They went into the crepuscular discretion of the bar, where a sizeable clientele was now dispersed through shadowy corners, and Simon beckoned the bartender over.
“Will you tell Mr Condor what happened this afternoon?”
The bartender looked surprised to see the Saint again so soon, and along with his surprise there was a habitual wariness.
“About what?” he said innocently.
“About Flane,” said the Saint.
“It’s all right,” Condor put in soothingly. “There’s no beef. Mr Templar just wanted me to hear it.” The bartender wiped his hands on his apron.
“I guess Mr Flane had just had one too many,” he said.
“He was talking to this gentleman, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then it looked as if Mr Flane was getting tough — he does that sometimes, when he’s had a drink — or I should say he used to do it—”
“Go on,” Condor said.
“Well, I tried to hear something then, but I couldn’t hear anything, and then he must have slugged Mr Whatyoucalledhim, because he fell off his stool, and Mr Flane beat it out of here, an’ I got the gentleman up again an’ bought him a drink an’ he went out. That’s all I know.”