"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.
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