Lansing suddenly smiled, displaying a wide row of perfect white teeth.
“And I thought you were supposed to be smart,” he said. “You’re wasting yourself, Saint. Listen, with your talents you’re just the guy I need for a partner. Petty blackmail isn’t big enough for you. And what if you do tell the D.A. that Jake Hardy didn’t commit suicide? You couldn’t prove a thing.”
A slight frown touched the Saint’s brow.
“Jake Hardy?” he repeated. “You mean your last partner?”
“Go on — kid me.”
The Saint’s memory, which missed very little of the underworld news that reached the papers or circulated through the grapevine, responded again. Jake Hardy, for reasons unknown, had plunged from a penthouse window to his death several months before, leaving Rick Lansing in sole control of a cartel which, while it was not rated by Dun & Bradstreet and had little standing with the Better Business Bureau, was one of the richest enterprises of the Windy City.
“Let me make a guess,” said the Saint slowly. “Do I gather that someone claiming to be me is trying to shake you down for a certain amount of moola on account of they know that Jake’s high dive wasn’t Jake’s own idea?”
“Look,” Lansing said impatiently. “The comedy belongs outside with the floor show. Why, even if you hadn’t given your name on the phone, I can recognize your voice.”
“My voice?”
“Yes, your voice.”