The brassy note was creeping back into Teal's voice, and he tried to strangle the symptom with a gulp that almost ruptured his larynx. The ensuing silence made him feel as self-conscious as if he had blared out like a bugle; but the Saint was only smiling with unaltered affability.
"How did I know they were friendly? Well, after all, when you start pouring out drinks—"
"How did you know his name was Ingleston?"
"I was just guessing," said the Saint apologetically. "I took it that the motive was robbery, going on what you said. Therefore the robberee was the murderee, so to speak. Therefore the corpse was the owner of this flat and all that therein is. Therefore he was the owner of that photo."
The detective blinked at him distrustfully for a second or two and then went back to the mantelpiece and peered at the picture he had indicated. It was a framed photograph of a plump, swarthy man in hornrimmed spectacles, and across the lower part of it was scrawled:
A mi buen amigo D. David Ingleston, con mucho afecto de Luis Quintana
Mr Teal was no linguist, but he scarcely needed to be.
"Just another spot of this deduction business," Simon explained modestly. "Of course these tricks must seem frightfully easy to you professionals, but to an amateur like myself—"
"I was only wondering how you knew," Teal said shortly.
The brassy note was still jangling in his vocal cords, but the texture of it was different. He seemed disappointed. He was disappointed. He bit on his chewing gum with the ferocious energy of a hungry cannibal tasting a mouthful of tough missionary.