Simon remained standing. He put his lighter to a cigarette and said, “Our spies tell us that you went to the Quarterdeck Club with Lida Verity tonight.”
He risked the exaggeration intentionally, and saw it pay off as Kerr paused to pick up the highball which he had obviously put down when they knocked.
Kerr sipped the drink, looked at the Saint. “Yes?”
“Why did you leave the club without her?”
“May I ask what that has to do with you?”
“Lida was a friend of mine,” Patricia said. “She asked us to help her.”
“Just before she died,” the Saint said.
Kerr’s soft manicured hand tightened around his glass. His dark eyes swung like pendulums between the Saint and his lady. He didn’t catch his breath — quite, and the Saint wondered why.
“But that’s ghastly!” Kerr’s voice expressed repugnance, shock, and semi-disbelief. “She — she lost too much?”
“Meaning?” the Saint asked.