Simon hesitated, without moving.
Kearney came around the bed, pushed the Saint aside, and went down on his knees to grope underneath.
Simon stepped out of the bedroom, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock, in one fluid sweep of co-ordinated movements. He was out of the suite so quickly that he did not even hear the detective’s roar of rage.
By day, the Blue Paradise had an uninviting drabness which contrasted significantly with its neon-lighted nocturnal glitter. The doors were inhospitably closed and locked, but Simon found a bell to ring, and after a while a beady eye peered out through a two-inch opening and was sufficiently satisfied to let him in.
“Greetings, Sonny Boy,” said the Saint. “Is Rick around yet?”
“I guess he’ll see you,” conceded the gunsel gloomily, and Simon went through the dim deserted bar and down the back corridor to Lansing’s office.
“I’ve got news for you, Rick,” he said. “You’re in good company.”
Lansing looked up from the accounts he was studying. “What does that mean?”
“Someone else I don’t have anything on is being blackmailed by the Saint.”
“Who’s that?”