'Well quit thinking.'
'I might,' said the Saint, 'but I don't know whether the police will. After all, you were heard to threaten him.'
'To hell with the police.'
'Hasn't Condor talked to you yet?'
'Who?'
'Lieutenant Condor-the guy who's in charge of the case.'
'Christ, no! Why should he? Annew know something? You know what I'd do if any cop came near me?'
'What would you do?'
'I'd poke him right in the eye!'
'Let's have another drink,' said the Saint.
Flane picked up his drink when it came and focused on it with intense deliberation. He held it rather like a binnacle holds a ship's compass, rocking under and around it but holding it in miraculously isolated suspension.
'That son of a bitch,' he said. 'I coulda fixed him.'
'How?'
'I coulda put him right in the can.'
'What for?'
'For quail!'
Simon lighted a cigarette as if it were fragile. It was curious how coincidences always had to be repeated, and when your luck was coming in you just had to let it alone.
'You mean Trilby Andrews,' he said calmly.
'Yeah. She was under age. He ditched her an' she took a sleep.'
'That's just gossip.'
'That's what you think. But I coulda proved it.'
'Only you didn't,' Simon said carefully, 'because he had something even better on you.'
He had a picture already of the methods and associations of the late Mr. Ufferlitz which made that kind of shot in the dark look almost as good as the chance of hitting a wall from inside a room, but he was not quite prepared for the response that he got this time.
Flane put down an empty glass and turned and took hold of him by the lapels of his coat. The alcoholic slackness was crushed down in his face as if with a great effort of will, and his eyes were cold even through the obvious bleariness of his vision. For the first time since Simon had set eyes on him he really looked as if he could have been tough. He didn't raise his voice.
'Who told you that?' he said.
Simon had played this kind of poker all his life. Now he had to be good. He didn't move. The bartender was down at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses while he looked over a magazine, and he didn't seem to have been paying any atнtention for some time.
The Saint met Flane's straining gaze with utter confidence. He dropped his own voice even lower, and said: 'Ufferlitz's attorney.'
'What did he know?'
'Everything.'
'Keep talking.'
'You see, Ufferlitz didn't trust you. And he wasn't dumb. He took precautions. He left a letter to be opened if anything happened to him. He had quite a story about your early life.'
'In New Orleans?'
'Yes.'
Flane fought against the compulsion of his clouded inнstincts. Simon could see him doing it, and see him losing his way in the struggle.
'About the girl who got knocked off-who was a witness-'
'Yes,' said the Saint, with absolute intuitive certainty now. 'When you were a talent scout for a rather less glamorous business.'
Flane steadied himself against Simon's lapels.
'How many other people did he tell?'
'Quite a lot. More than you could take care of now . . . You're all washed up, brother. If Condor hasn't found you yet, you'd better get ready for him. You're going to make the best headlines of your career.'
'Yeah?... My pal!'
'Not your pal,' said the Saint, 'since you tried to hang the rap on me by sending me that note.'
Flane blinked at him.
'What note?'
'The note you sent to put me on the spot.'
'I didn't send you any note.'
'Your memory needs a lot of reminding, doesn't it? But you're not helping yourself a bit. You had it all--'
The Saint's voice loosened off uncertainly. It wasn't from anything that Flane had said or done. It was from something that came up within himself: a recollection, an idea- two ideas-something that was trying to form itself in his mind against the train of his thought, that suddenly softened his own assurance and his attention at the same time.
At that instant Flane pushed lurchingly against him, and the bar stool started to topple. Off balance, the Saint made a wild attempt to get at least one foot on the ground and get a foundation from which he could hit. It was too much of a conнtortion even for him. Flane's fist smashed against his jaw- not shatteringly, but hard enough to put new acceleration into his fall. As he went down, the next stool hit him on the back of the head, and then for an uncertain interval there was nothing but a thunderous blackness through which large engines drove round and round ...
8
HE WOKE UP in a surprising lucidity, as if he had only dozed for a moment-except for a throbbing ache that swelled up in waves from the base of his brain. He woke up so clearly that he could lay still for a moment and take full advantage of the wet towel that the bartender was swabbing over his face.
'Thanks,' he said. 'Do I look as stupid as I feel?'
'You're okay,' said the bartender, and added without inнtention: 'How d'ya feel?'
'Fine.'
The Saint stood up. For a second he thought his head was going to fall off; then it righted itself.
'What happened?' asked the bartender.
'I slipped.'
'He gets ugly sometimes, when he's been drinking.'
'So do a lot of guys. Where did he go?'
'Out. He scrammed outa here like a bat outa hell. Maybe he was scared what you'd do to him when you got up.'
'Maybe,' said the Saint, appreciating the sympathy. 'How long a start has he got?'
'Long enough. Now look, take it easy. Better have a drink and cool off. On the house.'
'Anyway that's an idea,' said the Saint.
He had a drink, which might or might not have helped the pain in his head to subside a little, and then went back across the boulevard and interviewed the studio gatekeeper.
'Lieutenant Condor? No, sir. He left right after you did. He didn't say where he was going.'
Simon picked up the desk phone and dialled Peggy Warden.
'So you're still there,' he said. 'Didn't they fire you too?'
'I expect I'll be here till the end of the week, clearing some things up for Mr. Braunberg.'
'That's good.'
'You left in an awful hurry.'
'My feet started travelling. I had to run to catch up with them.'
'You've got to give me an address where we can send your check.'
'I'll be seeing you before that.'
