"Hamilton," said the phone. "I hear you're a newspaper man now."
"In self-defense," said the Saint. "If you don't like it, I can pack up. I never asked for this job, anyway."
"I only hope you're getting a good salary to credit against your expense account."
The Saint grinned.
"On the contrary, you'll probably be stuck for my union dues… Listen, Ham: I'd rather lay it in your lap, but I think I'd better bother you. These three men—"
"Blatt, Weinbach, and Maris?"
"Your carrier pigeons travel fast."
"They have to. Is there anything else on them?"
Simon gave him the two rough descriptions.
"There's a good chance," he said, "that they may have cor on from Chicago. But that's almost a guess. Anyway, try it."