He had absorbed one good solid sip when the bell rang again.
This time it was Washington.
"Hamilton," said the line. "I hope this is an awkward moment."
Simon grinned for his own benefit, and said: "No."
"This is all I've got so far on those names. During Prohibition, there were two trigger men in Milwaukee named Johan Blatt and Fritzie Weinbach. They usually worked together. Racketeers. One or two charges — assault, carrying concealed weapons, and so on. Associated with un-American activities in Chicago just before the War. I can read you their full records, but they just sound like a couple of mercenary hoodlums."
"Don't bother," said the Saint. "What about Maris?"
"Nothing yet. A name doesn't mean anything. Hasn't anyone even seen the color of his eyes?"
"Nobody ever sees Maris," said the Saint. "They don't notice anything about him at all. But I'll find him before you do. I'm still working. Have some more black coffee and wait up for me."
He pronged the transceiver again, and reached for his glass once more with indomitable determination.
Maris — the man nobody saw. The man who might be much more than the mere trick answer to a riddle that had been posed by the premature cremation of Henry Stephen Matson. The man who might materialise into one of those almost legendary spear-carriers who were primarily responsible for Simon Templar's excursions as a talent scout even to such outposts as Galveston. The man who might be more concerned than anyone about the contents of the ostrich-skin leather case which had consumed Matson's dying breath.