“Okay,” Kearney said belligerently. “I’ll let you drive it — and just don’t try anything.”
He opened the door and followed Simon in. While the Saint was still fitting the key in the lock he reached over and snapped one loop of a pair of handcuffs over Simon’s left wrist. The other cuff he secured to the steering wheel.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s go.”
Simon started the engine and nursed the car north for a few blocks. Kearney held the revolver in his lap and glowered with rather strenuously sustained triumph.
“How about your big case against me?” Simon asked after a while. “Aside from my breaches of the peace, I mean. Is that coming along?”
Kearney flexed his jaw muscles.
“We got a letter this afternoon. It was addressed to the Chief, and it was signed by Cleve Friend. It said he was mixed up in some deal with you and he was trying to get out of it because he’d got cold feet. And he was afraid you wouldn’t let him get out. You’d threatened to kill him unless he played along. The letter said he was leaving it with a friend, to be mailed if he — died.”
The Saint kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Did you check the signature?”
“It was Friend’s signature all right. A little shaky, but it compared.”