By ten o’clock the Saint’s profit for the day amounted to thirty dollars, twenty-seven cents, and a Los Angeles streetcar token, which he evaluated at six and a quarter cents. Since he expected to be searched, he carried no lethal weapon, not even the ivory-hilted throwing knife which in his hands was as fast and deadly as any gun. This trip would be an advanced reconnaissance, and nothing would have been more foolish than to count on turning it extemporaneously into a frontal assault.
At ten o’clock he carefully ignored the unobtrusive dark sedan that rolled silently to a stop at the curb a few feet away. The driver’s features were in shadow under a low-pulled hat, but the hands that lay on the steering wheel were not those of a King.
The nails, Simon decided, were too septic to belong to royalty, even a racket royalty. Besides, when did royalty ever drive its own cars, except such rare cases as ex-King Alfonso. And look what happened to him, the Saint told himself as he stared at nothing through his dark glasses and apparently did not see Frankie Weiss get out of the car and move towards him.
The blond man looked no more sunny and warm-hearted than he had before dinner. His shark’s mouth had presumably just grabbed for a tasty mackerel and got hold of an old boot instead. Working this organ slightly, Mr Weiss paused before the Saint and stared down.
Simon jingled his cup.
“Help a blind man, sir?”
“Lay off the act,” Frankie said. “You remember me.”
The Saint hesitated.
“Oh. Oh, yes. You’re the man who... I know your voice. But I’m blind—”
“Maybe,” Frankie said sceptically. “Let’s get going.”