“It’s okay,” Lansing said. “The Saint is okay.”
Simon strolled through the goon squad, and Lansing followed him out to the bar.
“Will you let me know if you find out anything, Saint?”
“I will if you will,” Simon agreed. “By the way, how was this dough to be paid?”
“In an envelope addressed to Cleve Wentz at the Canal Street Post Office, general delivery. I can have the boys keep an eye on the window.”
“It might take a long time,” said the Saint. “And it still wouldn’t be easy to spot the pickup. But there’s no harm trying... I’ll be seeing you, Rick. Give my regards to Lady Macbeth.”
Nevertheless, he had no more brilliant ideas himself, and even the nest morning found him without inspiration. The problem of locating an anonymous impersonator who had just spoken to somebody once on the telephone made the proverbial needle in the haystack look simple.
He was brooding over the impasse after a late breakfast when there was a knock on the door, and when he opened it he was confronted by a pair of rather prominent eyes in a lean dyspeptic face which he recognized instantly. Taken in conjunction with the recent trend of his thoughts, the recognition gave him a premonitory qualm which no one could have guessed from the cordiality with which he renewed an old acquaintance.
“Why, Alvin!” he exclaimed. “This is a pleasant surprise. Come in and tell me about your latest triumphs.”
Lieutenant Alvin Kearney came in without a responding smile, but there was a certain amount of smugness in the lines of his normally unhappy countenance.