to conscious
considerations of policy," Rand told him. "I don't want Farnsworth or
Mick McKenna going around bitching this operation up for me. If they
feel justified in eliminating Gresham on the strength of that phone
call, I'm satisfied, regardless of the semantics involved. Right now, the
thing that's worrying me is the ease with which I seem to have talked
Farnsworth into laying off Gresham. He and Olsen both have single-track
minds. They may just dismiss that telephone alibi, such as it is, as mere
error of the mortal mind, and go right ahead building some kind of a
ramshackle case against Gresham. Since they picked him for their entry,
they won't want to have to scratch him.... Damn, I wish I could think of
where Walters could have sold those pistols!"

"Well, if Rivers wasn't involved somehow, why was he killed?" Pierre
wondered. "Hey! Maybe Walters sold the pistols to Umholtz! He's just as
big a crook as Rivers was, only not quite so smart."

Rand nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe so. And suppose Rivers found out about
it, and tried to declare himself in on it. That stuff would be worth at
least ten thousand; I doubt if whoever bought it paid Walters more than
two. In the Umholtz-Rivers income bracket, the difference might be worth
killing for."

"That's right. And Umholtz was in the infantry, in the other war; he
served in the Twenty-eighth Division. He was trained to use a bayonet.
And he'd pick that short Mauser; it has about the same weight and balance
as a 1903 Springfield."

"Well, you know, the killer wouldn't need to have been trained to use a
bayonet," Rand pointed out. "Mick McKenna made that point, this
afternoon. There have been a lot of war-movies that showed bayonet
fighting; pretty nearly everybody knows about the technique that was
used. And against an unarmed and probably unsuspecting victim like
Rivers, a great deal of proficiency wouldn't be needed." He slowed the
car. "Up this road?" he asked.

"Yes. That's my place, over there."

Pierre pointed to a white-walled, red-roofed house that lay against a
hillside, about a mile ahead, making a vivid spot in the dull grays and
greens of the early April landscape. It consisted of a square two-story
block, with one-story wings projecting to give it an L-shaped floorplan.
It reminded Rand of farmhouses he had seen in Sicily during the War.

"Come on in and see my stuff, if you have time," Pierre invited, as
Rand pulled to a stop in the driveway. "I