The Saint took out a cigarette and turned it between his fingers, correcting minute flaws in its roundness. His face wore no more reaction than a slight, thoughtful frown, but a prescient vacuum had suddenly created itself just below his ribs. It had always been obvious that Kearney hadn’t called him out of sheer civic hospitality. Now the showing of cards, led up to with almost Oriental obliquity, was starting to uncork a Sunday punch. But it was starting from such a fantastic direction that the Saint’s footwork felt stiff and stumbling.
He said, “Wait a minute, Lieutenant. You found this man in the house, you say?”
“Not me personally. But he was in a basement room there, yes.”
“Does the local patrolman’s beat include the inside of houses?”
Kearney said, “I get it. No, there was a phone call. An anonymous tip. The usual thing. We gave it a routine check-up, and there was this house with this guy in it.”
“No clues?” Simon said.
“Clues!” Kearney chewed the word. “Well — maybe one. We checked up to see who the house belongs to.”
He was staring at the Saint. Simon merely nodded and looked brightly interested.
Kearney said, “It belonged to an ex-con called Sammy the Leg, up to yesterday. Then a deed of gift was filed. Now it belongs to Mr Simon Templar.”
So that was it... The hollow space under the Saint’s wishbone filled up abruptly with fast-setting cement.