Mr. Tanfold put a card on top of the note — it bore the name of a firm of private inquiry agents who existed only in his imagination.
"I've been engaged to make some inquiries about this fellow," he said. "Will you point him out to me when he comes in? I'd like you to introduce us. Tell him I'm another lonely Australian, and ask if he'd like to meet me — that's all I want."
The barman hesitated for a second, and then folded the note and put it in his pocket with a cynical nod. Mr. Tombs meant nothing to him, and ten pounds was ten pounds.
"That ought to be easy enough, sir," he said. "He usually gets here about this time. What name do I say?"
It was, as a matter of fact, almost ridiculously simple — so simple that it never occurred to Mr. Tanfold to wonder why. To him, it was only an ordinary tribute to the perfection of his routine — it is an illuminating sidelight on the vanity of "clever" criminals that none of Simon Templar's multitudinous victims had ever paused to wonder whether perhaps someone else might not be able to duplicate their brilliantly applied psychology, and do it just a little better than they did.
Mr. Tombs came in at half-past six. After he had had a drink and glanced at an evening paper, the barman whispered to him. He looked at Mr. Tanfold. He left his stool and walked over. Mr. Tanfold beamed. The barman performed the requisite ceremony. "What'll you have?" said Mr. Tombs. "This is with me," said Mr. Tanfold.
It was as easy as that.
"Cheerio," said Mr. Tombs.
"Here's luck," said Mr. Tanfold.
"Lousy weather," said Mr. Tombs, finishing his drink at the second gulp.