"
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."
CHAPTER 2
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.
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