Since no other information was to be gathered here, the Saint left. He walked a half dozen blocks to a crowded all-night drugstore and went into an empty phone booth, where he dialled Brooklyn police.
He told the desk sergeant that at such and such an address "you will find one Gamaliel Foley, F-o-l-e-y, deceased. You'll recognise him by the knife he's wearing — in his back."
3
At the crack of ten-thirty the next morning, Avalon Dexter's call brought him groggily from sleep.
"It's horribly early," she said, "but I couldn't wait any longer to find but if you're all right."
"Am I?" the Saint asked.
"I think you're wonderful. When do you want to see me?"
"As soon as possible. Yesterday, for example. Did you have a good time last night?"
"Miserable. And you?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it exciting. I thought about you at odd moments."