Simon’s eyes hardened as they moved up the proprietor of that palace of chance in which only the guests took the chance.
“Welcome to the wake, comrade,” he said coldly.
Esteban looked over the situation. His expression was impassive, yet his dark eyes were sharp as he added the factors and came up with an answer.
“The waiter told me there was some trouble,” he said, exactly like one of his headwaiters dealing with some trivial complaint. “You found her — like this?”
“We did.”
“Is she—”
“You’ve lost your place in the script,” Simon said patiently. “We’ve already read that line.”
“I am sorry,” Esteban said bloodlessly. “She was a lovely lady.”
“Somebody didn’t share your opinion,” the Saint said.
The words hung in the quiet night, as if they were three-dimensional, to be touched, and turned, and examined. The pause lengthened while the Saint lighted a cigarette without taking his eyes off Esteban. His meaning seemed to materialize slowly during the silence.