"We just didn't happen to find the container yesterday. But if we search again, we may find it."
"Probably the coke bottle that Scotland Yard takes out with him to keep his brain watered."
"One more crack like that outa you," Yard said truculently, "an' I'll—"
"You might just tell me this, Kinglake," said the Saint bitingly. "Is this your idea of a brilliant trick to trap the killers, or are you just a hick cop after all? The only thing you've left out is the standard suicide note. Or have you got that up your sleeve too?"
The Lieutenant's thin lips tightened, and his battleship jaw stuck out another half inch. He had all the chip-on-the-shoulder characteristics of a man in the wrong who wouldn't admit it while there was a punch left in him; yet he met the Saint's half jeering and half furious gaze so steadily as to almost stare Simon out of countenance.
"Get this, Templar," Kinglake said coldly. "We think Stephens committed suicide—"
"In the most painful way he could think of—"
"He must have been nuts. But I've met nuts before."
"And even while he was dying he tried to make up a story—"
"He was out of his mind. He must have been, after a burning like that. You haven't been burned yet, so you use your head. And if you want to keep your nose clean, you will forget the whole thing — or you may find yourself with your can in the can. Do I make myself clear?"