Finally, Anton Varcek came in from the hallway,
approached the desk, and sat down in an armchair.
"Colonel Rand," he began, in a low voice, "I have been thinking over a
remark you made, last evening. Were you serious when you alluded to the
possibility that Lane Fleming had been murdered?"
"Well, the idea had occurred to me," Rand understated, keeping his right
hand close to his left coat lapel. "I take it you have begun to doubt
that it was an accident?"
"I would doubt a theory that a skilled chemist would accidentally poison
himself in his own laboratory," Varcek replied. "I would not, for
instance, pour myself a drink from a bottle labeled HNO_3 in the belief
that it contained vodka. I believe that Lane Fleming should be credited
with equal caution about firearms."
"Yet you were the first to advance the theory that the shooting had been
an accident," Rand pointed out.
"I have a strong dislike for firearms." Varcek looked at the pistols on
the desk as though they were so many rattlesnakes. "I have always feared
an accident, with so many in the house. When I saw him lying dead, with a
revolver in his hand, that was my first thought. First thoughts are so
often illogical, emotional."
"And you didn't consider the possibility of suicide?"
"No! Absolutely not!" The Czech was emphatic.
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