“And with all the hollering and whooping and hysterics-throwing, nobody noticed the switch,” Ritter finished. “Wonder what happened to the one he was really cleaning.”
“That I may possibly find out,” Rand said. “The general incompetence with which this murder was committed gives me plenty of room to hope that it may still be lying around somewhere.”
“Well, have you thought that it might just be suicide?” Kathie asked.
“I have, very briefly; I dismissed the thought, almost at once,” Rand told her. “For two reasons. One, that if it had been suicide, Mrs. Fleming wouldn’t want it poked into; she’d be more than willing to let it ride as an accident. And, two, I doubt if a man who prided himself on his gun-knowledge, as Fleming did, would want his self-shooting to be taken for an accident. I’m damn sure I wouldn’t want my friends to go around saying: ‘What a dope; didn’t know it was loaded!’ I doubt if he’d even expect people to believe that it had been an accident.” He shook his head. “No, the only inference I can draw is that somebody murdered Fleming, and then faked evidence intended to indicate an accident.” He rose. “I’ll be back, in a little; think it over, while I’m gone.”
Carter Tipton had his law-office on the floor above the Tri-State Detective Agency. He handled all Rand’s not infrequent legal involvements, and Rand did all his investigating and witness-chasing; annually, they compared books to see who owed whom how much. Tipton was about five years Rand’s junior, and had been in the Navy during the war. He was frequently described as New Belfast’s leading younger attorney and most eligible bachelor. His dark, conservatively cut clothes fitted him as though they had been sprayed on, he wore gold-rimmed glasses, and he was so freshly barbered, manicured, valeted and scrubbed as to give the impression that he had been born in cellophane and just unwrapped. He leaned back in his chair and waved his visitor to a seat.
“Tip, do you know anything about this Fleming family, out at Rosemont?” Rand began, getting out his pipe and tobacco.
“The Premix-Foods Flemings?” Tipton asked. “Yes, a little. Which one of them wants you to frame what on which other one?”
“That’ll do for a good, simplified description, to start with,” Rand commented. “Why, my client is Mrs. Gladys Fleming. As to what she wants. …”
He told the young lawyer about his recent interview and subsequent conclusions.
“So you see,” he finished, “she won’t commit herself, even with me. Maybe she thinks I have more official status, and more obligations to the police, than I have. Maybe she isn’t sure in her own mind, and wants me to see, independently, if there’s any smell of something dead in the woodpile. Or, she may think that having a private detective called in may throw a scare into somebody. Or maybe she thinks somebody may be fixing up an accident for her, next, and she wants a pistol-totin’ gent in the house for a while. Or any combination thereof. Personally, I deplore these clients who hire you to do one thing and expect you to do another, but with five grand for sweetening, I can take them.”
“Yes. You know, I’ve heard rumors of suicide, but this is the first whiff of murder I’ve caught.” He hesitated slightly. “I must say, I’m not greatly surprised. Lane Fleming’s death was very convenient to a number of people. You know about this Premix Company, don’t you?”
“Vaguely. They manufacture ready-mixed pancake flour, and ready-mixed ice-cream and pudding powders, and this dehydrated vegetable soup—pour on hot water, stir, and serve—don’t they? My colored boy, Buck, got some of the soup, once, for an experiment. We unanimously voted not to try it again.”
“They put out quite a line of such godsends to the neophyte in the kitchen, the popularity of which is reflected in a steadily rising divorce-rate,” Tipton said. “They advertise very extensively, including half an hour of tear-jerking drama on a national hookup during soap-opera time. Your client, the former Gladys Farrand, was on the air for Premix for a couple of years; that’s how Lane Fleming first met her.”
“So you think some irate and dyspeptic husband went to the source of his woes?” Rand inquired.
“Well, not exactly. You see, Premix is only Little Business, as the foods industry goes, but they have something very sweet. So sweet, in fact, that one of the really big fellows, National Milling & Packaging, has been going to rather extreme lengths to effect a merger. Mill-Pack, par 100, is quoted at around 145, and Premix, par 50, is at 75 now, and Mill-Pack is offering a two-for-one-share exchange, which would be a little less than four-for-one in value. I might add, for what it’s worth, that this Stephen Gresham you mentioned is Mill-Pack’s attorney, negotiator, and general Mr. Fixit; he has been trying to put over this merger for Mill-Pack.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, too,” Rand said.
“Naturally, all this is not being shouted from the housetops,” Tipton continued. “Fact is, it’s a minor infraction of ethics for me to mention it to you.”
“I’ll file it in the burn-box,” Rand promised. “What was the matter; didn’t Premix want to merge?”
“Lane Fleming didn’t. And since he held fifty-two percent of the common stock himself, try and do anything about it.”
“Anything short of retiring Fleming to the graveyard, that is,” Rand amended. “That would do for a murder-motive, very nicely. … What were Fleming’s objections to the merger?”
“Mainly sentimental. Premix was his baby, or, at least, his kid brother. His father started mixing pancake flour back before the First World War, and Lane Fleming peddled it off a spring wagon. They worked up a nice little local trade, and finally a statewide wholesale business. They incorporated in the early twenties, and then, after the old man died, Lane Fleming hired an advertising agency to promote his products, and built up a
