There were a number of people who had wanted the collection. The
question was: had anyone wanted it badly enough to kill Fleming? And if
so, how had he done it? Here is a mystery, told against the fascinating
background of old guns and gun-collecting, which is rapid-fire without
being hysterical, exciting without losing its contact with reason, and
which introduces a personable and intelligent new private detective. It
is a story that will keep your nerves on a hair trigger even if you don't
know the difference between a cased pair of Paterson .34's and a Texas
.40 with a ramming-lever._




CHAPTER 1


It was hard to judge Jeff Rand's age from his appearance; he was
certainly over thirty and considerably under fifty. He looked hard and
fit, like a man who could be a serviceable friend or a particularly
unpleasant enemy. Women instinctively suspected that he would make a
most satisfying lover. One might have taken him for a successful lawyer
(he had studied law, years ago), or a military officer in mufti (he still
had a Reserve colonelcy, and used the title occasionally, to impress
people who he thought needed impressing), or a prosperous businessman,
as he usually thought of himself. Most of all, he looked like King
Charles II of England anachronistically clad in a Brooks Brothers suit.

At the moment, he was looking rather like King Charles II being bothered
by one of his mistresses who wanted a peerage for her husband.