“What do you mean?”
“I wonder if working with Foreign Relations forbids you to understand your own language.”
“Oh! Got it! You want to know what his work is? He doesn’t do anything. Why should he work if he doesn’t need to?”
“You mean he has more money than brains?”
“Not all that much. I said he was smarter than he looked like.”
Bundle remained silent. This rich fellow didn’t seem to be a good ally. And nonetheless his name had been on the lips of the dying man. Suddenly Bill spoke again.
“Ronny always thought him really smart. Ronny Devereux, you know? Thesiger was his best friend.”
“Ronny …”
Bundle stopped, doubtful. Bill, evidently, ignored the other’s death. Then it occured to her for the first time how strange it was that the morning papers hadn’t commented the subject. There could be only one explanation: the police, for their own reasons, were keeping the case quiet.
“It’s been ages since I saw Ronny,” Bill went on. “Since that weekend at your house. You know, when poor Gerry Wade died.”
There was a pause.
“Unpleasant story, by the way. I suppose you heard about it. Listen, Bundle … still on the line?”
“Of course.”