He leaped down from the platform and hurried towards the nearest exit, but Kearney caught him before he had gone more than a few steps.
“Just a minute,” Kearney snarled. “What did you do to that guy?”
“I gave him a mild chiropractic treatment,” said the Saint wintrily. “I know it wasn’t as good as you could have done at headquarters, but I thought a rubber hose might have been rather conspicuous. He’ll wake up in about ten minutes and be as good as new.”
The detective kept hold of his arm.
“What’s the idea, anyway? And where do you think you’re going?”
“I think I’m going to search this hotel, without bothering about a warrant,” Simon answered in a flat voice. “Because my idea is that Monica Varing is being kept a prisoner here.”
“The actress? Are you crazy?”
“I don’t think so. In fact, just before Frankie passed out he told me she was upstairs.”
Those of the audience who had moved were crowding towards the stage to obstruct the efforts of the first eager beavers who had moved to offer Frankie Weiss first aid. The others cast glances at the Saint but did not try to get near him, being probably kept at a distance by the presence of Kearney as much as anything else, so that the two of them might almost have been alone in the crowded room. At least until Mrs Wingate bore down upon them, with Stephen Elliott bobbing like a towed dinghy in her wake.
“Whatever is the matter?” she squeaked frantically. “This is terrible—”