“It’ll be a pleasure, Mr Elliott.”
“In spite of the comb?” Simon persisted.
“We have quite a number of lady guests,” Elliott said stiffly. “If that is any grounds for this kind of behaviour—”
“It isn’t,” Kearney said. “And I’m going to enjoy booking the Saint on charges of disturbing the peace, just to keep him quiet for a while.” He prodded Simon again with his gun. “Come along, you.”
“I loved your show,” Mrs Wingate trilled, apparently feeling that some expression was due from her. “You must do it for us again one day.”
Simon and Kearney went downstairs, passing a barrage of eyes that had seeped up from the basement.
“By the way,” Simon said, “Frankie is wearing a gun.”
“He has a permit,” Kearney said. “I know the judge who issued it. Keep going.”
They went out to the sidewalk, and there was a brief but awkward pause while the total cablessness of the street established itself.
“Why don’t we take my car?” suggested the Saint accommodatingly. “It’s right here.”