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Updated: May 10, 2025
There had been no attempt to replace the cased items; the cases had been merely rearranged on the table to avoid any conspicuous vacancies. "See that thing?" Pierre asked, tapping a small .25 Webley & Scott automatic with his finger. Rand looked at it; it had been fitted with an English-made silencer. "That thing," Pierre said, "is the one illustrated in Pollard's book.
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.
He noted that the stranger was a fine figure of a man, tall and slim, with clear dark eyes and tanned face, and he saw, too, that he wore a heavy Webley on his right hip. The newcomer continued to smile as Mills scanned him over, and waited for the trader to speak first. "Hullo!" said Mills at length. "'Ullo!" replied the stranger, smiling still.
He was even more startled, it seemed, when he realized that they wore the uniform of the State Police. "What.... What's the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded of Rand. "You're being arrested," Rand told him. "Just stand still, now." He stepped around the desk and frisked the butler quickly, wondering if he were going to find a .25 Webley & Scott automatic or his own .38-Special.
We could go and pick this fellow up, and he's one of three men, so we could grab all three of them, and even if we found the .25 Webley & Scott and my .38 in his pockets, we couldn't charge him with anything. Fact is, right now we can't even prove that Lane Fleming's death was anything but the accident it's on the books as being. But let him take a shot at me...."
He had hoisted himself on the edge of his desk, and sat, an amusing little figure, his legs swinging a foot from the ground. "The revolver used was a big Webley, not an easy thing to carry or conceal about your person, and undoubtedly brought to the scene of the crime by the man in the car.
Two revolvers: my Webley.450, and that little thing of Nesbit's, which is not man-stopping. Shot-guns? Every one but you, padre: fit only for spring snipe, anyway, or bamboo partridge. Hackh has just taken over, from this house, the only real weapons in the settlement one dozen old Mausers, Argentine, calibre.765. My predecessor left 'em, and three cases of cartridges.
One morning when I was wandering around the gardens on the outskirts of the town I came across some jackals and shot one with my Webley revolver. It was running and I fired a number of times, and got back to town to find that my shooting had started all sorts of excitement and reports of uprisings. Christmas came and the different officers' messes organized celebrations.
"I believe, sir, that we shall be able to fetch out, if we can get her under sail," said the lieutenant in the captain's ear. The words made him start, and restored vigour to his heart. "Thank you, Webley, thank you," exclaimed the captain, when the third lieutenant told him that the wind had come ahead. "We'll make the attempt, and may Heaven prosper it!"
The previous thefts had been masked by substitutions, but whoever had helped himself to one of the more recent metallic-cartridge specimens, the night before, hadn't bothered with any such precaution, and a pair of vacant screwhooks disclosed the removal. A second look told Rand what had been taken: the little .25 Webley & Scott from the Pollard collection, with the silencer.
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