The address he came back with was only a half mile south, on a side street off Collins Avenue. There were still lights in the house when the Saint’s car pulled up outside a mere matter of minutes later, and a man who could only have been Kerr himself, in white tie and a smoking jacket, opened the door to the Saint’s casual knock. His somewhat florid face peered out under the porch light with strictly reasonable ineffusiveness.
He said, “What do you want? Who are you?” But his tone was still genial enough to be described as charming.
“A moment with you, Mr Maurice Kerr,” the Saint answered. “You may call me the Saint — temporarily. Before we’re through with you, you may think of some other names. And this is Miss Holm.”
Kerr’s eyebrows rose like levitating gray bushes.
“I don’t pretend to understand you.”
“May we come in? This is a matter of life and death.”
Kerr hesitated, frowned, then swung the door wide.
“Do. In here, in the library.”
The library was lighted for the benefit of those who liked to read comfortably at the least expense to their eyesight. The walls were lined with books, an artificial fire flickered in the fireplace, and chairs, lovingly fashioned to fit the human form, were spaced at tasty intervals.
“Sit down,” Kerr invited graciously. “What is this all about?”