“Foreclosed Farms Underwriters Company.”
“What kind of a company is it?”
“For any detailed information,” Tindle said, and it sounded to me as though it was something he’d memorized, “I must ask you to get in touch with our legal department, C. Layton Crumweather, with offices in the Fidelity Building.”
“Well, why can’t you answer the question?”
“Because there are certain legal matters involved, and in my status as an officer of the corporation I might bind the corporation in some pending litigation.” His voice got more friendly and he said, “If you can tell me what you want, I can give you more information, but the lawyer has cautioned me not to speak out of turn because anything I say would be binding on the company, and there are a lot of legal technicalities that—”
“Forget it,” the cop told him. “Ringold was murdered. Do you know anything about that?”
“Murdered!”
“That’s right.”
“Good heavens, who killed him?”
“We don’t know.”