“No, boss.” Mr Uniatz’s voice, which had never been distinguished by any flutelike purity of tone, had a perturbed croak in it which registered on the Saint’s sensitive ear just a second before he blurted out its cause and explanation. “I got a cop here, boss. I dunno what goes on, but he wants to talk to ya. Only he ain’t got no warrant.”
“No warrant is required for that,” Simon said. “If he longs to hear my dulcet tones, we can accommodate him. Put him on. It’s all right, Hoppy.”
“I hope so,” Mr Uniatz muttered dubiously.
Then a cool, deep-pitched voice sounded in the Saint’s ear.
“Mr Templar?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Lieutenant Alvin Kearney. I’d like to see you about a matter.”
Simon drew a slow, careful breath.
“Are you selling subscriptions to the police fund?” he inquired genially. “If so, you can count on me. This business of taking out old policemen and shooting them has always struck me as unnecessarily cruel.”
“What?” Kearney said. “Look, Mr Templar. I want to see you.”