The Saint’s cigarette glowed brightly again to a measured draw.
“I see. Well, thanks...”
He took Patricia back into the club and located the bar. They sat on high stools and ordered bourbon. Around them continued the formless undertones of the joint, the clink of chips, the rattle of dice, the whir of wheels, the discreet drone of croupiers, the tinkle of ice and glass, a low-key background broken from time to time by the crash of a cocktail mixer or a burst of high excited laughter. For the other guests of the Quarterdeck Club, life went on unaware of the visit of Death, and if the employees had heard anything of it, their faces were trained to inscrutability.
“Do you think I’m nuts?” Simon asked presently. “Do you think it was suicide?”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Patricia said thoughtfully. “I keep thinking of the dress she was wearing.”
Simon regarded her.
“That,” he said, with some asperity, “would naturally be the key to the whole thing. Was she correctly dressed for a murder?”
“You idiot,” said his lady, in exasperation. “That was a Mainbocher, an original! No pretty girl in her right mind would ruin an expensive dress like that by putting a bullet through it. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”
“But we didn’t see it, darling,” Simon reminded her gently. “Not with our own eyes.”
He put down his glass and found the silent-moving Esteban at his elbow again.