“He played square with the racket while he was in it, did he?”
“He knew what was good for him. You can’t chisel those kind of guys and keep healthy. You can only do that with high-class suckers.” The detective seemed to derive some morbid satisfaction from the thought. “No — he still sees some of the mob, but he don’t ask ’em home. Some of ’em think it’s a big laugh, his going high-hat. But they aren’t sore. Or I haven’t heard about it... None of it’s conclusive, of course, but this still looked like a good place to begin. I’ve found with most murders you don’t have to look awful far. It’s usually somebody who’s been around pretty close.”
Simon lighted another cigarette and drew at it for a while. Condor didn’t seem to have anything more to say. He began pulling open drawers and browsing through the papers he found in them.
Presently Simon got up.
“Well, I’d better leave you to it,” he said. “If I get any more brilliant ideas I’ll let you know.”
“Do that,” said Condor earnestly. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
The Saint strolled out and met Peggy Warden’s tentative half-apologetic smile with unruffled cheerfulness.
“Quite a business, isn’t it?” he said.
She nodded.
“I felt mean about not telling you. But Lieutenant Condor told me not to say anything. I’m glad it didn’t get you into trouble.”