“Oh, that’s what’s always heard, under the circumstances,” Rand shrugged.  “A certain type of sensation-loving mind...”

“Mr. Rand, there is not one scintilla of truth in any of these scurrilous stories!” Goode declared, pumping up a fine show of indignation.  “The Premix Company is in the best possible financial condition; a glance at its books, or at its last financial statement, would show that.  I ought to know, I’m chairman of the board of directors.  Just because there was some talk of retrenchment, shortly before Mr. Fleming’s death ...”

“Oh, no responsible person pays any attention to that sort of talk,” Rand comforted him.  “My armed-guard and armored-car service brings me into contact with a lot of the local financial crowd.  None of them is taking these rumors seriously.”

“Well, of course, nobody wants the responsibility of starting a panic, even a minor one, but people are talking, and it’s hurting Premix on the market,” Goode gloomed.  “And now, people will hear of Mrs. Fleming’s having retained you, and will assume, just as I did at first, that you are making some kind of an investigation.  I hope you will make a prompt denial, if you hear any talk like that.”  He pressed a button on his desk.  “And now, I’ll get a letter of authorization made out for you, Mr. Rand ...”

CHAPTER 4

Stephen Gresham was in his early sixties, but he could have still worn his World War I uniform without anything giving at the seams, and buckled the old Sam Browne at the same hole.  As Rand entered, he rose from behind his desk and advanced, smiling cordially.

“Why, hello, Jeff!” he greeted the detective, grasping his hand heartily.  “You haven’t been around for months.  What have you been doing, and why don’t you come out to Rosemont to see us?  Dot and Irene were wondering what had become of you.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting too many of my old friends lately,” Rand admitted, sitting down and getting his pipe out.  “Been busy as the devil.  Fact is, it was business that finally brought me around here.  I understand that you and some others are forming a pool to buy the Lane Fleming collection.”

“Yes!” Gresham became enthusiastic.  “Want in on it?  I’m sure the others would be glad to have you in with us.  We’re going to need all the money we can scrape together, with this damned Rivers bidding against us.”

“I’m afraid you will, at that, Stephen,” Rand told him.  “And not necessarily on account of Rivers.  You see, the Fleming estate has just employed me to expertize the collection and handle the sale for them.”  Rand got his pipe lit and drawing properly.  “I hate doing this to you, but you know how it is.”

“Oh, of course.  I should have known they’d get somebody like you in to sell the collection for them.  Humphrey Goode isn’t competent to handle that.  What we were all afraid of was a public auction at some sales-gallery.”