Simon could well understand why he had never heard of the Z-Man before. Even in the film world the name was only rumoured, and then rumoured with scepticism. These three girls were the only ones who knew, apart from Mercia Landon, who was dead, and the actress who had fled to Italy.
For once in his life he spent a restless night, impatient for the chance of further developments the next day; and he walked into Chief Inspector Teal's office at what was for him the fantastic hour of eleven o'clock in the morning.
"I thought you never got up before the streets were aired," said the detective.
"I put on some woolly underwear this morning and chanced it," said the Saint briefly. "What do you know?"
Mr Teal drew a memorandum towards him.
"We've checked up on that address you gave me. I think you're right, Saint. There's no such person as Otto Zeidelmann. It's just a name. He's had the office about three or four months."
"His occupation dates from about the time Mercia Landon died," said Simon, nodding. "Anything else?"
"He never went there in the daytime apparently," answered the detective. "Always after dark. Hardly anybody can remember seeing him. The postman can't remember delivering any letters, and we didn't find a fingerprint anywhere."
"You wouldn't," said the Saint. "A wily bird like him would be just as likely to walk about naked as go out without his gloves. But talking about fingerprints, what's the report on that gun? — which, by the way, is mine."
Mr Teal opened a drawer, produced the automatic and pushed it across the desk. Chewing rhythmically, lie also handed the Saint a card on which were full face and profile photographs of one Nathan Everill.