“Goodbye,” said the bartender. “Take it easy.”
The customer navigated with careful determination to the door, and vanished — an almost ridiculously good-looking young man, with features so superficially perfect that he could easily have stepped straight out of a collar advertisement if he had been a little less dishevelled.
“Yes, sir?” said the bartender, facing the Saint with the combination of complete aplomb, extravagant apology, comradely amusement, genial discretion, and sophisticated deprecation which is the heritage of all good bartenders.
“A double Peter Dawson and plain water,” said the Saint. “Is there something about the air around here which drives people to drink?”
“It’s too bad about him,” said the bartender tolerantly, pouring meanwhile. “When he’s sober, he’s as nice a fellow as you could meet. Just like you’d think he would be from his pictures.”
A vague identification in the Saint’s mind suddenly came into surprising focus.
“I get it,” he said. “Of course. Orlando Flane — the heartthrob of the Hemisphere.”
“Yeah. He really is a nice guy. Only when he’s had a few drinks you gotta humor him.”
“Next time,” said the Saint, “you should ask him about the Chinese laundryman.”
It took no little ingenuity to frustrate the bartender’s professional curiosity about that unguarded remark, but it was as entertaining a way of passing the time as any other, and the Saint felt almost human again when he turned back to the white walls of Liberty Studios.