papers.'
Simon didn't take his eyes off her, although it called for a little effort to hold them there. His first reaction was to feel outstandingly foolish, and he hid it behind a coldly unflinching mask. He hadn't held anything back in his statement--he had no reason to-- and so there was no reason why Kinglake shouldn't have been there before him. It was his own fault that he had made a slow start; but that was because he hadn't been receptive to a coincidence that was too pat to be plausible.
He couldn't tell whether her green eyes were laughing at him. He knew that he was laughing at himself, but in a way that had dark and unfunny undertones.
'Tovarich,' he said frankly, 'suppose we let our back hair down. Or are you too steeped in intrigue to play that way?'
'I could try, if I knew what you meant.'
'I'm not one of Kinglake's stooges--in fact, the reverse. I just happened to find Henry. He mumbled a few things to me before he died, and naturally I repeated what I could remember. But on account of my evil reputation, which you know about, I end up by qualifying as a potential suspect. So I'd have to be interested, even if I wasn't just curious. Now it's your move.'
Olga Ivanovitch eyed him for a long moment, studying his clean-cut devil-may-care face feature by feature.
She said at last: 'Are you very tired of being told that you're a frighteningly handsome man?'
'Very,' he said. 'And so how well did you know Henry?'
She sipped her drink, and made patterns with the wet print of her glass on the bar.
'Not well at all. I work here as a hostess. I met him here like I meet many people. Like I met you tonight. It was only for a few days. We had a lot of drinks and danced sometimes.'
'But he was coming to your house.'
'Other people come to my house,' she said, with a dispassionate directness that disclaimed innuendo and defied interrogation.
The Saint blew a careful smoke-ring to bridge another un- comfortable gap; but this time he bowed to a rare dignity that he had seldom met, and would never have looked for in the Blue Goose.
'Did Henry tell you anything about himself?'
'Nothing much that I can remember. Perhaps I didn't pay enough attention. But men tell you so many things. I think he said he'd been working in a defense plant somewhere--I think it was near St Louis.'
'Did he say anything about where he was going next, or what his plans were?'
'He said he was going to work in another plant in Mexico. He said he was waiting for a ship to Tampico or Vera Cruz.'
'What sort of people was he with?'
'All sorts of people. He drank a lot, and he was very generous. He was--what do you call it?--a Good Time Charlie.'
'He had plenty of moula?'
'Please?'
'Dough. Cabbage. The blue chips.'
'Yes, he seemed to have plenty of money. And he bought plent of drinks, so of course he made many friends.'
'Can you remember any particular guy with a name like Black?'
She wrinkled her brow.
'I don't think so.'
'Tall and thin, with sort of gray-blond hair cu,t very short.'
'How can I be sure?' she said helplessly. 'I see so many peo-
The Saint drew a long breath through his cigarette that was not audibly a sigh, but which did him as much good.
He was very humbly baffled. He knew that Olga Ivanovitch had told him almost as little as he had told her; he knew at the same time that she was holding back some of the things she knew, exactly as he was. He knew that she had probably told him precisely as much as she had told Kinglake. But there was nothing that he could do about it. And he guessed that there had been nothing that Kinglake had been able to do about it, either. She had a good straight story in its place, and you couldn't shake it. It was quite simple and plausible too, except for the omissions. The only thing a police officer could have done about it was to obscure the issue with some synthetic charges about morals and the illegality of the Blue Goose, which Kinglake probably wouldn't stoop to even if the political system would have let him.
And yet the Saint knew to his own satisfaction that Olga Ivanovitch was watching and measuring him just as he was watching and measuring her. And if he was tired of being told how fascinating he was, she was indubitably just as tired of hearing about her exotic harmonies of ivory skin and flaxen hair, and the undeniable allure that they connived at. He took stock of the plain pagan perfection of her lip modeling, and could have done without the illegitimate ideas it gave him.
'In that case,' he said, 'let's have some more colored water and go on seeing each other.'
The small hours of the morning were starting to grow up when he finally admitted that he was licked. By that time he must have bought several gallons of the beige fluid which was sold by the Blue Goose as Scotch, and it had made no more impression on Olga Ivanovitch than it had on himself. He decided that if the late Mr Matson had cut a wide swath there, he must have worked diligently over lubricating his mower before he went in. But Olga Ivanovitch had given out nothing more. Sh'e had been gay and she had been glowing, and with her poise and intelligence she had really been a lot of fun; but every time the Saint had tried to cast a line into the conversation she had met him with the same willing straightforward gaze and been so genuinely troubled because she could add nothing to what she had already told.
'So,' said the Saint, 'I'm going to get some sleep.'
They were back at the bar, after some time of sitting at a table through a floor show of special talent but questionable decorum. Simon called for his check, and decided that by that time he should own everything in the place except possibly the ceiling. But he paid it without argument, and added a liberal percentage.
'I'm going to check out too,' Olga said. 'Would you give me a lift?'
The square-faced bartender gave them his big quick skin-deep smile.
'Come again, folks,' he said, and made it sound almost like a pressing invitation.
'Goodnight, Joe,' said the Saint, and made it sound almost like a promise.
He took the girl out to a taxi that was providentially waiting outside. It was so providential that he was prepared to believe that some less altruistic agency had brought it there; but that detail didn't distress him. If the ungodly wanted to find out what they would have a chance to find out that night, it wouldn't be hard for them to find it out anyway. When he seriously wanted to exercise them, he would do a job on it.
After they had gone a short way, Olga Ivanovitch said very prosaically: 'You owe me ten dollars for the evening.'
In identically the same prosaic manner, he peeled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to her.
She put it away in her purse.
After a while she said: 'I don't know what you're trying to find in Galveston, Saint, but don't find anything you don't want.'
'Why should you care?' he inquired mildly.
He had his answer in something yielding and yearning that was suddenly all over him, holding his mouth with lips that fulfilled all the urgent indications that he had been doing his earnest best to ignore.
It was more or less like that until the cab stopped again on Seawall Boulevard.
'Won't you come in for a nightcap?' she said.
Her face was a white blur in the dark, framed in shadow and slashed with crimson.
'Thanks,' he said, 'but I have to think of my beauty. So do you.'
'You won't have to spend any more.'
'I'll see you again,' he said.
'Are you sure?'
'Quite sure.'
