how it is."
"Oh, of course. I should have known they'd get somebody like you into sell the collection for them. Humphrey Goode isn't competent tohandle that. What we were all afraid of was a public auction at somesales-gallery."
Rand shook his head. "Worst thing they could do; a collection likethat would go for peanuts at auction. Remember the big sales in thetwenties?... Why, here; I'm going to be in Rosemont, staying at theFleming place, working on the collection, for the next week or so. Isuppose your crowd wouldn't want to make an offer until I have everythinglisted, but I'd like to talk to your associates, in a group, as soon aspossible."
"Well, we all know pretty much what's in the collection," Gresham said."We were neighbors of his, and collectors are a gregarious lot. But wearen't anxious to make any premature offers. We don't want to offer morethan we have to, and at the same time, we don't want to underbid and seethe collection sold elsewhere."
"No, of course not." Rand thought for a moment. "Tell you what; I'll giveyou and your friends the best break I can in fairness to my clients. I'mnot obliged to call for sealed bids, or anything like that, so when I'veheard from everybody, I'll give you a chance to bid against the highestoffer in hand. If you want to top it, you can have the collection for anykind of an overbid that doesn't look too suspiciously nominal."
"Why, Jeff, I appreciate that," Gresham said. "I think you're entirelywithin your rights, but naturally, we won't mention this outside. I canimagine Arnold Rivers, for instance, taking a very righteous view of suchan arrangement."
"Yes, so can I. Of course, if he'd call me a crook, I'd take that asa compliment," Rand said. "I wonder if I could meet your group, saytomorrow evening? I want to be in a position to assure the Fleming familyand Humphrey Goode that you're all serious and responsible."
"Well, we're very serious about it," Gresham replied, "and I think we'reall responsible. You can look us up, if you wish. Besides myself, thereis Philip Cabot, of Cabot, Joyner & Teale, whom you know, and AdamTrehearne, who's worth about a half-million in industrial shares, andColin MacBride, who's vice president in charge of construction andmaintenance for Edison-Public Power & Light, at about twenty thousand ayear, and Pierre Jarrett and his fiancee, Karen Lawrence. Pierre was aMarine captain, invalided home after being wounded on Peleliu; he writesscience-fiction for the pulps. Karen has a little general-antiquebusiness in Rosemont. They intend using their share of the collection,plus such culls and duplicates as the rest of us can consign to them, togo into the arms business, with a general-antique sideline, which Karencan manage while Pierre's writing.... Tell you what; I'll call a meetingat my place tomorrow evening, say at eight thirty. That suit you?"
That, Rand agreed, would be all right. Gresham asked him how recently hehad seen the Fleming collection.
"About two years ago; right after I got back from Germany. You remember,we went there together, one evening in March."
"Yes, that's right. We didn't have time to see everything," Gresham said."My God, Jeff! Twenty-five wheel locks! Ten snaphaunces. And everyimaginable kind of flintlock--over a hundred U.S. Martials, including the1818 Springfield, all the S. North types, a couple of VirginiaManufactory models, and--he got this since the last time you saw thecollection--a real Rappahannock Forge flintlock. And about a hundred andfifty Colts, all models and most variants. Remember that big WhitneyvilleWalker, in original condition? He got that one in 1924, at the Fred Hinessale, at the old Walpole Galleries. And seven Paterson Colts, includinga couple of cased sets. And anything else you can think of. A Hallflintlock breech-loader; an Elisha Collier flintlock revolver; a pairof Forsythe detonator-lock pistols.... Oh, that's a collection to endcollections."
"By the way, Humphrey Goode showed me a pair of big ball-butt wheellocks, all covered with ivory inlay," Rand mentioned.
Gresham laughed heartily. "Aren't they the damnedest ever seen, though?"he asked. "Made in Germany, about 1870 or '80, about the timearms-collecting was just getting out of the family-heirloom stage,wouldn't you say?"
"I'd say made in Japan, about 1920," Rand replied. "Remember, there werea couple of small human figures on each pistol, a knight and a huntsman?Did you notice that they had slant eyes?" He stopped laughing, and lookedat Gresham seriously. "Just how much more of that sort of thing do youthink I'm going to have to weed out of the collection, before I can offerit for sale?" he asked.
Gresham shook his head. "They're all. They were Lane Fleming's one falsestep. Ordinarily, Lane was a careful buyer; he must have let himself gethypnotized by all that ivory and gold, and all that documentation oncrested notepaper. You know, Fleming's death was an undeserved stroke ofluck for Arnold Rivers. If he hadn't been killed just when he was, he'dhave run Rivers out of the old-arms business."
"I notice that Rivers isn't advertising in the _American Rifleman_ anymore," Rand observed.
"No; the National Rifle Association stopped his ad, and lifted hismembership card for good measure," Gresham said. "Rivers sold a rifle toa collector down in Virginia, about three years ago, while you were stilloccupying Germany. A fine, early flintlock Kentuck, that had been madeout of a fine, late percussion Kentuck by sawing off the breech-end ofthe barrel, rethreading it for the breech-plug, drilling a new vent, andfitting the lock with a flint hammer and a pan-and-frizzen assembly, andshortening the fore-end to fit. Rivers has a gunsmith over at Kingsville,one Elmer Umholtz, who does all his fraudulent conversions for him. Ihave an example of Umholtz's craftsmanship, myself. The collector whobought this spurious flintlock spotted what had been done, and squawkedto the Rifle Association, and to the postal authorities."
"Rivers claimed, I suppose, that he had gotten it from a family that hadowned it ever since it was made, and showed letters signed 'D. Boone' and'Davy Crockett' to prove it?"
"No, he claimed to have gotten it in trade from some wayfaringcollector," Gresham replied. "He convinced Uncle Whiskers, but theN.R.A. took a slightly dimmer view of the transaction, so Rivers doesn'tadvertise in the _Rifleman_ any more."
"Wasn't there some talk about Whitneyville Walker Colts that had beenmade out of 1848 Model Colt Dragoons?" Rand asked.
"Oh Lord, yes! This fellow Umholtz was practically turning them out onan assembly-line, for a while. Rivers must have sold about ten of them.You know, Umholtz is a really fine gunsmith; I had him build a deer-riflefor Dot, a couple of years ago--Mexican-Mauser action, Johnsonbarrel, chambered for .300 Savage; Umholtz made the stock and fitted ascope-sight--it's a beautiful little rifle. I hate to see him prostitutehis talents the way he does by making these fake antiques for Rivers. Youknow, he made one of these mythical heavy .44 six-shooters of the sortColt was supposed to have turned out at Paterson in 1839 for ColonelWalker's Texas Rangers--you know, the model h
e couldn't find any of in1847, when he made the real Walker Colt. That story you find in Sawyer'sbook."
"Why, that story's been absolutely disproved," Rand said. "There neverwas any such revolver."
"Not till Umholtz made one," Gresham replied. "Rivers sold it to,"--henamed a moving-picture bigshot--"for twenty-five hundred dollars. Hisstory was that he picked it up in Mexico, in 1938; traded a .38-specialto 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 dugin behind this innocent-purchase-and-sale-in-good-faith Maginot Line ofhis. You know, that bastard took me, once, just one-tenth as badly, witha fake U.S. North & Cheney Navy flintlock 1799 Model that had been madeout of a French 1777 Model." The lawyer muttered obscenely.
"Why didn't you sue hell out of him?" Rand asked. "You might not havegotten 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 wantmy money, and if I don't get it in cash, I'm going to beat it out of thatdirty little swindler's hide," Gresham replied, an ugly look appearing onhis face.
"I wouldn't blame you. You could find plenty of other collectors who'dhold 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 haveshot himself with?"
Gresham frowned. "I really don't know; I didn't see it. It's supposedto have been a Confederate Leech & Rigdon .36; you know, one of thoseimitation Colt Navy Models that were made in the South during the CivilWar."
Rand nodded. He was familiar with the type.
"The story is that Fleming found it hanging back of the counter at someroadside lunch-stand, along with a lot of other old pistols, and talkedthe proprietor into letting it go for a few dollars," Gresham continued."It was supposed to have been loaded at the time, and went off whileFleming was working on it, at home." He shook his head. "I can't believethat, Jeff. Lane Fleming would know a loaded revolver when he saw one. Ibelieve he deliberately shot himself, and the family faked the accidentand fixed the authorities. The police never made any investigation; itwas handled by the coroner alone. And our coroner, out in Scott County,is eminently fixable, if you go about it right; a pitiful littlenonentity with a tremendous inferiority complex."
"But good Lord, why?" Rand demanded. "I never heard of Fleming having anytroubles worth killing himself over."
Gresham lowered his voice. "Jeff, I'm not supposed to talk about this,but the fact is that I believe Fleming was about to lose control of thePremix Company," he said. "I have, well, sources of inside information.This is in confidence, so don't quote me, but certain influences were atwork, inside the company, toward that end." He inspected the tip of hiscigar and knocked off the ash into the tray at his elbow. "Lane Fleming'sdeath is on record as accidental, Jeff. It's been written off as such. Itwould be a great deal better for all concerned if it were left at that."