'You'll remember the address?'
'Yes.'
He took the taxi back to the Alamo House, and found Detective Yard snoring in a leather armchair in the lobby. It grieved him sincerely to have to interrupt such a blissful orchestration; but these were circumstances in which he felt that noblesse obliged.
'Good evening, Brother Yard,' he murmured. 'Or, if you want to be literal, good morning. And don't tell me your first name is Scotland, because that would be more than I could bear at this moment. ... I trust you have enjoyed your siesta.'
The field representative of the Kinglake Escort Service had a chance to gather his wits together during the speech. He glared at the Saint with the overcooked malignance which was only to have been expected of a man who had been rudely awakened with such a greeting.
'What's your name, anyhow?' he growled indignantly. 'Giving your name as Sebastian Tombs at the Ascot! Telling Baker your name was Sullivan Titwillow! Telling that taxi driver you was Sugarman Treacle!'
'Oh, you tracked him down, did you?' said the Saint interestedly. 'So by this time you know that I've been to the Blue Goose. Wait till you check back there and find that I've been masquerading all evening as Shirley Temple.'
'What,' demanded the detective cholerically, 'is the idea of all these names?'
Simon shook a disappointed head at him.
'Tut, Mr Yard. In fact, a trio of tuts. How can a man with . name like yours ask such kindergarten questions? Don't all suspicious characters use aliases? Isn't it an inviolable rule on page thirtysix of the Detective Manual that a fugitive may change his name but will always stick to his proper initials? I was merely following the regulations to make things easy for you. I could just as well have told any of these people that my name was Montgomery Balmworth Wobblehouse, and loused the hell out of things. The trouble is, you don't appreciate me.'
Detective Yard explained in a few vivid phrases just how much he appreciated Simon Templar.
'Thank you,' said the Saint gratefully. 'And now if you'd like to rest for a while, you can go back to sleep. Or go home to your wife, if she's attractive enough. I promise you that I'm going to bed now and stay there for several hours. And if it'll help you at all, I'll phone you before I go out again.'
He stepped into the elevator and departed towards his floor with the depressing conviction that he had added one more notch to his record of failing to Win Friends and Influence Policemen. More practically, he knew that his visit to the Blue Goose was now certain to be misinterpreted.
He consulted the mirror in the elevator about wiping lipstick off his mouth, and hoped that Detective Yard had had as much fun out of noting it as he himself had had out of acquiring it.
4 In spite of the lateness of his bedtime, the Saint was up reasonably early the next morning. He was expecting to be officially annoyed before noon, and he preferred to get some breakfast under his belt first.
Port Arthur Jones met him as he stepped out of the elevator.
'Mawnin', Mistah Templah, sah. Ah been waitin' for you. One of them gennelmen you was askin' about is sittin' in the co'nah of the lobby.'
'I know,' said the Saint. 'His name is Yard. He's worried about me.'
The bellboy's grin shrank in from between his ears so abruptly that Simon was sorry for him.
He said: 'Never mind, Po't Arthur. Here's five dollars anyway. Keep up the counter-espionage.'
The negro beamed again.
'Yassah, thank you, sah. And there was somethin' else----'
'What?'
'Another gennelman was nosin' around this mawnin', askin' questions about you. He didn't give no name, and Ah never saw him befo'.'
'Was he tall and thin, with gray-blond hair cut very short?'
'Nawsah. He was kinda short and fat, and he had a red face and red hair and pale gray eyes. Ah dunno nothin' 'bout him, but he wasn't no Galveston policeman.'
'Po't Arthur,' said the Saint, 'you have exceeded my fondest hopes. Here is another V for Victory. Carry on.'
He went into the coffee shop and ordered tomato juice and ham and eggs. His mind revolved ineffectually while he fortified himself with them.
The late Mr Matson had considerately bequeathed him three names, besides Olga Ivanovitch. Blatt, Weinbach, Maris. Blatt, who sounded like Black, was probably the tall thin gray-blond one who had been seen at the Ascot. The guy with the red face and red hair was one of the other two. So there was still one without any kind of identification. But even that made very little difference. There was no other detail in their pictures--no links, no attachments, no place to begin looking for them. Unless it was the Blue Goose. But unless they were very stupid or very well covered, they wouldn't be going back there.
He certainly had something on his hands, and all he could do was to wait for something to lead at him.
It did, while he was smoking a cigarette and stretching out his coffee. It looked just like Detective Yard, in a different suit that needed pressing just as badly as the last one.
'If you've finished,' Yard said heavily, standing over him, 'Lieutenant Kinglake would like to see you at Headquarters.'
'That's fine,' said the Saint. 'I was only waiting for you to issue the invitation, so I could get a ride in a police car or make you pay for the taxi.'
They traveled together in an uncongenial aloofness which the Saint's efforts at light badinage did nothing to alleviate.
The atmosphere at Headquarters was very similar; but the Saint continued to hand it to Kinglake for a restraint which he hadn't anticipated from a man with that air of nervous impatience. The Lieutenant looked just as tough and irascible, but he didn't rant and roar.
He let the official authority behind him make the noise for him, and said with impeccable control: 'I hear you were getting around quite a bit last night.'
'I tried to,' said the Saint amiably. 'After all, you remember that survey I told you about. If the Blue Goose meant things to you, you should have tipped me off. You could have saved me a lot of dollars and a slight hangover.'
'I didn't think it was any of your business,' Kinglake said. 'And I still want to know why it was.'
'Just curiosity,' said the Saint. 'In spite of anything you may have read, it isn't every day that I pick up a lump of talking charcoal on the highway. So when it says things to me, I can't just forget them.'
'And you didn't forget Ivanovitch, either.'
'Of course not. She was mentioned too. I'm sure I told you.'
'According to Yard, you came home last night with lipstick on you.'
'Some people are born gossips. But I think he's just jealous.'
Lieutenant Kinglake picked up a pencil from his desk and fondled it as if the idea of breaking it in half intrigued him. Perhaps as an act of symbolism. But he still didn't raise his voice.
'I'm told,' he said, 'that you asked a lot of questions about this Henry Stephens--only you knew that his name was Matson. And you were asking about him all over town under that name. Now you can explain that to me, or you can take your chance as a material witness.'
Simon rounded a cigarette with his forefingers and thumbs.
'You want to ask me questions. Do you mind if I ask a couple? For my own satisfaction. Being as I'm so curious.'
Kinglake's chilled gimlet eyes took another exploratory twist into him.
'What are they?'
'What did Quantry get out of his autopsy?'
'No traces of poison or violence--nothing that came through the fire, anyway. The guy burned to death.'
'What about the newspaper and the matches?'
'Just a piece of a local paper, which anybody could have bought or picked up. No fingerprints.'
'And where did you get the idea that I was a salesman?'
'I didn't give out anything about you. If some reporter got that idea, he got it. I'm not paid to be your press agent.' Kinglake was at the full extension of his precarious control. 'Now you answer my question before we go any
