Dunmore’s eyes widened.  “Yes, and I can think of one, without half trying, too!” He nodded once or twice.  “For instance, the man who was afraid you were investigating Fleming’s death; the man who started that suicide story!” He looked at Rand interrogatively.  “Well, I got to go; Nelda’ll be out of the bathroom by now.  I want to talk to you about this some more, Colonel.”

After Dunmore had gone out, Rand mopped his face.  The room seemed insufferably hot.  He found an electric fan over the workbench and plugged it in, but it made enough noise to cover any sounds of stealthy approach, and he shut it off.  He had finished revising his list to include the recovered pistols for as far as it was completed, and was hanging them back on the wall when Ritter came in.

“House is clear, now,” his assistant said, stepping out of his P. G. Wodehouse character.  “Both pairs left in the Packard, Dunmore driving.  Man, what a cat-and-dog show this place is!  It’s a wonder our client isn’t nuts.”

“You haven’t seen anything; you ought to have been here last night ...  Where is our client, by the way?”

“Downstairs.”  Ritter fished a cigarette out of his livery and appropriated Rand’s lighter.  “If we hear her coming, you can grab this.”  He brushed a couple of Paterson Colts to one side and sat down on the edge of the desk, taking a deep drag on the cigarette.  “What’s the regular law doing, now that young Jarrett is out?”

“I had a long talk with Mick McKenna,” Rand said.  “Fortunately, Mick and I have worked together before.  I was able to tell him the facts of life, and he’ll be a good boy now.  When last heard from, Farnsworth was beginning to blow his hot breath on the back of Cecil Gillis’s neck.”

Ritter picked up the big .44 Colt Walker and tried the balance.  “Man, this even makes that Colt Magnum of mine feel light!” he said.  “Say, Jeff, if Farnsworth’s going after Gillis, it’s probably on account of those stories about him and Mrs. Rivers.  At least, all that stuff would come out if he arrested him.  Maybe we could get a fee out of Mrs. Rivers.”

“I’d thought of that.  Unfortunately, Mrs. Rivers had a very convenient breakdown, when she heard the news; she is now in a hospital in New York, and won’t be back until after the funeral.  Prostrated with grief.  Or something.  And this case is due to blow up like Hiroshima before then.  Well, we can’t get fees from everybody.”  That, of course, was one of the sad things of life to which one must reconcile oneself.  “I got a call from Pierre Jarrett; Tip’s staying at the Jarrett place tonight.  I thought it would be a good idea to have him within reach for a while.”

The private outside phone rang shrilly.  Ritter let it go for several rings, then picked it up.

“This is the Fleming residence,” he stated, putting on his character again.  “Oh, yes indeed, sir.  Colonel Rand is right here, sir; I’ll tell him you’re calling.”  He put a hand over the mouthpiece.  “Humphrey Goode.”