“What do the doctors say?”
“They can’t fix it as close as that. You ought to know.”
“I suppose not,” said the Saint. “Still, you make it a bit tough for a guy. You want me to have an alibi, but you don’t know what time I’m supposed to have an alibi for.”
Condor removed his toothpick, inspected it profoundly, and put it back.
“I got another time,” he announced finally.
“What’s that?”
“Ufferlitz called the Beverly Hills police station and said he thought someone was prowling around his house, and asked for a patrol car to come by. That call was received at exactly eight minutes of two.”
A subcutaneous tingle pin-pointed up between the Saint’s shoulder-blades — even though he had always been sure that that patrol car had never arrived by accident. But his face showed nothing more than a rather exasperated bafflement.
“For Pete’s sake,” he said, “how many more times have you got to cover?”
“Just that one.”