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persisted, obviously unimpressed by the other’s abrupt change of manner.
    “Never was and never will be. And I
didn’t knock that nut
off, neither. You let coincidence make a sucker outa you. Here, let me show you something.”
    Destamio heaved himself up and led the way back into the living room. He pointed to what at first appeared to be a decorative panel on the
wall.
    “Lotta bums go to the States change
their names and don’t
care, because their names never meant nothing. But I’m Alessandro Leonardo Destamio and I’m proud of it. My family goes as far
back as they ever had
names, and I think the old king was an eighty-second cousin or something. Look for yourself!”
    Simon realized that the panel was a
genealogical chart complete with coats of arms
and many branchings and linkings. The scrolls of names climbed and intertwined
like cognominal foliage on a flowering tree
of which the final fruit bore the glorious
label of Lorenzo Michele Destamio.
    “That was my papa. He was always proud
of the family. And there’s my birth
certificate.”
    Destamio stabbed a thick thumb at another frame which held a beribboned and
sealing-waxed document which
proclaimed that the offspring of Lorenzo
Michele Destamio would go through life hailed as Alessandro Leonardo. It looked
authen tic enough—as
a document.
    “And you’ve no idea why this man, what
was his name—William
Charing-Cross—should have been killed?”
Simon asked.
    “No idea,” Destamio said blandly.
“I never saw him before.
Wouldn’t have known his name unless you told me. But if you’re worried about him, I can ask a few questions around. Find out if anyone knows anything. Anything to make you happy …
Hey!” He snapped his fingers as he was reminded of something else. “I was forgetting what the
boys did. Be right back.”
    He walked into an adjoining room, and after
a while Simon heard the
unmistakable thunk of a safe
door closing. Destamio came back with a thick wad of currency in his hand.
    “Here,” he said, holding it out. “Some guys working here get too enthusiastic. That wasn’t my idea, all they did to your stuff. So
take this and buy some more. If it
ain’t enough, let me know.”
    Simon took the offering. On top of the stack
was an American hundred-dollar bill, and
when he flicked his finger across the edges
other hundreds flashed by in a
twinkling parade of zeros.
    “Thank you,” he said without shame,
and put the money in his pocket.
    Destamio smiled benevolently, and chewed an other half-inch from his mangled cigar.
    “Let’s eat,” he said, waving a
pudgy hand to wards a table
already decked with silver and crystal in another alcove. “And we can talk
about things. A guy can go
crazy here with no one to talk to.”
    He sat down and shook a small hand bell
noisily, and the
service began even before the ornamental Lily arrived to join them.
    Al Destamio did most of the talking, and
Simon Templar was
quite content to listen. Whatever Lily’s other talents might have been, aside from her hair-raising ways with a car, they were
obviously not conversational. She applied herself to the food with a ravenous concentration which proved that her svelte figure could only be a metabolic
miracle; and Simon had to summon some self-control not to emulate her, for in spite of his grossness Destamio employed an exceptional cook.
    There was only one topic of conversation, or monologue to describe it
more accurately, and that was the depravity of the US Department of Justice and
its vicious persecution of innocent immigrants who succeeded in rising above
the status of com mon
laborers. But about all that Destamio re vealed of himself was his remarkable mastery
of the ramifications of the
income tax laws, which seemed
a trifle inconsistent with his claim to have only violated them through well-meaning ig norance. Simon was not called upon to do
more than eat,
drink, and occasionally make some lifelike sounds to show that he was