Murder in the Gunroom

was telling you. I⁠—” He took a fresh start. “There have been rumors⁠—utterly without foundation, of course⁠—that  Mr. Fleming committed suicide. They are, I may say, nothing but malicious fabrications, circulated for the purpose of undermining public confidence in Premix Foods, Incorporated. I had thought that perhaps  Mrs. Fleming might have heard them, and decided, on her own responsibility, to bring you in to scotch them; I was afraid that such a step might, by giving these rumors fresh currency, defeat its intended purpose.”
“Oh, nothing of the sort!” Rand told him. “I’m not in the least interested in how  Mr. Fleming was killed, and the question is simply not involved in what  Mrs. Fleming wants me to do.”
He stopped there. Goode was looking at him sideways, sucking in one corner of his mouth and pushing out the other. It was not a facial contortion that impressed Rand favorably; it was too reminiscent of a high-school principal under whom he had suffered, years ago, in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Rand began to suspect that Goode might be just another such self-righteous, opinionated, egotistical windbag. Such men could be dangerous, were usually quite unscrupulous, and were almost always unpleasant to deal with.
“Then why,” the lawyer demanded, “did  Mrs. Fleming employ you?”
“Well, as you know,” Rand began, “the Fleming pistol-collection, now the joint property of  Mrs. Fleming and her two stepdaughters, is an extremely valuable asset.  Mr. Fleming spent the better part of his life gathering it. At one time or another, he must have owned between four and five thousand different pistols and revolvers. The twenty-five hundred left to his heirs represent the result of a systematic policy of discriminating purchase, replacement of inferior items, and general improvement. It’s one of the largest and most famous collections of its kind in the country.”
“Well?” Goode was completely out of his depth by now. “Surely  Mrs. Fleming doesn’t think⁠ ⁠… ?”
“ Mrs. Fleming thinks that expert advice is urgently needed in disposing of that collection,” Rand replied, carefully picking his words to fit what he estimated to be Goode’s probable semantic reactions. “She has the utmost confidence in your ability and integrity, as an attorney; however, she realized that you could hardly describe yourself as an antique-arms expert. It happens that I am an expert in antique firearms, particularly pistols. I have a collection of my own, I am the author of a number of articles on the subject, and I am recognized as something of an authority. I know arms-values, and understand market conditions. Furthermore, not being a dealer, or connected with any museum, I have no mercenary motive for undervaluing the collection. That’s all there is to it;  Mrs. Fleming has retained me as a firearms-expert, in connection with the collection.”
Goode was looking at Rand as though the latter had just torn off a mask, revealing another and entirely different set of features underneath. The change seemed to be a welcome one, but he was evidently having trouble adjusting to it. Rand grinned inwardly; now he was going to have to find himself a new set of verbal labels and identifications.
“Well,  Mr. Rand, that alters the situation considerably,” he said, with noticeably less hostility. He was still a bit resentful; people had no right to confuse him by jumping about from one category to another, like that. “Now understand, I’m not trying to be offensive, but it seems a little unusual for a private detective also to be an authority on antique firearms.”
“ Mr. Fleming was an authority on antique firearms, and he was a manufacturer of foodstuffs,” Rand parried, carefully staying inside Goode’s Aristotelian system of categories and verbal identifications. “My own business does not occupy all my time, any more than his did, and I doubt if an interest in the history and development of deadly weapons is any more incongruous in a criminologist than in an industrialist. But if there’s any doubt in your mind as to my qualifications, you can check with Colonel Taylor, at the State Museum, or with the editor of the American Rifleman.”
“I see.” Goode nodded. “And as you point out, being a sort of nonprofessional expert, you should be free from mercenary bias.” He nodded again, taking off his glasses and polishing them on an outsize white handkerchief. “Frankly, now that I understand your purpose,  Mr. Rand, I must say that I am quite glad that  Mrs. Fleming took this step. I was perplexed about how to deal with that collection. I realized that it was worth a great deal of money, but I haven’t the vaguest idea how much, or how it could be sold to the best advantage.⁠ ⁠… At a rough guess,  Mr. Rand, how much do you think it ought to bring?”
Rand shook his head. “I only saw it twice, the last time two years ago. Ask me that after I’ve spent a day or so going over it, and I’ll be able to give you an estimate. I will say this, though: It’s probably worth a lot more than the ten thousand dollars Arnold Rivers has offered for it.”
That produced an unexpected effect. Goode straightened in his chair, gobbling in surprised indignation.
“Arnold Rivers? Has he had the impudence to try to buy the collection?” he demanded. “Where did you hear that?”
“From  Mrs. Fleming. I understand he made the offer to Fred Dunmore. That’s his business, isn’t it?”
“I believe the colloquial term is ‘racket,’ ” Goode said. “Why, that man is a notorious swindler!  Mr. Rand, do you know that only a week before his death,  Mr. Fleming instructed me to bring suit against him, and also to secure his indictment on criminal charges of fraud?”
“I didn’t know that, but I’m not surprised,” Rand answered. “What did he burn Fleming with?”
“Here; I’ll show you.” Goode rose from his seat and went to a rank of steel filing-cabinets behind the desk. In a moment, he was back, with a large manila envelope under his arm, and a huge pistol in either hand. “Here,  Mr. Rand,” he chuckled. “We’ll just test your firearms knowledge. What do you make of these?”
Rand took the pistols and looked at them. They