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its neck out. We are not a political organ; and if we did start a crusade, it
would not be on the basis of this one sensational but insignificant killing.
But we do try to print the whole truth, as you'll see by the fact that I'm
ready to use your article."
"Then you still haven't told me where the pressure would come from."
The city editor's long equine face grew even more absorbed in the
contemplation of his matched fingers.
"As a stranger in town, Mr Templar, it may surprise you to know that some of
our most influential citizens sometimes go to the Blue Goose for
their er relaxation. The Blue Goose is one of the leads in this story as you
have it. So while none of these people, from the Commissioner down, might want
to be a party to hushing up a crime, you can see that they might not be keen
on too comprehensive an investigation of the Blue Goose. So that the
management of the Blue Goose, which naturally doesn't want the spot involved
in a murder mystery, might find a lot of sympathetic ears if they were
pointing out the advantages of forgetting the whole thing. I shall not allow
you to print that in your next article, but it might help you personally."
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"It might," said the Saint. "And thank you."
He spent several hours after that on a conscientious job of verifying his
background material that would have amazed some people who thought of him as a
sort of intuitive comet, blazing with pyrotechnic violence and brilliance to
ends and solutions that were only indicated to him by a guardian angel with a
lot of spare time .and an incurable weakness for piloting irresponsible
characters. His research involved visits to various public places, and
ingenuous conversations with a large number of total strangers, each of them a
cameo of personality projection that would have left Dale Carnegie egg-bound
with awe. But the net yield was negatively and concisely nothing.
The Commissioner appeared to be a bona fide native of Galves-ton who had made
his money in sulphur and still controlled an important business. There seemed
to be no particularly musty bones in his family skeleton. He came of Texas
stock from away back, and he was set solid with business and family ties.
The Sheriff of the county came out with the same sort of background and clean
bill of health. Nobody seemed to know much about the type of deputies in his
office, but there had never been any scandal about his administration. He was
frankly a member of the same political machine as the Commissioner.
Nor were there any crevices in the armor of the Chief of Police. Kinglake was
not too popular, very likely because of his personality; but his record was
good. Quantry was negligible.
Which meant that theTimes-Tribune editor's analysis stood unshaken, and there
was no evidence to brand the official eagerness to turn a blind eye on a
murder as anything but a local issue of political expediency.
Except for the one thin thread that curled into a question mark and asked who
it was at the Blue Goose who had turned the heat on even a complaisant
political machine.
Olga Ivanovitch?
The Saint knew she was beautiful, he thought she was clever, and he suspected
that she was dangerous. But how clever and how dangerous? He could learn
nothing about her that sounded at all important. If she had any political
connections, they weren't common gossip. But he knew that she had a definite
place in thr picture.
He made another call at the Ascot Hotel; but Mr Baker hadn't remembered any
more overnight, and could add nothing to his information about Blatt or Black.
"But I'm sure, Mr Titwillow, he wasn't a local man. I've been here so long
that I think I know all the important people in Galveston by sight."
Blatt, Weinbach, Maris.
The names made no impression on anyone to whom he mentioned them. But he did
find some representatives of their clans in the telephone directory, and
studiously checked on each of them. Each of them had the kind of unimpeachable
clearance that it would have been simply a waste of time to investigate any
further.
It was a long and strenuous day, and dusk was creeping over the city as Simon
headed back towards the Alamo House. He bought an evening paper and a bottle
of Peter Dawson on the way.
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TheTimes-Tribune carried his article on the front page, unabridged and
unexpurgated, but with a box that gave a brief explanation of the Saint's
background for the benefit of the ignorant, and stated that Mr Templar's
theories were his own and did not necessarily represent the editorial opinion
of theTimes-Tribune.
There was special justification for that in a short column which ran
alongside his, which reported succinctly that at an inquest held that
afternoon the coroner's jury had brought in a verdict of suicide.
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