indicate his abysmal ignorance of the Saint and all Saintly methods. It cannot be too clearly understood that, having determined to enter the house of Heinrich Dussel and dissect the mystery of the Invalid who was not Ill, Simon Templar had walked up Park Lane with the firm intention of ringing the bell, walking in while the butler was still asking him his business, closing the door firmly behind him, and leaving the rest to Providence. The broken window, and the cry that came through it, had not been allowed for in such nebulous calculations as he had made— admitted; but in fact they made hardly any difference to the general plan of campaign. It would be far more true to say that the Saint refused to put off his stroke by the circumstances, than to say that the circumstances helped him. All that happened was that an unforeseen accident intervened in the smooth course of the Saint's progress; and the Saint, with the inspired audacity that lifted him so high above all ordinary adventurers, had flicked the accident into the accommodating machinery of his stratagem, and passed on....
And the final result was unaltered; for the Saint simply arrived where he had meant to arrive, anyway—with his back to the inside of the door of Heinrich Dussel's house, and all the fun before him....
And Simon Templar smiled at Heinrich Dussel, a rather thoughtful and reckless smile; for Heinrich Dussel was the kind of man for whom the Saint would always have a rather thoughtful and reckless smile. He was short, heavily built, tremendously broad of shoulder, thin-lipped, with a high bald dome of a forehead, and greenish eyes that gleamed like glazed pebbles behind thick gold-rimmed spectacles.
'May I ask what you mean by this?' Drussel was blustering furiously.
The Saint threw out his hands in a wide gesture.
'I wanted to talk to you, dear heart.''
'And what do you imagine I can do for you?'
'On the contrary,' said the Saint genially, 'the point is—what can I do for you? Ask, and you shall receive. I'm ready. If you say 'Go and get the moon,' I'll go right out and get the moon—that's how I feel about you, sweetheart.'
Dussell took a step forward.
'Will you stand away from that door? '
'No,'' said the Saint, courteous but definite.
'Then you will have to be removed by force.'
'If you could spare me a moment—' began the Saint warily.
But Heinrich Dussel had half turned, drawing breath, his mouth opening for one obvious purpose.
He could hardly have posed himself better.
And before that deep purposeful breath had reached Dussel's vocal cords on the return journey, his mouth closed again abruptly, with a crisp smack, under the persuasive influence of a pile-driving uppercut.
'Come into my study,' invited the Saint, in a very fair imitation of Heinrich Dussel's guttural accent.
'Thank you,' said the Saint in his own voice.
And his arms were already around Heinrich Dussel, holding up the unconscious man; and, as he accepted his own invitation, the Saint stooped swiftly, levered Dussel onto his shoulder, moved up the hall, and passed through the nearest door.
He did not stay.
He dropped his burden unceremoniously on the floor, and passed out again, locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket. Then, certainly, luck was with him, for, in spite of the slight disturbance, none of the household staff was in view. The Saint went up the stairs as lightly as a ghost.
The broken window had been on the first floor, and the room to which it belonged was easy to locate. The Saint listened for a couple of seconds at the door, and then opened it and stepped briskly inside.
The room was empty.
'Bother,' said the Saint softly.
Then he understood.
'If the cop had insisted on coming in, he'd have wanted to see this room. So they'd have shifted the invalid. One of the gang would have played the part. And the real cripple—further up the stairs, I should think....'
And Simon was out of the empty room in an instant, and flashing up the next flight.
As he reached the upper landing, a man—a villainous foreign-looking man, in some sort of livery—emerged from a door.
The Saint never hesitated.
'All right?'' he queried briefly.
'Yes,' came the automatic answer.
No greater bluff could ever have been put up in two words and a stride. It was such a perfect little cameo of the art that the liveried man did not realize how he had been bluffed until three seconds after the Saint had spoken. And that was about four seconds too late. For by that time the Saint was only a yard away.
'That's fine,' said the Saint crisply. 'Keep your face shut, and everything will still be all right. Back into that room....'
There was a little knife in the Saint's hand. The Saint could do things with that knife that would have made a circus performer blink. But at that moment the Saint wasn't throwing the knife—he was just pricking the liveried man's throat with the point. And the liveried man recoiled instinctively.
The Saint pushed him on, into the room, and kicked the door shut behind him. Then he dropped the knife, and took the man by the throat....
He made very little noise. And presently the man slept....
Then the Saint got to his feet and looked about him.
The invalid lay on the bed—an old man, it seemed, judging by the thick gray beard. A shabby tweed cap was pulled down over eyes shielded by dark glasses, and his clothes were shapeless and ill-fitting. He wore black gloves, and above these there were ropes, binding his wrists together; and there were ropes also about his ankles.
The Saint picked him up in his arms. He seemed to weigh hardly anything at all.
As swiftly and silently as he had come, the Saint went down the stairs again with his light load.
Even then, it was not all perfectly plain sailing. A hubbub began to arise from below as Simon reached the first floor; and as he turned the corner onto the last flight, he saw a man unlocking the door of the room in which Heinrich Dussel had been locked. And Simon continued calmly downwards.
He reached the hall level in time to meet two automatics—one in the hand of the man who had unlocked the door, and one in the hand of Heinrich Dussel.
'Your move, Heinrich,' said the Saint calmly. 'May I smoke while you're thinking it over?'
He put the shabby old man carefully down on a convenient chair, and took out his cigarette case.
'Going to hand me over to the police?' he murmured. 'If you are, you'll have to figure out a lot of explanations pretty quickly. The cop outside heard me say I was your doctor, and he'll naturally want to know why you've waited such a long time before denying it. Besides, there's Convalescent Cuthbert here. ...' The Saint indicated the old man in the chair, who was trying ineffectually to say something through a very efficient gag. 'Even mental cases aren't trussed up quite like that.'
'No,' said Dussel deliberately— 'you will not be handed over to the police, my friend.'
'Well, you can't keep me here,' said the Saint, puffing. 'You see, I had some words with the cop before I came to your door, and I told him I shouldn't be staying more than half an hour— voluntarily. And after the excitement just before I walked in, I should think he'll still be waiting around to see what happens.'
Dussel turned to his servant.
'Go to a window, Luigi, and see if the policeman is still outside.'
'It
The Saint laughed shortly; and Heinrich Dussel was still staring at him, white-lipped, when the servant returned to report that the constable was watching the house from the opposite pavement, talking to a newspaperman.
'You seem annoyed, Heinrich,' remarked the Saint, gently bantering, though the glitter behind Dussel's thick glasses should have told him that he was as near sudden death at that moment as it is healthy for any man to be. 'Now, the Crown Prince never looks annoyed. He's much more strong and silent than you are, is Rudolf....'
