The Lieutenant's steely eyes flickered over the room. The truth of that last theorem was rather gruesomely irrefutable.
Then his glance went to Olga Ivanovitch.
She stood very quietly beside the Saint, her pale face composed and expressionless, her green eyes passing unemotionally over the raw stains and ungainly attitudes of violent death. You could tell nothing about what she thought or expected, if she expected anything. She waited, in an incurious calm that suddenly struck Simon as almost regal; she hadn't asked anything or said anything.
"What about her?" Kinglake asked.
Simon's pockets had been emptied completely. He bent over one of the bodies and relieved it of a packet of cigarettes that it wouldn't be needing any more.
"I'm afraid I was holding out on you about her," he answered deliberately. "She's one of our people. Why the hell do you think she was tied up in the cellar with me? But I couldn't tell you before."
He was so easy and matter-of-fact with it that the Lieutenant only tried to look unstartled.
"But what story am I supposed to give out?"
"Like me — the less you say about her the better," Simon told him. "She was just one of the hostesses at the Blue Goose, and Maris was making use of her through his role of bartender. He set her up in this house, so he had a key. But she wasn't here tonight. When the setup began to look too sticky, she scrammed. You don't think she's worth fussing about."
Simon hadn't looked at the girl until then. He did now.