It had to be genuine; Simon realised it with a hopeless sense of relaxation. Lazaroff with a real crime on his conscience would have responded in any way but that. He wasn’t a dope. He was an irresponsible practical joker and a facile professional story-weaver as well. Between the two characteristics he would have been glib or indignant or bluffingly calm or angry. He wouldn’t have been deflated and frightened, as if he had pointed a supposedly unloaded gun once too often and heard it thunder in his hand.
Then — it was true. A coincidence that had gotten itself entangled with real murder, that had distorted the whole picture of plotting and motive. Now the Saint was trying to shake his head clear of all the assumptions and misconceptions that had rooted themselves into his mind because he had leapt on to the premise that two things were inseparably related when actually they had no connection at all.
“Give me that drink,” he said. “I’m going to start trying to use my brain for a change.”
“Let’s all have one,” said Lazaroff fervently. Kendricks went over and switched on the radio. A musical theme ended, and an unctuous announcer began to discourse on the merits of a popular intestinal lubricant.
“How bad a spot are you really in?” Kendricks asked.
“Not so bad yet. I was in Ufferlitz’s house when the police came, but I managed to get away. Naturally I didn’t tell Condor about having been there. That note would have looked like as bad an excuse for being there as your explanation sounded. So I don’t want to drag you into it now, if you’ll go on leaving me out.”
“You bet we will. But could Condor find out any other way?”
“You never know. That’s why I still want to find the murderer first.”
“Haven’t you any idea now who it was?” pleaded Lazaroff.
The Saint stared at his cigarette. He had to begin all over again. But now things forced themselves into the front of his mind that he had not been able to see clearly before.