36 revolver from his pants-leg and gave it a quick
glance; the number was 1234. He handed it to Cabot.
"Is this it?" he asked.
Cabot checked the number. "Yes. And I remember this bruise on the left
grip; Fleming was saying that he was glad it would be on the inside, so
it wouldn't show when he hung it on the wall." He carried the revolver to
the desk and held it under the light. "Why, this thing wasn't fired at
all!" he exclaimed. "I thought that Fleming might have loaded it, meaning
to target it--he had a pistol range back of his house--but the chambers
are clean." He sniffed at it. "Hoppe's Number Nine," he said. "And I can
see traces of partly dissolved rust, and no traces of fouling. What the
devil, Jeff?"
"It probably hasn't been fired since Appomattox," Rand agreed. "Philip,
do you think all this didn't-know-it-was-loaded routine might be an
elaborate suicide build-up, either before or after the fact?"
"Absolutely not!" There was a trace of impatience in Cabot's voice. "Lane
Fleming wasn't the man to commit suicide. I knew him too well ever to
believe that."
"I heard a rumor that he was about to lose control of his company," Rand
mentioned. "You know how much Premix meant to him."
"That's idiotic!" Cabot's voice was openly scornful, now, and he seemed
a little angry that Rand should believe such a story, as though his
confidence in his friend's intelligence had been betrayed.
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