Yet, in spite of his vigilance, it happened before he could prevent it.
A lance of yellow fire jumped out of the shadows of the stairway,
and there was a soft cough of a silenced pistol, almost lost in the
_click-click_ of the breech-action. Rand felt something sledge-hammer him
in the chest, almost knocking him down. He staggered, then swung up the
Colt he had drawn from his pocket and blazed two shots into the stairway.
There was a clatter, and the sound of feet descending into the library.
He rushed forward, revolver poised, and then a shot boomed from below,
followed by three more in quick succession.
"Okay, Jeff!" Ritter's voice called out. "War's over!"
He managed, somehow, to get down the steep spiral. The little .25 Webley
& Scott was lying on the bottom step; he pushed it aside with his foot,
and cautioned Varcek, who was following, to avoid it. Ritter, still
looking like the Perfect Butler in spite of the .380 Beretta in his hand,
was standing in the hall doorway. On the floor, midway between the
stairway and the door, lay Fred Dunmore. His tan coat and vest were
turning dark in several places, and Rand's own Detective Special was
lying a few inches from his left hand.
"He came in here and shut the door," Ritter reported.
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