“My dear John Henry!” the Saint grinned. “That concerto you played on my doorbell was unmistakably a Fernack arrangement.” He waved him to a chair. “Sit down, won’t you? Let me pour you a drink — if Hoppy can spare it.”
“Sure,” said Mr Uniatz hospitably. “Just don’t take all of it.”
Inspector Fernack did not sit down. In fact, he looked more as if he might easily rise into the air, from the sheer pressure of the steam that seemed to be distending his chest.
For the same routine was going to be played out again, and he knew it, without being able to do anything to check or vary its course. It was all implicit in the Saint’s gay and friendly smile, and the bitterness of the premonition put a crack in his voice even while he ploughed doggedly onwards to his futile destiny.
“Never mind that!” he squawked. “What were you and this big baboon raising Cain about in the Masked Angel’s dressing-room tonight?”
“You mean last night, don’t you? It happens to be tomorrow morning at the moment.”
“I’m asking you,” Fernack repeated deliberately, “what were you doing—”
“It’s funny,” the Saint interjected, “all the places where a flying rumour will land.”
“It’s no rumour!” Inspector Fernack said trenchantly. “I was at the fight myself.” He removed the stogie from his mouth and took a step forward, his gimlet eyes challenging. “Why did you steal those gloves?”
The Saint’s brows lifted in polite surprise.