“Listen, Mr Templar,” Lieutenant Kearney said. “You’re not figuring on leaving town, are you?”
“My plans are nearly completed,” Simon informed him. “At the stroke of midnight a small blimp, camouflaged as a certain well-known Congressman, will drop a flexible steel ladder to the roof of this hotel. I shall mount it like a squirrel and flee southward, while the sun sinks behind beautiful Lake Michigan. It all depends on the sun,” he added reflectively. “If I can only induce it to put off sinking until midnight, and do it in the east for a change, the plan will go without a hitch.”
“Listen—” Kearney said, and sighed. “Oh, well. So you know the Commissioner. So I’ve got to give you a break. Just the same—” His tone changed. “I’ve been getting some information around Chicago.”
“Fine,” Simon approved. “If you run across a good floating crap game, by all means tell me. I need a stake before I make my getaway.”
Kearney went on doggedly, “This stiff we got in the morgue — we found out who he was. His name’s Cleve Friend. He’s a grifter from Frisco.”
“You ought to make a song out of that,” Simon told him.
“Yeah. Well, anyhow, what was the idea saying you didn’t know him?”
“Did I say that?” Simon asked blandly.
“You implied it,” Kearney snapped. “And that don’t check with what I’ve been hearing.”
Simon paused.