Then it was sold, but he doesn't know who
to. He didn't sell it himself; Rivers must have."
"I assumed that; that's why he's still alive. Well, thanks, Mick. The
case is getting tighter every minute."
"You haven't had any trouble yet?" McKenna asked anxiously. "How's the
whoozis doing?"
"About as you might expect," Rand told him, mopping his face again.
"Thanks for that, too."
He hung up and turned back to Goode. "Pardon the interruption," he said.
"Sergeant McKenna, of the State Police. The officer who made the arrest
on Walters and Gwinnett. Well, I suppose Dunmore and Varcek are each
trying to blame the other," he said.
"Well, yes; I rather got that impression," Goode admitted.
"And which one do you like for the murderer? Or haven't you picked yours,
yet?"
"You mean.... Yes, of course," Goode said slowly. "It must have been one
or the other. But I can't think.... It's horrible to have to suspect
either of them." For a moment, he stared unseeingly at the litter of
high-priced pistols on the desk. Then:
"Colonel Rand, Lane Fleming is dead, and nothing either of us can do
will bring him back. To expose his murderer certainly won't. But it
would cause a scandal that would rock the Premix Company to its very
foundations.
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