bles worth killing himself over."

Gresham lowered his voice. "Jeff, I'm not supposed to talk about this,
but the fact is that I believe Fleming was about to lose control of the
Premix Company," he said. "I have, well, sources of inside information.
This is in confidence, so don't quote me, but certain influences were at
work, inside the company, toward that end." He inspected the tip of his
cigar and knocked off the ash into the tray at his elbow. "Lane Fleming's
death is on record as accidental, Jeff. It's been written off as such. It
would be a great deal better for all concerned if it were left at that."

CHAPTER 5

Rand drove slowly through Rosemont, the next day, refreshing his memory
of the place. It was one of the many commuters' villages strung out for
fifty miles along the railroad lines radiating from New Belfast, and
depended for its support upon a population scattered over a five-mile
radius at estates and country homes. Obviously a planned community, it
was dominated by a gray-walled, green-roofed railroad station which stood
on its passenger-platform like a captain in front of four platoons of
gray-walled, green-roofed houses and stores aligned along as many
converging roads. There was a post office, uniform with the rest of the
buildings; an excessive quantity of aluminum trimming dated it somewhere
in the middle Andrew W. Mellon period. There were four gas stations, a
movie theater, and a Woolworth store with a red front that made it look
like some painted hussy who had wandered into a Quaker Meeting.

Over the door of one of the smaller stores, Rand saw a black-lettered
white sign: _Antiques_. There was a smoke-gray Plymouth coupe parked in
front of it.

Instead of turning onto the road to the Fleming estate, he continued
along Route 19 for a mile or so beyond the village, until he came to a
red brick pseudo-Colonial house on the right. He pulled to the side of
the road and got out, turning up the collar of his trench coat. The air
was raw and damp, doubly unpleasant after the recent unseasonable warmth.
An apathetically persistent rain sogged the seedling-dotted old fields on
either side, and the pine-woods beyond, and a high ceiling of unbroken
dirty gray gave no promise of clearing. The mournful hoot of a distant
locomotive whistle was the only sound to pierce the silence. For a
moment, Rand stood with his back to the car, looking at the gallows-like
sign that proclaimed this to be the b