15 The Saint in New York

left thumbnail, applied the spluttering flame to the tip of his cigarette, and inhaled luxuriously. With a drift of smoke trailing back through his lips, he lounged towards a large tapestried Morris chair that stood between the French windows by which he had entered, and swung the chair around with his foot so that its heavily padded side was presented to the door through which the detective would enter.

He came back, overturned the wastebasket with an adroit twist of his toe, and picked up the crumpled scrap of paper and dropped it into his pocket in one smooth swoop that frus­trated the judge's flash of fight even before the idea was con­ceived. He pulled open the drawer to which Nather's hand had jumped at the first sound of his voice, and transferred the revolver from it to his hip. And then, with the scene set to his satisfaction, he walked back to his chosen chair and settled himself comfortably in it with his right leg draped gracefully over the arm.

He flicked a quarter inch of ash from his cigarette onto the expensive carpet.

'When your man announces Fernack,' he directed, 'open the door and let him in. And come back yourself. Under­stand?'

Nather did not understand. His brain was still fumbling dazedly for the catch that he could not find. On the face of it, it seemed like the answer to a prayer. With Fernack on the scene, there must be the chance of a way out for him—a way to retrieve that scrap of paper buried in Templar's pocket and to dispose of the Saint himself. But something told him that the calm smiling man in the chair was not legislating foe any such denouement.

Simon read his thoughts.

'The gun won't be in evidence for a while, Nather. But it'll be handy. And at this range I'm a real sniper. I shouldn't want you to get excited over any notions of ganging up on me with Fernack. Somebody might get hurt.'

Nather's gaze rested on him venomously.

'Some day,' said the judge slowly, 'I hope we shall meet again.'

'In Sing Sing,' suggested the Saint breezily. 'Let's call it a date.'

He drew on his cigarette again and listened to the returning footsteps of the butler, accompanied by a heavier, more de­termined tread. As a matter of fact, he was innocent of all sub­terfuge. There was nothing more behind his decision than ap­peared on the face of it. Fernack was there, and the Saint saw no reason why they should not meet. His whole evening had started off in the same spirit of open-minded expectation, and it had turned out very profitably. He waited the addition to his growing circle of acquaintances with no less kindly in­terest.

The butler's knuckles touched the door again.

'Inspector Fernack, sir.'

Simon waved the judge on, and Nather crossed the room slowly. Every foot of the distance he was conscious of the con­cealed automatic that was aiming into his back. He snapped the key over in the lock and opened the door; and Inspector Fernack shouldered his brawny bulk across the threshold.

*   *   *

'Why the locked door, Judge?' Fernack inquired sourly. 'Getting nervous?'

Nather closed the door without answering, and Simon de­cided to oblige.

'I did it,' he explained. Fernack, who had not noticed him, whirled round in surprise; and Simon went on: 'Would you mind locking it again, Judge—just as I told you?'

Nather hesitated for a second and then obeyed. Fernack stared blankly at the figure lounging in the armchair and then turned with puzzled eyes to the judge. He pushed back his battered fedora and pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.

'What the hell is this?' he demanded; and Nather shrugged.

'A nut,' he said tersely.

Simon ignored the insult, studying the man who had come in. On the whole, Fernack conformed closely enough to the pattern in his mind of what a New York police inspector was likely to be; but the reality went a little beyond that. Simon liked the belligerent honesty of the frosted grey eyes, the strength and courage of the iron jaw.