“Has Pierre a lawyer?” Rand asked.

“No.  Not yet.  We were just talking about that.”

“Dad would defend him,” Dot suggested.  “Of course, he’s not a criminal lawyer—­”

“Carter Tipton, in New Belfast,” Rand told them.  “He’s my lawyer; he’s gotten me out of more jams than you could shake a stick at.  Where’s the telephone?  I’ll call him now.”

“You think he’d defend Pierre?”

“Unless I’m badly mistaken, Pierre isn’t going to need any trial defense,” Rand told them.  “He will need somebody to look after his interests, and we’ll try to get him out on a writ as soon as possible.”

He looked at his watch.  It was ten minutes to nine.  It was hard to say where Carter Tipton would be at the moment; his manservant would probably know.  Karen showed him the phone and he started to put through a person-to-person call.

* * * * *

It was eleven o’clock before he backed his car into the Fleming garage, and the rain had turned to a wet, sticky snow.  All the Fleming cars were in, but Rand left the garage doors open.  He also left his hat and coat in the car.

After locating and talking to Tipton and arranging for him to meet Dave Ritter at the Rosemont Inn, he had gone to the State Police substation, where he had talked at length with Mick McKenna.  He had been compelled to tell the State Police sergeant a number of things he had intended keeping to himself.  When he was through, McKenna went so far as to admit that he had been a trifle hasty in arresting Pierre Jarrett.  Rand suspected that he was mentally kicking himself with hobnailed boots for his premature act.  He also submitted, for McKenna’s approval, the scheme he had outlined to Dave Ritter, and obtained a promise of cooperation.

When he entered the Fleming library, en route to the gunroom, he found the entire family assembled there; with them was Humphrey Goode.  As he came in, they broke off what had evidently been an acrimonious dispute and gave him their undivided attention.  Geraldine, relaxed in a chair, was smoking; for once, she didn’t have a glass in her hand.  Gladys occupied another chair; she was smoking, too.  Nelda had been pacing back and forth like a caged tiger; at Rand’s entrance, she turned to face him, and Rand wondered whether she thought he was Clyde Beatty or a side of beef.  Goode and Dunmore sat together on the sofa, forming what looked like a bilateral offensive and defensive alliance, and Varcek, looking more than ever like Rudolf Hess, stood with folded arms in one corner.

“Now, see here, Rand,” Dunmore began, as soon as the detective was inside the room, “we want to know just exactly for whom you’re working, around here.  And I demand to know where you’ve been since you left here this evening.”

“And I,” Goode piped up, “must protest most strongly against your involvement in this local murder case.  I am informed that, while in the employ of this family, you accepted a retainer from another party to investigate the death of Arnold Rivers.”