"Eating with you," he said with abrupt decision. "I'll meet you in the lobby here at eight o'clock."
He hung up, and still wondered which category that belonged in. But anything would be better than waiting in idleness.
He washed and freshened himself and changed his shirt, and went downstairs a little before eight. There was a note in his box when he turned in his key.
"It was delivered by hand just a few minutes ago," said the clerk.
Simon slit open the envelope. The letter inside was written in pencil on a cheap lined paper of an uncommon but typical pattern. There was no address; but Simon knew what that would be even without the clues in the context.
Dear Mr Templar, I just read your piece in the paper, and I can tell you you sure have got it over these dumb bastards. I am getting a chap to take this out for me. I can tell you a lot more about this case and I will tell you if you can fix it to talk to me alone. You are right all the way and I can prove it, but I will not talk to anyone except you. After that you can do what you like with what I tell you but I will not give these dumb cops anything. Yours truly, Nick Vaschetti.
Simon looked up from the note because someone was practically leaning on him and breathing in his face.
"Got a love-letter?" asked Detective Yard. "Or is it fan mail?"
Simon put the letter in his pocket.
"Yes," he said. "But not for you. In fact, I hate to tell you, but my admirer calls you a dumb bastard."