“So had everybody else who ever took that way in. But what else do you know about them?”
“What else do I know about them?” Freddie echoed, for the sake of greater clarity. “Nothing much. Except that Angelo is the best houseboy and valet I ever had. The other Filipino — Al, he calls himself — is a pal of his. Angelo brought him.”
“You didn’t ask if they’d ever worked for Smoke Johnny?”
“No.” Freddie was surprised. “Why should I?”
“He could have been nice to them,” said the Saint. “And Filipinos can be fanatically loyal. Still, that threatening letter seems a little bit literate for Angelo. I don’t know. Another way of looking at it is that Johnny’s friends could have hired them for the job... And then, did you know that your chef was an Italian?”
“I never thought about it. He’s an Italian, is he? Louis? That’s interesting,” Freddie looked anything but interested. “But what’s that got to do with it?”
“So was Implicato,” said the Saint. “He might have had some Italian friends. Some Italians do.”
“Oh,” said Freddie.
They turned over the bridge across the stream, and there was a flurry of hoofs behind them as Ginny caught up at a gallop. She rode well, and she knew it, and she wanted everyone else to know. She reined her pony up to a rearing sliding stop, and patted its damp neck.
“What are you two being so exclusive about?” she demanded.