Simon paid his fare and added a generous tip, and went in.
It was apparent as soon as he was inside that at least the adjective in the name was justified. The decorator who had dreamed up the trimmings must have been hipped on Gershwin. Everything was done in a bluish motif — walls and tablecloths and glass and chairs. There was the inevitable from hunger orchestra, with too much brass and a blue tempo, and the inevitable tray-sized dance floor where the inevitable mixture of sailors, soldiers, salesmen, and stews were putting their work in with the inevitable assortment of wild kids who had drunk too much and wise women who hadn't drunk enough. Even the lighting scheme was dim and blue.
The only thing that wasn't clear from the entrance was whether the customer got goosed, or was merely a goose to be there.
Simon crossed to the bar and ordered a Scotch and water, saving himself the trouble of ordering Peter Dawson, which would have been no different anyway in spite of the label on the bottle. He got It with plenty of water in a shimmed glass, and saved his breath on that subject also.
He said to the bartender: "Throgmorton—"
"Call me Joe," said the bartender automatically.
He was a big blond man with big shoulders and a slight paunch, with a square face that smiled quickly and never looked as if the smile went very far inside.
"Joe," said the Saint, "do you know a gal here by the name of Olga Ivanovitch?"
The man paused only infinitesimally in his mopping.
At the Saint's side, a voice with strange intonations in it said: My name is Olga Ivanovitch."