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surprise. Come in and tell me about your latest triumphs.”
    Lieutenant Alvin Kearney came in without a responding smile, but there was a certain amount of smugness in the lines of his normally unhappy countenance.
    “I don’t know what sort of a triumph you’d call it,” he said. “But this time I’ve really got the goods on you, my friend.”
    The Saint looked puzzled.
    “The goods, Alvin?”
    “Yeah,” Kearney said grimly. “Although frankly I never thought I’d get you for common blackmail.”
    Simon realized that he had been unduly despondent. He didn’t think -for a moment that Rick the Barber would have gone to the police, but what he had overlooked was that the impostor was not likely to stop with one victim.
    “A lot of people seem to be going nuts these days,” he re marked almost cheerfully. “Who says I’m blackmailing him now?”
    “Vincent Maxted.”
    “The meat packer?”
    “You ought to know,” Kearney said. “You claim to be able to prove that he made a nice piece of change during the war out of black-market steaks.”
    Simon lighted a cigarette.
    “I keep being amazed by the things I know,” he said. “It’s a little startling to be credited with clairvoyance all of a sudden. The embarrassing thing is that I don’t really deserve it. I as sure you, Alvin, this is the first I’ve heard about Maxted’s illegal butchery.”
    “Is that so?” Kearney was unimpressed. “Then I guess you’d figured he’d just be scared enough to pay up rather than go through an investigation. It doesn’t make any difference. You made the threat anyhow, and he’ll be able to identify your voice.”
    “My voice? On the telephone?” Simon scoffed.
    “That’s for your lawyer to fight about. It’s good enough for me to hold you. Let’s go, Saint. I’ve got a nice cozy room re served for you at headquarters.”
    Simon thought for a few moments.
    “Okay,” he said at last. “If you want to stick your neck out I suppose I can’t stop you. Do you mind if I throw a few things in a bag?”
    “Make it snappy,” Kearney said.
    He followed Simon into the bedroom. The Saint pulled out a suitcase and opened it. He took out a crumpled piece of paper, glanced at it, and gave a guilty start. Rather clumsily, he tried to get rid of it under the bed.
    “What’s that?” Kearney snapped.
    “Nothing,” said the Saint unconvincingly. “Just an old bill.”
    “Let me see it.”
    Simon hesitated, without moving.
    Kearney came around the bed, pushed the Saint aside, and went down on his knees to grope underneath.
    Simon stepped out of the bedroom, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock, in one fluid sweep of coordinated movements. He was out of the suite so quickly that he did not even hear the detective’s roar of rage.
    By day, the Blue Paradise had an uninviting drabness which contrasted significantly with its neon-lighted nocturnal glitter. The doors were inhospitably closed and locked, but Simon found a bell to ring, and after a while a beady eye peered out through a two-inch opening and was sufficiently satisfied to let him in.
    “Greetings, Sonny Boy,” said the Saint. “Is Rick around yet?”
    “I guess he’ll see you,” conceded the gunsel gloomily, and Simon went through the dim deserted bar and down the back corridor to Lansing’s office.
    “I’ve got news for you, Rick,” he said. “You’re in good company.”
    Lansing looked up from the accounts he was studying.
    “What does that mean?”
    “Someone else I don’t have anything on is being blackmailed by the Saint.”
    “Who’s that?”
    Simon skipped the question for a moment.
    “Did you buy any black-market meat during the war?”
    “Maybe you really want a job in the floor show,” Lansing said. “I’ll buy the gag. So I had to stay in business. So what?”
    “Did you get anything through Vincent Maxted?”
    Lansing’s eyelids flickered.
    “What about him?”
    “Only this,” said the Saint. “The first