“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 per cent 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 state-wide 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 national distribution, and took on some sidelines.  Then, during the late Mr. Chamberlain’s ‘Peace in our time,’ he picked up a refugee Czech chemist and foods-expert named Anton Varcek, who whipped up a lot of new products.  So business got better and better, and they made more money to spend on advertising to get more money to buy more advertising to make more money, like Bill Nye’s Puritans digging clams in the winter to get strength to hoe corn in the summer to get strength to dig clams in the winter.