Murder in the Gunroom

somewhere upstairs. Neither of us thought of a shot; my own first idea was of a door slamming. Then, about five minutes later, we heard Anton, in the upstairs hall, pounding on a door, and shouting: ‘Lane! Lane! Are you all right?’ We ran up the front stairway, and found Anton, in his rubber lab-apron, and Fred, in a bathrobe, and barefooted, standing outside the gunroom door. The door was locked, and that in itself was unusual; there’s a Yale lock on it, but nobody ever used it.
“For a minute or so, we just stood there. Anton was explaining that he had heard a shot and that nobody in the gunroom answered. Geraldine told him, rather impatiently, to go down to the library and up the spiral. You see,” she explained, “the library is directly under the gunroom, and there’s a spiral stairway connecting the two rooms. So Anton went downstairs and we stood waiting in the hall. Fred was shivering in his bathrobe; he said he’d just jumped out of the bathtub, and he had nothing on under it. After a while, Anton opened the gunroom door from the inside, and stood in the doorway, blocking it. He said: ‘You’d better not come in. There’s been an accident, but it’s too late to do anything. Lane’s shot himself with one of those damned pistols; I always knew something like this would happen.’
“Well, I simply elbowed him out of the way and went in, and the others followed me. By this time, the uproar had penetrated to the rear of the house, and the servants⁠—Walters, the butler, and  Mrs. Horder, the cook⁠—had joined us. We found Lane inside, lying on the floor, shot through the forehead. Of course, he was dead. He’d been sitting on one of these old cobblers’ benches of the sort that used to be all the thing for cocktail-tables; he had his tools and polish and oil and rags on it. He’d fallen off it to one side and was lying beside it. He had a revolver in his right hand, and an oily rag in his left.”
“Was it the revolver he’d brought home with him?” Rand asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “He showed me this Confederate revolver when he came home, but it was dirty and dusty, and I didn’t touch it. And I didn’t look closely at the one he had in his hand when he was⁠ ⁠… on the floor. It was about the same size and design; that’s all I could swear to.” She continued: “We had something of an argument about what to do. Walters, the butler, offered to call the police. He’s English, and his mind seems to run naturally to due process of law. Fred and Anton both howled that proposal down; they wanted no part of the police. At the same time, Geraldine was going into hysterics, and I was trying to get her quieted down. I took her to her room and gave her a couple of sleeping-pills, and then went back to the gunroom. While I was gone, it seems that Anton had called our family doctor,  Dr. Yardman, and then Fred called Humphrey Goode, our lawyer. Goode lives next door to us, about two hundred yards away, so he arrived almost at once. When the doctor came, he called the coroner, and when he arrived, about an hour later, they all went into a huddle and decided that it was an obvious accident and that no inquest would be necessary. Then somebody, I’m not sure who, called an undertaker. It was past eleven when he arrived, and for once, Nelda got home early. She was just coming in while they were carrying Lane out in a basket. You can imagine how horrible that was for her; it was days before she was over the shock. So she’ll be just as glad as anybody to see the last of the pistol-collection.”
Through the recital, Rand had sat silently, toying with the ivory-handled Italian Fascist dagger-of-honor that was doing duty as a letter-opener on his desk. Gladys Fleming wasn’t, he was sure, indulging in any masochistic self-harrowing; neither, he thought, was she talking to relieve her mind. Once or twice there had been a small catch in her voice, but otherwise the narration had been a piece of straight reporting, neither callous nor emotional. Good reporting, too; carefully detailed. There had been one or two inclusions of inferential matter in the guise of description, but that was to be looked for and discounted. And she had remembered, at the end, to include her ostensible reason for telling the story.
“Yes, it must have been dreadful,” he sympathized. “Odd, though, that an old hand with guns like  Mr. Fleming would have an accident like that. I met him, once or twice, and was at your home to see his collection, a couple of years ago. He impressed me as knowing firearms pretty thoroughly.⁠ ⁠… Well, you can look for me tomorrow, say around two. In the meantime, I’ll see Goode, and also Gresham and Arnold Rivers.”

II
After ushering his client out the hall door and closing it behind her, Rand turned and said:
“All right, Kathie, or Dave; whoever’s out there. Come on in.”
Then he went to his desk and reached under it, snapping off a switch. As he straightened, the door from the reception-office opened and his secretary, Kathie O’Grady, entered, loading a cigarette into an eight-inch amber holder. She was a handsome woman, built on the generous lines of a Renaissance goddess; none of the Renaissance masters, however, had ever employed a model so strikingly Hibernian. She had blue eyes, and a fair, highly-colored complexion; she wore green, which went well with her flaming red hair, and a good deal of gold costume-jewelry.
Behind her came Dave Ritter. He was Rand’s assistant, and also Kathie’s lover. He was five or six years older than his employer, and slightly built. His hair, fighting a stubborn rearguard action against baldness, was an