“What joint was that?”
Simon told him the name of a night spot which did a roaring if not exactly exclusive trade, where he knew that nobody would be able to say positively whether he had been in or not.
“See anyone you knew there?” Condor asked nevertheless.
“No. In fact, if you want a cast-iron alibi,” Simon admitted with an air of disarming candor, “I’m afraid I can’t give it to you. Do I need one?”
“I dunno,” Condor said glumly. “How long would it take you to drive from your apartment to Ufferlitz’s?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said the Saint innocently. “Where does he live?”
The detective sighed. In any other circumstances Simon could almost have felt sorry for him. He was certainly a trier, and it just wasn’t doing him any good.
He said, “On Claymore, in Beverly Hills. You could drive there in ten minutes easy, even missing a few lights.”
“But I thought Ufferlitz was shot at one-thirty. I was home just about then.”
“You aren’t sure. And the cook isn’t sure either. She only thinks it was about one-thirty. She could be five minutes wrong. So could you. That makes enough difference for you to have been there. Maybe the shot wasn’t at one-thirty anyway. Maybe she did hear a car backfiring, and the shooting was some other time. Like when you say you were out having a drink.”