"It's a fine story," said the Saint lackadaisically. "But where does it get us with Matson?"
"Like you wrote in the paper, he must have been paid to do some sabotage. He didn't do it, but he kept the money and took a powder. But you can't run out on that outfit. That's why I'm talking to you. They traced him here and gave him the business."
"That is about how I doped it out," Simon said with thistledown satire. "But what are you adding besides the applause?"
"I'm telling you, I took one of those letters to Matson in St Louis. That proves he was being paid by the Germans, and that proves you're right and Kinglake is a horse's—"
"But you made this delivery in St Louis. Why are you here in Galveston now?"
Vaschetti sucked on the stub of his cigarette, and dropped it on the floor and trod on it.
"That's on account of Blatt. I came here from El Paso two weeks ago with a package to give to Blatt at the Blue Goose. I didn't know Matson was coming here. I didn't know anything about Matson, except he told me he was working for Quenco. Blatt only paid me up to date and kept me hanging around waiting for some letters he said he'd be sending out. I ran up a pretty big bill at the hotel, and Blatt never came around and I couldn't reach him. That's why I flew the kite."
"Did you meet any of my other friends?"
"I met Weinbach. He's a fat kraut with a red face and red hair and the palest eyes you ever saw."
Simon placed the word-picture alongside the description that Port Arthur Jones had given him of the stranger who had been inquiring about him at the Alamo House, and it matched very well. So that was Weinbach.