It was a pretty shrewd reconstruction, as Simon recognised with respect; and it only left out one small thing.
'What about the bottle or container which held the gasoline?' he inquired.
'Maybe we'll find that in your car,' Yard retorted with heavy hostility. 'You were at this club in Chicago where the matches came from----'
'The dear old match folder clue,' said the Saint sadly. 'Detective Manual, chapter two, paragraph three;'
The deputy sheriff removed his eyes wistfully from the horizon, cleared his throat, and said weightily: 'It ain't so funny, pardner. . You're tied up closer 'n anybody with this business.'
'We'll check the newspaper and the match book for fingerprints,' Kinglake said shortly. 'But don't let's go off at half cock. Look.'
He reached into his own pocket and brought out three match folders. One carried the advertisement of a Galveston pool hall, one spoke glowingly of the virtues of Turns, and the other carried the imprint of the Florentine Gardens in Hollywood.
'See?' he commented. 'Where did I get this Florentine Gardens thing? I've never been to Hollywood. Advertising matches are shipped all around the country nowadays. This is as good a clue as saying that the other book proves I must have a bad stomach. Let's go back and get Templar's statement.'
'Just so I get to Galveston before I'm too old to care,' said the Saint agreeably.
But inwardly he took a new measure of the Lieutenant. King-lake might be a rough man in a hurry, but he didn't jump to conclusions. He would be tough to change once he had reached a conclusion, but he would have done plenty of work on that conclusion before he reached it.
So the Saint kept a tight rein on his more wicked impulses, and submitted patiently and politely to the tedious routine of making his statement while it was taken down in labored longhand by Detective Yard and Bill the deputy simultaneously. Then there were a few ordinary questions and answers on it to be added, and after a long dull time it was over.
'Okay, Bill,' Kinglake said at last, getting up as if he was no less glad than the Saint to be through with the ordeal. 'We'll keep in touch. Templar, I'll ride back to Galveston in your car, if you don't mind.'
'Fine,' said the Saint equably. 'You can show me the way.'
But he knew very well that there would be more to it than that; and his premonition was vindicated a few seconds after they got under way.
'Now,' Kinglake said, slouching down in the seat beside him and biting off the end of a villainous-looking stogie, 'we can have a private little chat on the way in.'
'Good,' said the Saint. 'Tell me about your museums and local monuments.'
'And I don't mean that,' Kinglake said.
Simon put a cigarette in his mouth and pressed the lighter on the dashboard and surrendered to the continuation of Fate.
'But I'm damned if I know,' he said, 'why the hell you should be so concerned. Brother Stephens wasn't cremated within the city limits.'
'There's bound to be a hook-up with something inside the city, and we work with the Sheriff and he works with us. I'm trying to save myself some time.'
'On the job of checking up on me?'
'Maybe.'
'Then why not let Yard worry about it? I'm sure he'd love to pin something on me.'
'Yeah,' Kinglake assented between puffs of smoke. 'He could get on your nerves at times, but don't let him fool you. He's a first-rate detective. Good enough for the work we do here.'
'I haven't the slightest doubt of it,' Simon assured him. 'But I've told you everything I know, and every word of it happens to be true. However, I don't expect that to stop you trying to prove I did it. So get started. This is your inspiration.'
Kinglake still didn't start fighting.
'I know that your story checks as far as it goes,' he said. 'I smelt the liquor on that dead guy's mouth, and I saw your coat. I'm not believing that you'd waste good whisky and ruin a good coat just to build up a story--yet. But I do want to know what your business is in Galveston.'
The Saint had expected this.
'I told you,' he replied blandly. 'I'm making this survey of American night life. Would you like to give me the lowdown on the standards of undress in your parish?'
'Want to play hard to handle, eh?'
'Not particularly. I just want to keep a few remnants of my private life.'
Kinglake bit down on his cigar and stared impartially at the Saint's tranquil profile.
After a little while he said: 'From what I remember reading, your private life is always turning into a public problem. So that's why I'm talking to you. As far as I know, you aren't wanted anywhere right now, and there aren't any charges out against you. I've also heard of a lot of officers here and there leading with their chins by thinking too fast as soon as they saw you. I'm not figuring on making myself another of 'em. Your story sounds straight so far, or it would if anybody else told it. It's too bad your reputation would make anybody look twice when you tell it. But okay. Until there's evidence against you, you're in the clear. So I'm just telling you. While you're in Galveston, you stay in line. I don't want your kind of trouble in my town.'
'And I hope you won't have it,' said the Saint soberly. 'And I can tell you for my part that there won't be any trouble that someone else doesn't ask for.'
There was a prolonged and unproductive reticence, during which Simon devoted himself wholeheartedly to digesting the scenic features of the approach over the channel of water known as West Bay which separates the island of Galveston from the mainland.
'The Oleander City,' he murmured dreamily, to relieve the awkward silence. 'The old stamping grounds of Jean Lafitte. A shrine that every conscientious freebooter ought to visit . . . Would you like me to give you a brief and somewhat garbled resume of the history of Galveston, Lieutenant?'
'No,' Kinglake said candidly. 'The current history of the town is enough to keep me busy. Turn at the next light.'
Simon drove him to Headquarters, and lighted another cigarette while the Lieutenant gathered his rather ungainly legs together and disembarked.
'The inquest will probably be tomorrow,' he said practically. 'Where are you staying?'
'The Alamo House.'
Kinglake gave him directions.
'Don't leave town till I'm through with you,' he said. 'And don't forget what I told you. That's all.'
He turned dourly away; and Simon Templar drove on to register faithfully and with no deception at the Alamo House.
The colored bellhop who showed him to his room was no more than naturally amazed at being tipped with a five-dollar bill for the toil of carrying one light suitcase. But the Saint had not finished with him then.
'George,' he said, 'I presume you are an expert crap shooter?'
'Yassah,' answered the startled negro, grinning. 'My name Po't Arthur Jones, sah.'
'Congratulations. I'm sure that Port Arthur is proud of you.' But the point is, you should be more or less familiar with the Galveston police force--know most of them by sight, I mean.'
'Well, sah, I--er--yassah.'
'Then I must tell you a secret. Lieutenant Kinglake and some of his pals are investigating me for membership in a private club that they have. I expect some of them to be nosing around to find out if I'm really respectable enough to associate with them. Don't misunderstand me. If they ask you any questions, you must always tell them the truth. Never lie to detectives, Po't Arthur, because it makes them so bad tempered. But just point them out to me quietly and tell me who they are, so I can say hullo to them when we meet. And every time you do that, I'll be good for another fin.'
The negro scratched his head, and then grinned again.
'Don't reckon they's no harm in that, Mistah Templah. That Mistah Kinglake sho' is a hard man. They ain't a single killin' he don't solve here in Galveston. He . . . Say!' The big brown eyes rolled. 'How come you know 'bout
