Freddie went to the dressing-table, peeled a couple of bills out of a litter of green paper and small change, and came back with them. Simon glanced at them with satisfaction. They had the right number of zeros after the 1.
“I don’t blame you,” said Freddie. “If that snake had bitten me—”
“You wouldn’t have died,” said the Saint calmly. “Unless you’ve got a very bad heart, or something like that. That’s the silly part of it. There are doctors within phone call, there’s sure to be plenty of serum in town, and there’s a guy like me on the premises who’s bound to know the first aid. You’d have been rather sick, but you’d have lived through it. So why should the murderer go through an awkward routine with a snake when he had you cold and could’ve shot you or slit your throat and made sure of it?... This whole plot has been full of silly things, and they’re only just starting to add up and make sense.”
“They are?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I wish I could see it.”
Simon sat on the arm of a chair and thought for a minute, blowing smoke-rings.
“Maybe I can make you see it,” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“Our suspects were limited to six people the first night, when we proved it was someone in the house. Now, through various events, every one of them has an alibi. That would make you think of a partnership. But none of the servants could have poisoned your drink this afternoon, and it wasn’t done by the waiter or the bartender — they’ve both been at the club for years, and you could bet your shirt on them. Therefore somebody at the table must have been at least part of the partnership, or the whole works if there never was a partnership at all. But everyone at the table has still been alibied, somewhere in the story.”