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then, fit and ready to punch the world on the nose, he sallied forth.
    The first object on which his energies impinged was the long-nosed cream and red Hirondel in the garage. Simon spent a few minutes preparing it for the road, and after re-setting his various household devices he snaked the big car through the traffic to the offices of the Daily Express, where a sub-editor on the paper, Joe Daly, had often helped out in the past by allowing him access to files and photographs.
    Joe was in cheerful form as always, and the Saint’ grinned as the short square figure appeared and slapped him on the back.
    “Simon, you old son of a gun!” he exclaimed in his chirrupy brogue. “How’s business? Been keeping the nose clean then, I see,” he added, referring to the lack of recent news stories about the Saint’s exploits.
    “I’ve been out of the country for a while, Joe. What can you give me on Diogenes Patroclos?”
    ” Patroclos ? Old golden guts ?”
    “The same. Joe, I’d be obliged if you’d show me what you’ve got in the photo library.”
    They went together into the long room that housed the paper’s main collection of personal data. Daly rummaged in a cabinet.
    “Strictly against the rules, this, Simon, y’know. Ah, here we are, Diogenes Patroclos.” Daly pulled out a hefty file and gave it to Simon. “And there’s references to a whole string of his companies — you can have a look at the files on them if you like. Mostly pictures of aircraft and ships as I remember.”
    “Thanks, Joe. Just now it’s the man himself that I’m interested in,” explained the Saint as he riffled through the photos.
    Daly peered over his shoulder.
    “Ugly bugger, isn’t he. What’s he been up to?”
    “You tell me,” said the Saint.
    Daly looked reflective.
    “Wait — there was something. His ships’ve been carrying some dodgy cargoes lately. There was some rumbling here and there about it.”
    The Saint nodded.
    “I’d heard that much. But it never made the papers, did it?”
    “We tried to work up a feature, but the old man said let it ripen a bit first.”
    “What about women ?” the Saint asked, still thumbing through the photographs.
    “The man’s a monk. Only thing he takes home is bits of glass.”
    “Glass?”
    “Tinkle, tinkle, you know. Stuff you drink out of. He’s got one of the best collections in the world. Antique goblets — all that sort of thing …”
    The Saint had stopped and extracted two photos from the file.
    “Joe — look at these.”
    Daly took them, glanced at the pictures, and then read the description on the reverse.
    “Diogenes Patroclos presenting the Out Islands Yachting Trophy — Nassau … Diogenes Patroclos party-going in Lisbon. So what?”
    “Read the dates when they were taken,” suggested the Saint. Daly read the date stamped in the corner on the back of each print.
    “Tenth July 49 … Tenth July 49.” Daly frowned, puzzled. “Well, he couldn’t have been in two places at once … Wait a minute, the photos must have been taken a few hours apart — Nassau in the afternoon or evening, Lisbon later on… No, that’s no good, no plane would get him there that fast. Must be a misprint.”
    Simon nodded thoughtfully.
    “Mind if I borrow these two?”
    “Help yourself — just don’t flash’em around on your way out.”
    The Saint was willing to admit to himself that this duplicate tycoon had him, at that moment, completely perplexed. He was as reluctant to believe in the possibility of perfect impersonation as in the existence of talking dogs; yet here was this Patroclos double, seemingly breaking all the rules. And the two photographs appeared to clinch the issue. Simon’s reasoning on that had followed much the same course as Joe Daly’s: two photos had been taken no more than a few hours apart, and each showed unmistakeably a man who appeared to be Patroclos; but it was an inescapable fact that no aircraft could possibly have flown him from Nassau