15 The Saint in New York

He realized that, what­ever else Fernack might be, a good or bad detective, he fell straight and clean-cut into the narrow outline of that rarest thing in a country of corrupted law—a square dick. There were qualities in that mountain of toughened flesh that Simon Templar could have appreciated at any time; and he smiled at the man with an unaffected friendliness which he never expected to see returned.

'What ho, Inspector,' he murmured affably. 'You disap­point me. I was hoping to be recognized.'

Fernack's eyes hardened in perplexity as he studied the Saint's tanned features. He shook his head.

'I seem to know your face, but I'm damned if I can place you.'

'Maybe it was a bad photograph,' conceded the Saint regretfully. 'Those photographs usually are. All the same, seeing it was only this afternoon that you were handing out copies of it to the reporters ——'

Illumination hit Fernack like a blow.

His eyes flamed wide, and his jaw closed with a snap as he took three long strides across the room.

'By God—it's the Saint!'

'Himself. I didn't know you were a pal of Algernon's, but since you arrived I thought I might as well stay.'

Fernack's shoulders were hunched, his pugnacious chin. jut­ting dangerously. In that instant shock of surprise, he had not paused to wonder why the Saint should be offering himself like an eager victim.

'I want you, young fellow,' he grated.

He lunged forward, with his hand diving for his hip.

And then he pulled up short, a yard from the chair. His hand was poised in the air, barely two inches from the butt of his gun, but it made no attempt to travel further. The Saint did not seem to have moved, and his free foot was still swing­ing gently back and forth; but somehow the blue-black shape of an automatic had come into his right hand, and the round black snout of it was aimed accurately into the detective's breastbone.

'I'm sorry,' said the Saint; and he meant it. 'I hate being arrested, as you should have gathered from my biography. It's just one of those things that doesn't happen. My dear chap, you didn't really think I stayed on so you could take me home with you as a souvenir!'

Fernack glared at the gun speechlessly for a moment and shifted his gaze back to the Saint For a moment Simon was afraid—with a chin like that, it was an even chance that the detective might not be stopped; and Simon would have hated to shoot. But Fernack was not foolhardy. He had been bred and reared in a world where foolhardiness went down under an elemental law of the survival of the wisest; and Fernack faced facts. At that range the Saint could not miss, and the honour of the New York police would gain a purely temporary glow from the heroic suicide of an inspector.

Fernack grunted and straightened up with a shrug.

'What the hell is this?' he repeated.

'Just a social evening. Sit down and get the spirit of the party. Maybe you know some smoke-room stories, too.'

Fernack pulled out a chair and sat down facing the Saint. After the first stupefaction of surprise was gone he accepted the situation with homely matter-of-factness. Since the initia­tive had been temporarily taken out of his hands, he could do no harm by listening.

'What are you doing here?' he asked; and there was the be­ginning of a grim respect in his voice.

Simon swung his gun around towards Nather and waved the judge back to his swivel chair.

'I might ask the same question,' he remarked.

Fernack glanced at the judge thoughtfully; and Simon's quick eyes caught the distaste in his gaze, and realized that Nather saw it, too.

'You do your own asking,' Fernack said dryly.