"With both of us dead, you'd be the
murderer, and I'd be a martyr to law-and-order, and he'd be in the
clear."
Varcek regarded the dead man with more distaste than surprise. Evidently
his experiences in Hitler's Europe had left him with few illusions about
the sanctity of human life or the extent of human perfidy. Ritter
holstered the Beretta and got out a cigarette.
"I hope you didn't leave your lighter upstairs," he told Rand.
Rand produced and snapped it, holding the flame out to his assistant.
"Dave," he lectured, "the Perfect Butler always has a lighter in good
working order; lighting up the mawster is part of his duties. Remember
that, the next time you have a buttling job."
Ritter leaned forward for the light. "Dunmore was a better shot with his
right hand than he was with his left," he commented. "He didn't come
within a yard of me, and he scored a twelve-o'clock center on you. Right
through the necktie."
Rand glanced down. Then he burst into a roar of obscene blasphemy.
"Seven dollars and fifty cents I paid for that tie, not three weeks ago,"
he concluded. "Does your grandmother make patchwork quilts? If she does,
she can have it."
"My God!" Varcek stared at Rand unbelievingly.
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