You'll make a
little less than four-for-one on it."
"I'd had that in mind when I asked you about the merger," Rand said. "I
have about two thousand with you, haven't I?" He did a moment's mental
arithmetic, then got out his checkbook. "Pick me up about a hundred
shares," he told the broker. "I've been meaning to get in on this ever
since I heard about it."
"I don't see how you did hear about it," Cabot said. "For obvious
reasons, it's being kept pretty well under the hat."
Rand grinned. "Quote, usually well-informed sources, unquote. Not the
sources mentioned above."
"Jeff, you know, this damned thing's worrying me," Cabot told him,
writing a receipt and exchanging it for Rand's check. "I've been trying
to ignore it, but I simply can't. Do you really think Lane Fleming was
murdered by somebody who wanted to see this merger consummated and who
knew that that was an impossibility as long as Fleming was alive?"
"Philip, I don't know. And furthermore, I don't give a damn," Rand lied.
"If somebody wants me to look into it, and pays me my possibly
exaggerated idea of what constitutes fair compensation, I will. And I'll
probably come up with Fleming's murderer, dead or alive. But until then,
it is simply no epidermis off my scrotum.
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