There was a certain pregnant interval of silence while Peter brought the car out of the park and squeezed it through the tide of traffic swirling around Hyde Park Corner.
"I always thought you were daft," he said as they floated out of the maelstrom into the calmer waters of Grosvenor Place. "And now I know it."
"But why?" asked the Saint reasonably. "Comrade Quintana seems to have been quite a pal of Ingleston's, so he ought to be interested in the news about his boy friend. Or if he's already heard it he'll want someone to condole with him in his bereavement. But if he has heard it I should be interested to know how — I sent for all the evening papers, and there wasn't a line about the murder in any of them."
"Why shouldn't he have heard about it from the police?"
"He might have. And yet somehow I don't think so. I stuck that photograph right under Teal's bloodhound nose, and he was too busy boiling with thwarted rage because I'd accounted for knowing the name of the corpse to be able to smell a clue when he'd got one. Of course he may have done some more sniffing since then, but even then it may take him some time to realize who Luis Quintana is. And anyway we've got to chance it, because Quintana's our own best clue… You can stop the car here, Peter — I won't drive up to the door."
"What's making you so modest all of a sudden?" Peter enquired innocently as he applied the brakes.
The Saint smiled and stepped out onto the pavement.
"It comes natural to me," he said. "And this isn't going to be an official visit."
"I'll bet you don't even know what sort of a visit it is going to be," said Peter accusingly; and Simon grinned at him without shame.
"I don't — which only makes it more interesting. Wait for me here, old lad, and I'll tell you all about it later."