I drove through the front gate, which had been left open for me, parked my BMW directly in front of the entry, climbed the half-dozen wide steps to the big porch, and rang the bell. I waited several moments before Perry opened the door. “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside for me. I brushed past him. “Where’s Edwin?” “Gave him the night off. He left right after dinner.” Perry grinned. “Edwin has a lady friend, you know.” “Good for him.” “We’re in the sitting room,” said Perry, leading the way. Ollie was seated in his wheelchair at a big table near the window. To his right stood the wall-sized bookcase behind which lay his secret air-locked vault, from hidden speakers came a Sibelius symphony. Ollie held a shotgun opened on his lap. He was rubbing the metal parts of the gun with a rag. I recognized the pleasant odor of Hoppe’s gun oil. “Brady, my friend,” he said when he saw me. “Long time. Here,” he commanded, thrusting the gun at me. “Heft this.”
