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roll?”
    “Frankly, because I didn’t know how long
I could count on your sympathy. If you went on to take an active
interest in my problem, I thought, you’d be bound to want to meet my wife
eventually, and then she might get you on her side, and I’d be worse off
than before. You don’t know her, you see, in the same way as I do.”
    Simon ran lean brown fingers through his dark
hair in a vaguely weary gesture.
    “As a psychologist, you’re a terrific
taffy puller,” he said. “When I get nosey, it takes more than a
polite note to cool me off. And you had me thoroughly intrigued with the plot against
your marital honor. So right after breakfast I was baying on the scent
you’d let me sniff last night. As a matter of fact, I’ve just come from
the pad of your buxom bedmate, the flashbulb gal.”
    The other’s mouth sagged open to about the
same extent as his eyes.
    “You saw her?”
    “On her way to the morgue. Someone else
had been there first, and shot her.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I didn’t see the bullet holes, if
that’s what you mean. But I saw her carried out, and a neighbor said
that’s what she died of. However, before that I’d been to the studio of the guy she
worked for, to get her address. I had to look it up for myself, in
his book. I can vouch for him. Someone made so sure of not
missing him that they singed his shirt.”
    Mr. Fennick was still staring rigidly.
    “This is shocking!”
    “Isn’t it? … My theory,
of course, is that this person went to see Balton for the same reason that I
did—to get the gal’s address. And also, perhaps, to get the negative of a certain picture. Was the photographer who snapped you in the Don
Juan pose a fat fellow with a face like a rather lecherous pig?”
    “I was dazed, and blinded by the light,
as I told you,” Mr. Fennick said carefully. “And the
man’s face was hidden by his camera. But I have a sort of
impression that he was stout.”
    “I’m assuming that Balton was the guy.
And since the gal was on his regular payroll, it would tie in. I also
think that with a gun in his ribs he was persuaded to hand over the film,
before he got mowed down anyhow.”
    “Why?”
    “Because if he hadn’t, there wouldn’t’ve
been any point in killing Norma. She was only worth killing if she’d
become the only other person who could swear that there’d ever been such
a photo. And with the photo gone, it won’t help the police much to be
told—as their laboratory boys probably will tell ‘em—that the
same gun did both jobs. They’ll be stuck for a motive, not having the
inside dope like us … But I saw how you reacted when I told you I’d
come from Norma’s apartment, before I ever said she’d been shot. And I’ve noticed that you haven’t queried my use of her name and
Balton’s, although last night you didn’t seem to know either one.”
    Mr. Fennick, groping for some occupation for
his hands, picked up the spoiled cigar from his ash tray and clamped it between
his teeth with a practically unconscious automa tism, made a grimace,
but re-lighted it anyhow.
    “After what I told you last night, Mr.
Templar, you could make it look very bad for me.”
    “I could,” said the Saint
detachedly. “But my problem is that I somehow can’t visualize you
becoming a murderer just to get out of a phony blackmail jam.”
    “That’s very kind of you.”
    “So I’ve been thinking about your wife,
and a few things I’ve learned about her that you didn’t tell me. For instance, that she
has an old girl friend here, good enough to drop in and stay with. Was
this friend’s name Uplitz?”
    “Oh, no. No. But she does have an old
friend here, married to a very successful man in the chemical
business.”
    “Which sounds as if your wife may have
lived in San Francisco herself once.”
    “Yes, indeed. This is her home
town.”
    “And she used to be a model.”
    “Yes.”
    “So she could have known Vere Balton
professionally.”
    “I