“I do not inquire about these things.”
The Saint’s voice became rather gentle.
“Comrade, you don’t seem to get the point. I’m a guy who might make a great deal of trouble for you. On the other hand, I might save you a lot.”
Esteban took note of the steady blue eyes, the deceptive smile that played across the Saint’s chiseled mouth. He forced a laugh.
“You frighten me terribly, Señor Templar.”
“But you don’t frighten me, Don Esteban. Because whatever Sheriff Haskins may think, I have the advantage of knowing that I had nothing to do with killing Mrs Verity. Which leaves me with a clear head to concentrate on finding out who did. So if you don’t co-operate, I can only draw one conclusion.”
There was silence, save for the rustle of palm fronds and the thud and hiss of the surf — and the muffled sounds of the Quarterdeck doing business as usual.
At last Esteban said craftily, “What will you do if I help you?”
“That depends on how much you know and how much you tell. I don’t mind admitting that Miss Holm and I are slightly allergic to people who kill our friends. Also, it wouldn’t bother me a bit if the sheriff closed your Parcheesi parlor. You ought to know how much you’ve really got to be scared of.”
Esteban seemed to give him the same poker-faced assessment that he would have performed on a new customer who wanted to cash a check. And with the same impenetrable decisiveness he said, “Mrs Verity come here with Mr Maurice Kerr. He is what you call a — ah, playboy. A leetle old, perhaps, but most charming. Perhaps you should ask him your questions. If you wait, I tell you where he lives.”