“My name is Chauncey Gillis. May I help you?”
Louis turned. The man had the soothing voice of an airline pilot and smelled like cedar and cherries, probably from the pipe in his breast pocket.
“My name is Kincaid,” Louis said. “This is Mel Landeta. We’re private investigators working for Reggie Kent.”
“Ah, yes. I heard Mr. Kent had hired someone to help him,” Gillis said. “May I ask how things are going for him?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share anything with you,” Louis said. “But there might be something you can tell us to help him out a little.”
Gillis’s smile faded. “Well, I don’t know…”
Louis pulled out the photograph of the sword. “Do you recognize this sword?”
Gillis took the photograph and walked back to the counter to get his glasses. He also picked up a magnifying glass and held it over the picture.
“This is a German prison officer’s sword,” he said when he looked up. “This is very rare, from the Clemen Solingen firm.”
“You’re sure?” Louis asked.
“Oh, yes, I’d know this anywhere.” He pointed to the photo. “See the eagle’s head? Its beak forms the hilt. And of course, here’s the swastika in the gold. Lovely, just lovely.”
“But it’s a real sword, right?” Louis asked. “You could kill someone with it?”
“Of course,” Gillis said. “Its beauty doesn’t detract from the fact that it was manufactured with mayhem in mind. The balance is perfect for swinging. Definitely a working weapon.”
Louis stepped to the counter. Apparently, Gillis hadn’t heard that a sword had been taken from Reggie’s home, or he would be more intrigued by the photo.
“Is it expensive?” Louis asked.
“Around five thousand,” Gillis said.
“Is it rare?”
“Extremely,” Gillis said. “This sword is museum worthy, a very important addition to any collection. I’ve only seen one pass through my store, and I’ve been here almost twenty years now.”
“Do you remember who you sold it to?” Louis asked.
Gillis went silent. Louis could almost see the gears of his brain working.
“You sold it to Tucker Osborn,” Louis said.
Gillis’s face reddened. “I don’t like to talk about my customers.”
“I just came from Osborn’s home,” Louis said. “He told me to talk to you.”
The bluff seemed to thaw Gillis some. “Well, if Mr. Osborn said it was all right.”
“He sent me here. Said to talk to Mr. Gillis and only Mr. Gillis. When did you sell him the sword?”
“It was about five years ago,” Gillis said. “Mr. Osborn has a magnificent collection of military paraphernalia.”
“You’re absolutely sure that this sword is the same one you sold Mr. Osborn?” Louis asked.
“I would stake my reputation on it,” Gillis said.
Louis slid the picture back into the envelope. Gillis’s identification of Tucker Osborn as the sword’s owner was going to be crucial later, if Reggie was actually put on trial and if the sword turned out to be the murder weapon. And even more sweet was the fact that, as a jealous husband, Osborn could be assumed to have had motive. Nothing ever needed to be proven, but this was enough to raise some serious reasonable doubt.
Gillis suddenly bolted from behind the counter and hurried to Mel, who was holding a silver dome-shaped helmet.
“You got this in a seven and three-quarters?” Mel asked.
“Give me that, please,” Gillis said, taking the helmet from Mel.
Gillis used a handkerchief to wipe the metal free of prints and carefully placed the helmet back on the blue velvet display stand.
Mel tossed Louis a grin as he came toward him. Gillis followed, still in a huff as he tucked his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. Then, as if something had suddenly sparked inside his brain, he looked up at Louis. His eyes held a flicker of apprehension.
“It just occurred to me,” he said. “Do they think that Mr. Osborn’s sword was used to behead that poor man who lived with Mr. Kent?”
Louis was sure Barberry didn’t want to release the fact that a sword had been taken from the suspect’s house, but hell, the information was probably already out there in whispered rumors. He might as well give it a stronger voice and let the grapevine do what it did best. Maybe he could stir up a reaction from the senator and her bastard husband.
“No one is supposed to know that, Mr. Gillis,” Louis said. “I trust we can keep your confidence?”
“Oh, goodness, yes,” Gillis said. “Discretion is my middle name, sir.”
“Good,” Louis said. “We appreciate it.”
Louis turned to leave, but Gillis caught his arm. “May I ask if Mr. Osborn is a suspect?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share any theories with you,” Louis said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Wait,” Gillis said. “I just remembered something else. Do you have a photograph of Mr. Kent’s deceased friend?”
“Not with us, no,” Louis said. “Why?”
“Please excuse me,” Gillis said. “I’ll be right back.”
Gillis disappeared behind a red velvet drape and returned with a copy of the Shiny Sheet. He had it folded to display an article on the murder of Durand. Gillis pointed to Durand’s picture.
“I wanted to be sure before I said anything,” Gillis said.
“Sure about what?” Louis asked.
“A few months ago, I had a young man come in and ask about the value of an antique sword,” Gillis said. “He didn’t have the sword with him, but he tried to describe it to me. Of course, I told him I would have to see it to offer an appraisal.”
“Did he ever bring it in?” Louis asked.
“No,” Gillis said. “And to be honest, I completely forgot about it. Until now. But I am almost positive the gentleman I spoke with was this man. This paper is old, but we keep them for wrapping things in shipping.” He tapped the picture of Durand in the newspaper.
“You’re sure?”
“I would stake my reputation on it,” Gillis said.
“Did he mention where he got the sword?” Mel asked.
“No,” Gillis said. “But I know that had he mentioned Mr. Osborn, I would remember that.”
Louis glanced at Mel, still a little stunned at the day’s events. First, Margery spills the name of a senator, then it turns out her husband not only collects swords but once owned the same sword found in the victim’s house.
“Thank you, Mr. Gillis,” Louis said. “Again, we’d appreciate it if you keep all this under your hat.”
“Or your helmet,” Mel added.
Gillis gave a tight smile. Louis was sure the minute they walked out the door, Gillis would be on the phone to anyone who would listen. Hell, Margery would probably know it all before she uncorked her evening bottle of shampoo.
They left the store and started walking. Louis was hungry, but by Palm Beach standards, it was far too early to eat dinner. No one sat down before dark.
“I had a thought,” Mel said.
“Shoot.”
“Reggie said Durand was sleeping with women. Women, plural,” Mel went on. “Maybe they all gave him gifts. Maybe there’s more than the watch and the sword.”
Louis stopped walking, his brain tripping back to Durand’s bedroom and the shelves of knickknacks. What had been there?
“We need to go back to Kent’s place,” Louis said.
“What for?”
“A treasure hunt,” Louis said.
Chapter Twenty-one
The next morning, Louis and Mel went to see Reggie to get the keys to his house but also to check up on him. As expected, he wasn’t faring well.
His pale skin held a gray tinge, and his silky yellow hair had lost its sheen. Head bent and hands clasped, Reggie asked if they could bring him his Paul Labrecque shampoo and the most recent issue of the Robb Report. Mel gently told him no and tried to update him on the case without giving him false hope that Barberry would suddenly see the light and get the charges dismissed.