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the street at the comer.
    “I must… see to my customers,” he said desperately.
    As he pushed towards the door Simon barred his way with an outstretched arm so efficiently strong that it would have taken ten Abduls to move it.
    “I’m one of your customers,” the Saint said, “and I’m always right.” He relaxed a little as Abdul stopped trying to push past him. “Besides, I have priority. I was the first one here tonight and I still haven’t been waited on, and I’m getting a little tired of waiting in general.”
    Abdul made a futile effort to misinterpret.
    “I am sorry, Mr. Templar, but you understand … As soon as possible you will have your dinner.”
    Simon leaned back against the closed door and folded his arms, regarding Abdul in the darkness as a circus trainer might regard a recalcitrant seal.
    “Let’s stop playing patty cake, shall we? I’m embarrassed enough for myself without having to be embarrassed for you.”
    “Embarrassed?” Abdul asked.
    “Yes, embarrassed. I’m a natural-born anarchist, and if there’s one thing I’d just as soon step on as look at it’s a do-gooder who tries to help people who don’t want his help. But that’s what you’re making me feel like.”
    Abdul shifted his feet miserably.
    “I’m sorry.”
    Simon hesitated thoughtfully.
    “I’m beginning to think you people enjoy being bashed.”
    Abdul did not say anything.
    “We’re obviously alone out here,” the Saint argued, “Nobody can hear us. I feel like dropping the whole subject and sticking to Italian restaurants from now on, but I hate to let something go once I’ve got a hold on it. So why don’t you at least give me a lead?”
    Abdul still did not say anything.
    “What about King Kong and his pint-sized playmate who were toting groceries through this very door at about the time Mahmud had his accident? They must have seen it … or done it.”
    He could sense the electric tension that suddenly stiffened Abdul’s body, and he could see the confused surprise on the fat man’s face.
    “How did you know they were here?” Abdul croaked.
    “I was admiring them on my way in.”
    “They …” Abdul stopped and shrugged. “They had left, of course, or they would have stayed … to help after the accident.”
    Simon took in a deep breath and blew it tiredly out again.
    “Oh, Mr. Haroon, you are very good at running a restaurant but very bad at lying. I’ll try once more: Would you just give me the name of the driver of that van and the address of Supreme Imports?”
    Abdul, sensing reprieve in the wind, spoke more vehemently.
    “I don’t know the driver’s name. There is no need to. And Supreme Imports …” He shrugged. “I do not happen to know their address since their salesman called on me here originally and all our business has been done here since then.”
    Simon saw no reason to continue wasting his time. He stepped away from the door and opened it.
    “After you, then. I’ve enjoyed our talk. It’s nice to meet a man without a care in the world.”
    Abdul smiled wanly and dabbed his handkerchief against his perspiring fat cheeks.
    “After you, Mr. Templar,” he said in a loud voice. “It is very good of you to be so concerned about poor Mahmud.”
    Simon went disgustedly back through the kitchen, where his very existence was conscientiously ignored and down the hallway to his table. His red-cheeked acquaintance who had once ruled the waves had disappeared, perhaps understandably, but several more innocent diners had taken other places in the room. The other waiter, soon reinforced by Abdul’s frenetic help, was running from errand to errand in a valiant effort to please them. Almost as soon as the Saint sat down his food was served, but he had scarcely any real appetite left. Like a mathematician with a teasing problem in his head, he found it hard to think of anything but the challenge towards which he had set his course when he had entered the Golden Crescent in the