He had two hours until his meeting with Stephen Gresham; he knew exactly
where to spend them. The county seat was a normal twenty minutes' drive
from Rosemont, but with the road relatively free from traffic he was able
to cut that to fifteen. Parking his car in front of the courthouse, he
went inside.
The coroner, one Jason Kirchner, was an inoffensive-looking little fellow
with a Caspar Milquetoast mustache and an underslung jaw. He wore an Elks
watchcharm, an Odd Fellows ring, and a Knights of Pythias lapel-pin. He
looked at Rand's credentials, including the letter Humphrey Goode had
given him, with some bewilderment.
"You're working for Mr. Goode?" he asked, rather needlessly. "Yes, I see;
handling the sale of Mr. Fleming's pistols, for the estate. Yes. That
must be interesting work, Mr. Rand. Now, what can I do for you?"
"Why, I understand you have an item from that collection, here in your
office," Rand said. "The pistol with which Mr. Fleming shot himself.
Regardless of its unpleasant associations, that pistol is a valuable
collector's item, and one of the assets of the estate. If I'm to get full
value for the collection, for the heirs, I'll have to have that, to sell
with the rest of the weapons.
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