Gresham frowned. "I really don't know; I didn't see it. It's supposed
to have been a Confederate Leech & Rigdon .36; you know, one of those
imitation Colt Navy Models that were made in the South during the Civil
War."

Rand nodded. He was familiar with the type.

"The story is that Fleming found it hanging back of the counter at some
roadside lunch-stand, along with a lot of other old pistols, and talked
the proprietor into letting it go for a few dollars," Gresham continued.
"It was supposed to have been loaded at the time, and went off while
Fleming was working on it, at home." He shook his head. "I can't believe
that, Jeff. Lane Fleming would know a loaded revolver when he saw one. I
believe he deliberately shot himself, and the family faked the accident
and fixed the authorities. The police never made any investigation; it
was handled by the coroner alone. And our coroner, out in Scott County,
is eminently fixable, if you go about it right; a pitiful little
nonentity with a tremendous inferiority complex."

"But good Lord, why?" Rand demanded. "I never heard of Fleming having any
troubles worth killing himself over."

Gresham lowered his voice. "Jeff, I'm not supposed to talk about this,
but the fact is that I believe Fleming was about to lose control of the
Premix Company," he said. "I have, well, sources of inside information.
This is in confidence, so don't quote me, but certain influences were at
work, inside the company, toward that end." He inspected the tip of his
cigar and knocked off the ash into the tray at his elbow. "Lane Fleming's
death is on record as accidental, Jeff. It's been written off as such. It