"Really, Mr. Templar, your train of thought is confusing."
"It shouldn't be, dear boy. Just translate Chang into Joe, and consider the identical operation in New York. Even America the Beautiful, leave us face it, contains certain citizens who don't much care how they make a million dollars so long as they make it. And particularly don't care who gets hurt in the process. So now Joe's the boy we're after. He's like Chang, in the low income group, not averse to a bit of petty thievery, possibly ready for a pipe after a hard day's pocket-picking."
"Who," Zellermann inquired, "are 'we'?"
"We here at the table," the Saint said expansively, "for purposes of hypothetical discussion."
"Not me," Avalon interpolated. "I got troubles of my own, without including pipes."
"Let's say you are 'we,' Doctor. Your problem is twofold. You must transport the stuff, and then sell it. If you solve the transportation problem, you have to find Joe. The first problem is fairly elemental. Who goes to the Orient these days? Sailors. They can bring in the stuff. Finding Joe is easy, too. Go into the nearest pool hall and turn to your right."
"This leads us where, Mr. Templar?" Dr. Zellermann asked. "Though I admit your conversation has its scintillating aspects, I fail to see—" He let it hang.
"To this point, comrade. A group of men putting drugs into the hands — mouths — of persons rendered irresponsible by economic circumstance are creating tools. Governments learned that a long time ago. Beat a man down enough, and he'll come to think that's the normal way to be. But private groups — shall we say rings — who are foolish enough to think they can get away with it couldn't be expected to do anything but follow an established lead."
The Saint watched for any reaction from the doctor. He would have settled for a tapping ringer, but the Park Avenue psychiatrist would have made the Great Stone Face look like Danny Kaye.
Simon shrugged.