“Right in that bar. The first time I ever saw him. He was drunk, and he was shooting off his mouth about how Ufferlitz couldn’t do things to him and he was going to show him where he got off. The bartender was trying to calm him down. Go back and ask him.”
The detective shook his head.
“If you had that bartender primed with one story, you’d have him rehearsed in all of ’em,” he said unenthusiastically. “Who else heard Flane say he’d get Ufferlitz?”
The Saint thought, and a picture came into his mind.
“Ufferlitz’s secretary heard him — Ufferlitz threw him out of his office yesterday, and Flane said then that he’d fix him. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No.”
“She should have. She was there.”
Condor hunched his shoulders.
“We’ll see if she’s home,” he said.
So they were in the Saint’s car again, heading north across Hollywood Boulevard to an address that they looked up in the phone book in the corner drug store. The prowl car followed behind them like a shadow.