"Please?"
"Dough. Cabbage. The blue chips."
"Yes, he seemed to have plenty of money. And he bought plenty of drinks, so of course he made many friends."
"Can you remember any particular guy with a name like Black?'
She wrinkled her brow.
"I don't think so."
"Tall and thin, with sort of gray-blond hair cu,t very short."
"How can I be sure?" she said helplessly. "I see so many people."
The Saint drew a long breath through his cigarette that was not audibly a sigh, but which did him as much good.
He was very humbly baffled. He knew that Olga Ivanovitch had told him almost as little as he had told her; he knew at the same time that she was holding back some of the things she knew, exactly as he was. He knew that she had probably told him precisely as much as she had told Kinglake. But there was nothing that he could do about it. And he guessed that there had been nothing that Kinglake had been able to do about it, either. She had a good straight story in its place, and you couldn't shake it. It was quite simple and plausible too, except for the omissions. The only thing a police officer could have done about it was to obscure the issue with some synthetic charges about morals and the illegality of the Blue Goose, which Kinglake probably wouldn't stoop to even if the political system would have let him.