“Oh, yes,” she said. It seemed to be her favorite expression, though the way she said it didn’t express anything.
Putting the photos of Dahl and Weel in my pocket, I got a taxi and set out for Westwood Park. Using Fatima-smoke on my brains while I rode, I concocted a wonderful series of lies to be told my client’s wife—a series that I thought would get me the information I wanted.
A hundred and fifty yards or so up the drive from the house I saw Dick Foley’s car standing.
A thin, pasty-faced maid opened the Gungens’ door and took me into a sitting room on the second floor, where Mrs. Gungen put down a copy of The Sun Also Rises and waved a cigarette at a nearby chair. She was very much the expensive doll this afternoon in a Persian orange dress, sitting with one foot tucked under her in a brocaded chair.
Looking at her while I lighted a cigarette, remembering my first interview with her and her husband, and my second one with him, I decided to chuck the tale-of-woe I had spent my ride building.
“You’ve a maid—Rose Rubury,” I began. “I don’t want her to hear what’s said.”
She said, “Very well,” without the least sign of surprise, added, “Excuse me a moment,” and left her chair and the room.
Presently she was back, sitting down with both feet tucked under her now.
“She will be away for at least half an hour.”
“That will be long enough. This Rose is friendly with an ex-convict named Weel.”