The Saint met Flane’s straining gaze with utter confidence. He dropped his own voice even lower, and said, “Ufferlitz’s attorney.”
“What did he know?”
“Everything.”
“Keep talking.”
“You see, Ufferlitz didn’t trust you. And he wasn’t dumb. He took precautions. He left a letter to be opened if anything happened to him. He had quite a story about your early life.”
“In New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
Flane fought against the compulsion of his clouded instincts. Simon could see him doing it, and see him losing his way in the struggle.
“About the girl who got knocked off — who was a witness—”
“Yes,” said the Saint, with absolute intuitive certainty now. “When you were a talent scout for a rather less glamorous business.”