“Fantastic?” the Saint prompted.
“Not too much so, in my opinion,” Stephen Elliott answered him. “There certainly is some sort of criminal organisation victimising the poor in Chicago. I’m not blind, Mr Templar. But just how widespread is it?”
Simon shrugged.
Elliott’s distinguished equine face worked uncomfortably.
“I know,” he said at last. “It’s a pernicious racket, no matter how small. It should be stamped out. And you say you’re going after it?”
The Saint flipped a mental coin, and decided to hold his course.
“Yes. I haven’t been able to find out much yet. I wonder if you could help me?”
Elliott pursed his lips.
“I’m afraid they don’t talk to me. Not about that. It’s hard to break down the wall of reticence a socially unfortunate man has had to build up. I can inquire, if that will help.”
“You haven’t been interested enough so far to ask questions?” Monica put in.