“Just what have you been hearing?” he asked.
“Things from people. People around town. Not in your social circle, of course.” Kearney’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Bums, poolroom touts, beggars.”
“Beggars?”
“We ran Friend’s picture in the paper today,” Kearney said. “The photographer retouched it a little — that hole in his head, you know. And some people came in to look at him. They recognised him. He’s a grifter, or I mean he was, and quite a few people have seen him around Chicago the last month or so. Some of them saw you, too. Some of them even saw you both together.”
“Those chatter-boxes knew me by name, of course?”
“Listen,” Kearney said, “don’t kid yourself. The Saint’s picture has been in the papers too, a lot of times. What was it you were seeing Friend about lately.”
“I can’t tell you,” Simon said.
“You won’t?”
“I can’t. I’m too shy.”
“God damn it,” Kearney roared. “Maybe you can tell me why the autopsy on Friend showed he’d been shot full of scopolamine, then!”