'Yassah,' he said, beaming. 'Ah don't wanna start no trouble. Ah'll just forget it if that's what you say, sah.'
Simon watched him stow away the green consolation and close the door contentedly after him.
Then he poured himself the highball which he had come home for in the first place. He was glad that at least his guests hadn't been searching for something that might have been soluble in alcohol.
He was just getting acquainted with the drink when his telephone rang.
'I've taken care of your friend,' said the Times-Tribune. 'He should be back at the Campeche in just a little while. One of the boys is taking care of him.'
'Good,' said the Saint. 'I'll be over there in just a little while too.'
'I was able to fix it with the hotel and get to the judge,' persisted the voice, rather mournfully. 'At this time of night, that's not so easy.'
'Congratulations,' said the Saint. 'You must be persona very grata.'
There was a brief hiatus where the city editor silenced as if he was digging out a new lead.
'I liked the way you talked to that man Vaschetti,' he excavated at length, 'and I think I ought to talk to you the same way. I'll hold everything while you bring in your story; but I have to live here too. So whatever you bring in, I'll have to turn over to the police and the FBI.'
'I'll give you a personal commendation for your fine public spirit,' said the Saint.
He could see the pear-shaped figure with its feet on the desk and the battered hat tilted over the eyes that were the only sparkle in the dried poker face, as if it were sitting directly in front of him.
'You've said things that sounded as if you had a hell of a lot of inside dope on this case,' said the city editor finally. 'What are you doing in Galveston anyway, and why don't you give me the whole story and earn yourself some real dough?'
'I'll think about it,' said the Saint, 'after I've talked to Vaschetti again.'
He dropped the phone, and tried to resume relations with his highball.
He had absorbed one good solid sip when the bell rang again.
This time it was Washington.
'Hamilton,' said the line. 'I hope this is an awkward moment.'
Simon grinned for his own benefit, and said: 'No.'
'This is all I've got so far on those names. During Prohibition, there were two trigger men in Milwaukee named Johan Blatt and Fritzie Weinbach. They usually worked together. Racketeers. One or two charges--assault, carrying concealed weapons, and so on. Associated with un-American activities in Chicago just before the War. I can read you their full records, but they just sound like a couple of mercenary hoodlums.'
'Don't bother,' said the Saint. 'What about Maris?'
'Nothing yet. A name doesn't mean anything. Hasn't anyone even seen the color of his eyes?'
'Nobody ever sees Maris,' said the Saint. 'They don't notice anything about him at all. But I'll find him before you do. I'm still working. Have some more black coffee and wait up for me.'
He pronged the transceiver again, and reached for his glass once more with indomitable determination.
Maris--the man nobody saw. The man who might be much more than the mere trick answer to a riddle that had been posed by the premature cremation of Henry Stephen Matson. The man who might materialise into one of those almost legendary spear-carriers who were primarily responsible for Simon Templar's excursions as a talent scout even to such outposts as Galveston. The man who might be more concerned than anyone about the contents of the ostrich-skin leather case which had consumed Matson's dying breath.
Or about the lists or memory of Nick Vaschetti, a glorified errand-boy with a bad case of fright or fluctuating conscience.
He crumpled out the stub of his cigarette and went downstairs.
Port Arthur Jones, shining like refurbished ebony, intercepted him as he left the elevator.
'Mistah Templah, sah, that Detective Yard just gone home. Another detective took over for him. His name's Mistah Calla-han. He's sittin' half behind the second palm across the lobby. A stout gennelrnan with a bald head in a gray suit----'
Simon slipped another Lincoln label into the bellboy's pink palm.
'If you keep on like this, Po't Arthur,' he said, 'you're going to end up a capitalist whether you want to or not.'
It was a well indicated move which should have been taken before, to replace the too familiar Mr Yard with somebody else whom the Saint might not recognize. Simon's only surprise was that it hadn't happened sooner. But presumably the whimsical antics of the Selective Service System had not excluded the Galveston Police Department from the scope of their ruthless raids upon personnel.
That wasn't the Saint's business. But for the most immediate future, at least until he had consummated the Vaschetti diversion, Simon Templar preferred to get along without the politically complicated protection of the Galveston gendarmerie.
Wherefore he shelved Mr Callahan by the rather kindergarten expedient of climbing very deliberately into his parked car, switching on the lights, fiddling with the starter, and then just as leisurely stepping out of the other door, boarding a passing cab, and going away in it while Mr Callahan was still glued to the bridge of his municipal sampan and waiting for the Saint's wagon to weigh anchor so that he could pursue it.
'Which was an entirely elementary technique, but didn't even begin to tackle the major problem of the Law in Galveston.
What Simon wanted more than anything at that moment was Mr Vaschetti's autographed statement, and the list of names and addresses which he had promised. Those things, as weapons, would be worth even more to him than the gun that still bulked under his left arm, or the knife which he could feel with every swing of his right leg.
The Campeche Hotel was down on Water Street, and it appeared to be a very popular bivouac, for there was such a large crowd of citizens clustered around the entrance that they obstructed the traffic, and the Saint left his taxi a few doors away and walked into the throng. As he edged his way through them he was conscious of the crunching of broken glass under his feet; but he didn't think much about it until he noticed some of the crowd glancing upwards, and he glanced upwards with them and saw the jagged gaping hole in the shattered marquee overhead. Then with the advantage of his height he looked over a few heads and shoulders and saw the thing that was the nucleus of the assembly. A rather shapeless lump of something in the center of a clear circle of blood- spattered sidewalk, with one foot sticking out from under a blanket that covered its grosser deformations.
Even then, he knew; but he had to ask.
'What gives?' he said to the nearest bystander.
'Guy just got discouraged,' was the laconic answer. 'Walked outa his window on the eighth floor. I didn't see him jump, but I saw him light. He came through that marquee like a bomb.'
Simon didn't even feel curious about getting the blanket moved for a glimpse of anything identifiable that might have been left as a face. He observed the uniformed patrolman standing rather smug guard over the remains, and said quite coldly: 'How long ago did this happen?'
'Only about five minutes ago. They're still waitin' for the ambulance. I was just goin' by on the other side of the street, and I happened to look around----'
The Saint didn't weary his ears with the rest of the anecdote. He was too busy consuming the fact that one more character in that particular episode had elected to go voyaging into the Great Beyond in the middle of another of those unfinished revelations which only the most corny of scenario cookers would have tolerated for a moment. Either he had to take a very dim view of the writing talent in the books of Destiny, or else it would begin to seem that the abrupt transmigration of Nick Vaschetti was just another cog in a divine conspiracy to make life tantalising for Simon Templar.
9 The links went clicking through Simon's brain as if they were meshing over the teeth of a perfectly fitted sprocket.
The ungodly had ransacked his room at the Alamo House while they knew he would be out of the way, and had drawn a blank. But they would have had plenty of time to pick him up again, and it would have been childishly simple for them to do it, because they knew he was with Olga Ivanovitch, and the place where she was going to steer him for dinner had been decided in advance. The Saint had been alert for the kind of ambuscade that would have been orchestrated with explosions and flying lead, but not for ordinary trailing, because why should the
