"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. It might even disastrously affect the market as a whole."
"Oh, come!" Rand reproved. "That's like talking about starting a hurricane with a palm-leaf fan."
"But you will admit that it would have a dreadful effect on Premix Foods," Goode argued. "It would probably prevent this merger from being consummated. Look here," he said urgently. "I don't know how much Gladys Fleming is paying you to rake all this up, but I'll gladly double her fee if you drop it and confine yourself to the matter of the collection."