Simon stared at him with an odd sort of frown that didn't even see the man in front of him. For the Saint happened to know that Mr Matson was waiting for a passport from Washington, in order to take ship to foreign parts, and that the passport had not yet come through. Wherefore it seemed strange for Mr Matson to have left no forwarding address — unless he had suddenly changed his mind about the attractions of foreign travel.
"Who was this friend?" Simon inquired.
"I don't know, Mr Tombs. If you could stop by or call up in the morning you might be able to find out from Mr Baker, the day clerk."
"Could you tell me where Mr Baker lives? I might catch him at home tonight."
Mr Wimblethorpe was a little hesitant, but he wrote his fellow employee's address on a slip of paper. While he was doing it, the Saint leaned on the desk and half turned to give the lobby a lazy but comprehensive reconnaissance. As he had more or less expected, he discovered a large man in baggy clothes taking inadequate cover behind a potted palm.
"Thank you, Mr Wimblethorpe," he said as he took the slip. "And now there's just one other thing. In another minute, a Mr Yard of the police department will be yelling at you to tell him what I was talking to you about. Don't hesitate to confide in him. And if he seems worried about losing me, tell him he'll find me at Mr Baker's."
He turned and sauntered leisurely away, leaving the bewildered man gaping after him.
He picked up a taxi at the next corner and gave the day clerk's address, and settled back with a cigarette without even bothering to look back and see how the pursuit was doing. There were too many more important things annoying him. A curious presentiment was trying to take shape behind his mind, and he wasn't going to like any part of it.
Mr Baker happened to be at home, and recalled the incident without difficulty.
"He said that Mr Matson had decided to move in with him, but he'd had a few too many, so his friend came to fetch his things for him."