“Well, buddy, it’s this way. Jed Ringold was working for the Foreclosed Farms Underwriters Company, see? And that company has a bunch of land up here near Valleydale. Now the president of the Foreclosed Farms Underwriters Company — Cripes, it tangles my tongue to say the damn thing. What did they want to get a name like that for? Well, anyway, the president is a guy named Tindle, and you’ve been out living with him and taking orders from him.”
I said, “You’re nuts. I’ve been visiting out at Ashbury’s house. Tindle is Henry Ashbury’s stepson.”
“You ain’t been workin’ for him?”
“Hell, no. I’ve been taking some fat off Ashbury. I’m giving him jujitsu lessons.”
“That’s what you say. Tindle’s got interests up here. Ringold is working for Tindle. Somebody goes into the hotel and bumps Ringold off. This guy has a description that’s a helluva lot like yours, and—”
I moved forward to stare at him. “Is that what’s eating you?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“All right, when I get back, I’ll go call the cops and tell them how crazy they are. There were a couple of people who saw the guy that went into the hotel, weren’t there? — Seems to me, I remember reading about it in the papers.”
“That’s right, buddy.”
“All right, I’ll be back in a couple of days, and we’ll clean it up.”