“I didn’t get your invitation,” said the Saint genially, “so I didn’t know what time to come.”
“Somebody has to be first,” Kendricks said.
He led the way into the Tudor bar which appeared to substitute for a living-room, and Vic Lazaroff raised his shaggy gray head from some intricate labors over a cocktail shaker.
“Welcome,” he said. “You are going to study genius in its cups. We shall reciprocate by studying you in yours.”
“It’s a great event,” Simon said.
“You bet it is. Once again the uncrowned kings of Holly wood are on the throne—”
“That’s quite definite, is it?”
“Everything but the signatures, which we shall write tomorrow if we can still hold a pen.”
Simon settled on the arm of a chair.
“Goldwyn must think a lot of you.”