“So Premix became a sort of symbol of achievement to Fleming.  Then, he was one of these old-model paternalistic employers, and he was afraid that if he relinquished control, a lot of his old retainers would be turned out to grass.  And finally, he was opposed in principle to concentration of business ownership.  He claimed it made business more vulnerable to government control and eventual socialization.”

“I’m not sure he didn’t have something there,” Rand considered.  “We get all our corporate eggs in a few baskets, and they’re that much easier for the planned-economy boys to grab....  Just who, on the Premix side, was in favor of this merger?”

“Just about everybody but Fleming,” Tipton replied.  “His two sons-in-law, Fred Dunmore and Varcek, who are first and second vice presidents.  Humphrey Goode, the company attorney, who doubles as board chairman.  All the directors.  All the New York banking crowd who are interested in Premix.  And all the two-share tinymites.  I don’t know who inherits Fleming’s voting interest, but I can find out for you by this time tomorrow.”

“Do that, Tip, and bill me for what you think finding out is worth,” Rand said.  “It’ll be a novel reversal of order for you to be billing me for an investigation....  Now, how about the family, as distinct from the company?”

“Well, there’s your client, Gladys Fleming.  She married Lane Fleming about ten years ago, when she was twenty-five and he was fifty-five.  In spite of the age difference, I understand it was a fairly happy marriage.  Then, there are two daughters by a previous marriage, Nelda Dunmore and Geraldine Varcek, and their respective husbands.  They all live together, in a big house at Rosemont.  In the company, Dunmore is Sales, and Varcek is Production.  They each have a corner of the mantle of Lane Fleming in one hand and a dirk in the other.  Nelda and Geraldine hate each other like Greeks and Trojans.  Nelda is the nymphomaniac sister, and Geraldine is the dipsomaniac.  From time to time, temporary alliances get formed, mainly against Gladys; all of them resent the way she married herself into a third-interest in the estate.  You’re going to have yourself a nice, pleasant little stay in the country.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”  Rand grimaced.  “You mentioned suicide rumors.  Such as, and who’s been spreading them?”

“Oh, they are the usual bodyless voices that float about,” Tipton told him.  “Emanating, I suspect, from sources interested in shaking out the less sophisticated small shareholders before the merger.  The story is always approximately the same:  That Lane Fleming saw his company drifting reefward, was unwilling to survive the shipwreck, and performed seppuku.  The family are supposed to have faked up the accident afterward.  I dismiss the whole thing as a rather less than subtle bit of market-manipulation chicanery.”

“Or a smoke screen, to cover the defects in camouflaging a murder as an accident,” Rand added.