It was nightmarish, absurd, impossible; it was something that not only shouldn’t but happily couldn’t happen to a dog. He could only theoretically sympathise with the emotions of this hypothetical hound upon watching some rival pooch dig up a treasured bone miles away from its established burial-ground — and upon discerning that the bone had also been booby-trapped in transit.
Somehow he managed to strike a match and set it to his cigarette without a quiver.
“Somebody should have told me,” he murmured. “I always wanted to be a real-estate tycoon.”
“You didn’t know about it, huh?” Kearney said. “I kind of thought you didn’t. You ever meet Sammy the Leg?”
The Saint shook his head.
“Of course not. I didn’t sign any deed of gift either.”
“Uh-huh. We’re checking. We got plenty of records on Sammy.” Kearney produced a pad and pen. “Mind signing this? I want to compare a few signatures.”
Simon obligingly scribbled his name.
“If you’d show the deed to me, I could tell you right away if it was a forgery. In fact, I can tell you that now.”
“Can’t take your word for it,” Kearney said flatly. “I admit it looks like a frame, and a lousy one. On the other hand, we’ve got to be sure. You got a certain reputation, Saint.”