By that time, which was 10:44 precisely, if that matters a damn to anyone, the floating population of Upper Berkeley Mews had increased by one conspicuous unit; but that did not surprise the Saint. Such things had happened before, they were part of the inevitable paraphernalia of the attacks of virulent detectivosis which periodically afflicted the ponderous lucubrations of Chief Inspector Teal; and after the brief but comprehensive exchanges of pleasantries earlier that morning, Simon Templar would have been more disappointed than otherwise if he had seen no symptoms of a fresh outbreak of the disease.
Simon was not perturbed. . . . He raised his hat politely to the sleuth, was cut dead, and remained unperturbed. . . . And he sauntered imperturbably westwards through the smaller streets of Mayfair until, in one of the very smallest streets, he was able to collar the one and only visible taxi, in which he drove away, fluttering his handkerchief out of the window, and leaving a fuming plain-clothes man standing on the kerb glaring frantically around for another cab in which to continue the chase—and finding none.
At the Dover Street corner of Piccadilly, he paid off the driver and strolled back to the Piccadilly entrance of the Berkeley. It still wanted a few minutes to eleven, but the reception clerk, spurred on perhaps by the Saint's departing purposefulness, had a doctor already waiting for him.
Simon conducted the move to the patient's room himself, and had his first shock when he helped to remove the man's shirt.
He looked at what he saw in silence for some seconds; and then the doctor, who had also looked, turned to him with his ruddy face gone a shade paler.
'I was told that your friend had had an accident,' he said bluntly, and the Saint nodded.
'Something unpleasant has certainly happened to him. Will you go on with your examination?'
He lighted a cigarette and went over to the window, where he stood gazing thoughtfully down into Berkeley Street until the doctor rejoined him.
'Your friend seems to have been given an injection of scopolamine and morphia—you have probably heard of 'twilight sleep'. His other injuries you've seen for yourself—I haven't found any more.'
The Saint nodded.
'I gave him the injection myself. He should be waking up soon—he had rather less than one-hundredth of a grain of scopolamine. Will you want to move him to a nursing-home?'
'I don't think that will be necessary, unless he wishes it himself, Mr.——'
'Travers.'
'Mr. Travers. He should have a nurse, of course——'
'I can get one.'
The doctor inclined his head.
Then he removed his pince-nez and looked the Saint directly in the eyes.
'I presume you know how your friend received his injuries?' he said.
'I can guess.' The Saint flicked a short cylinder of ash from his cigarette. 'I should say that he had been beaten with a raw-hide whip, and that persuasion by hot irons had also been applied.'
The doctor put his finger-tips together and blinked.
'You must admit, Mr. Travers, that the circumstances are— er—somewhat unusual.'
'You could say all that twice, and no one would accuse you of exaggerating,' assented the Saint, with conviction. 'But if that fact is bothering your professional conscience, I can only say that I'm as much in the dark as you are. The accident story was just to satisfy the birds below. As a matter of fact, I found our friend lying by the roadside in the small hours of this morning, and I sort of took charge. Doubtless the mystery will be cleared up in due course.'
'Naturally, you have communicated with the police.'
'I've already interviewed one detective, and I'm sure he's doing everything he can,' said the Saint veraciously. He opened the door, and propelled the doctor decisively along the corridor. 'Will you want to see the patient today?'
'I hardly think it will be necessary, Mr. Travers. His dressing should be changed tonight—the nurse will see to that. I'll come in tomorrow morning——'
