Mr Joyson took command of the situation, so regally that only a captious critic would have noted the undertones of desperation in his behavior.
“Stand back, Kermein,” he commanded. “We don’t need any more detective work here.” He snatched the dress from Simon’s unresisting fingers. “By your leave, sir!” He strode over to the still petrified Luella. “May I trouble you to cover yourself?” he grated. “To think that my wife, my own wife...“ His voice broke for a moment, but he recovered it bravely. He turned to Patricia again, adjusting his mien to something between an undertaker and a floorwalker, if anything can be imagined that would fit into such a narrow gap. “Madam, accept my heartfelt sympathy. I know too well what your feelings must be. I only wish you could have been spared the same betrayal. What a dingy ending to it all!”
“Cedar Rapids Repertory Theatre, 1911,” commented the Saint, but he said it to himself, and outwardly maintained a properly hangdog visage.
Patricia regarded Mr Joyson with brimming blue eyes.
“You’re so kind... But to think that we should have to meet like this!” She dabbed a handkerchief at her tear-stained face. “If only I could have spared you any connection with my tragedy—”
“What had to be, had to be,” said Mr Joyson sagely, and edged hastily towards the door. “Don’t you bother your pret — er, don’t bother about a thing. Just leave all the details to me. I’ll see my lawyer in the morning, and we’ll discuss what steps to take, and you can get in touch with me at my home at — er—” He dug in his pockets. “I seem to have lost my card-case. The address is 7522 South Hooper — East Los Angeles. No phone. Now you just contact me, say, tomorrow afternoon. I’ll do anything I can to help. Come, Kermein.”
He completed his exit with almost indecent haste, but was able to refrain from mopping his brow till he was outside. Tod Kermein fell in step with him on the street, and their steps turned automatically in the direction of the nearest bar.
Kermein, who knew his place, preserved a discreet but sympathetic silence until they had been served, when he permitted himself to say, “Jeez, what a lousy break.”
“What a goddam stinking break!” Joyson exploded. “This pigeon was the vice-president of a bank, no less, and carrying a roll you could paper a house with, according to Luella. Whoever’d think his wife’d beat us to it?”
“I guess after all it must happen that way sometimes,” Kermein said, awed with a great discovery. “You know, I never thought of that.”