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the Better Business Bureau, was one of the richest enterprises of the Windy City.
    “Let me make a guess,” said the Saint slowly. “Do I gather that someone claiming to be me is trying to shake you down for a certain amount of moola on account of they know that Jake’s high dive wasn’t Jake’s own idea?”
    “Look,” Lansing said impatiently. “The comedy belongs out side with the floor show. Why, even if you hadn’t given your name on the phone, I can recognize your voice.”
    “My voice?”
    “Yes, your voice.”
    “And that’s why you sent Sonny Boy to bring me in?”
    Lansing made a clipped gesture.
    “I was upset. So now I’m sorry. No hard feelings, Saint. Believe me, a partnership with me will pay you a lot more than the lousy ten grand you’re asking for hush money. It wouldn’t be just this joint. I could give you a cut in everything, all over town-sports areas, bookies, numbers-the works.”
    Simon fished out a cigarette with his right hand and arched an eyebrow over his lighter.
    “Even in the Shakespearean drama too?”
    The other man blinked.
    “Huh? Oh-that.” He smiled again, deprecatingly, with the comers of his mouth turned down. “Just a present for my wife. If she wants to play Shakespeare she can play Shakespeare. I can afford it. It might even make money. There aren’t many things I can’t afford, and most of ‘em make money sometime. I can afford you, and make money for both of us. The two of us together could really clean, up.”
    “I appreciate the compliment,” said the Saint. “But there’s one hitch.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I wasn’t the guy who tried to blackmail you.”
    A slight scowl settled over Lansing’s black eyes.
    “I told you before-the comedy belongs outside.”
    “I don’t doubt the show could use it,” said the Saint. “Only whether you like it or not, the comedy is right here. Because I give you my word that I’ve never spoken to you on the phone in my life, and I don’t have the least idea how to start proving that Jake was helped out of his window.”
    Lansing stared at him for several seconds.
    “Is that on the level?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Then who is this guy who’s pretending to be you?”
    “That,” said the Saint, “is what I’d like to know. I’ll have to try and find out.” He took the hand out of his left side pocket. “Now that we understand each other, I guess you won’t mind if I leave.”
    Rick the Barber stood up and came around the desk. He opened the door.
    The first gunman, reinforced by two others, stood watch fully in the corridor outside.
    “It’s okay,” Lansing said. “The Saint is okay.”
    Simon strolled through the goon squad, and Lansing followed him out to the bar.
    “Will you let me know if you find out anything, Saint?”
    “I will if you will,” Simon agreed. “By the way, how was this dough to be paid?”
    “In an envelope addressed to Cleve Wentz at the Canal Street Post Office, general delivery. I can have the boys keep an eye on the window.”
    “It might take a long time,” said the Saint. “And it still wouldn’t be easy to spot the pickup. But there’s no harm trying. … I’ll be seeing you, Rick. Give my regards to Lady Macbeth.”
    Nevertheless, he had no more brilliant ideas himself, and even the next morning found him without inspiration. The problem of locating an anonymous impersonator who had just spoken to somebody once on the telephone made the proverbial needle in the haystack look simple.
    He was brooding over the impasse after a late breakfast when there was a knock on the door; and when he opened it he was confronted by a pair of rather prominent eyes in a lean dyspeptic face which he recognized instantly. Taken in conjunction with the recent trend of his thoughts, the recognition gave him a premonitory qualm which no one could have guessed from the cordiality with which he renewed an old acquaintance.
    “Why, Alvin!” he exclaimed. “This is a pleasant