“What makes you think I would?” Simon countered cautiously.
“Ever seen him before?” Kearney insisted.
The Saint said plaintively, “I very seldom meet people with bullet-holes in their foreheads. They’re so taciturn they bore me.”
Kearney closed his mouth and juggled his Adam’s apple. His cheeks darkened a trifle.
“You’re funny as a crutch,” he said. “I want a straight answer.”
Simon’s innocent blue gaze met Kearney’s squarely.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you. I can’t even tell you the man’s name. Who is he?”
“Dunno,” Kearney said. “Unidentified so far.”
“Oh. Did he have a note in his hand directing that his remains be sent to me?”
“Not quite,” Kearney said. “There was a sort of tie-up, though. We found him in a house just north of Wheaton. Ever been there?”