15 The Saint in New York

'I know,' said Papulos coldly. 'But not to you.'

He made an infinitesimal motion with his head; and Simon knew, without looking round, that two of the hard-faced watch­ers had closed in behind his chair. Nobody else moved; and the heavy breathing of the rotarian from Grand Rapids who was seeing Life was the loudest sound in the room.

Papulos got to his feet.

'Get up,' he said. 'I want to speak to you in the other room.'

A hand fastened on Simon's shoulder and jerked him up, but he had no idea of protesting at that stage—quite apart from the fact that any protest would have been futile. He turned obediently between the two guards and followed the broad back of Papulos out of the room.

They crossed the hall and entered the bedroom of the suite, and the door was closed and locked behind them. Simon was roughly searched and then backed up against a wall. Papulos confronted him, while the two gorillas ranged themselves on either side. The Greek's beady eyes were narrowed to black pin points.

'Where did you get that twenty grand?'

The Saint glared at him sullenly.

'It's none of your damned business.'

With a movement surprisingly fast and accurate for one of his fleshy bulk, Papulos drew back one hand and whipped hard knuckles across the Saint's mouth.

'Where did you get that twenty grand?'

For an instant the Saint's muscles leapt as if a flame had touched them; but he held himself in check. It was all part of the game he was playing, and the score against Papulos could wait for some future date. When he lunged back at the Greek's jaw it was with a wild amateurish swing that never had a hope of reaching its mark; and he came up short with two heavy automatics grinding into his ribs.

Papulos sneered.

'Either you're a fool, punk, or you're nuts! Once more I'm asking you—decent and civil—where did you get that twenty G?'

'I found it,' said the Saint, 'growing on a gooseberry bush.'

'He's nuts,' decided one of the guards.

Papulos raised his hand again and then let it go with a twisted grin.

'Okay, wise guy. I'll find out soon enough. And if you got it where I think you did, it's going to be just too bad.'

He plumped himself on one of the beds and picked up the telephone. The guards stood by phlegmatically, waiting for the connection to go through. One of them gazed sourly at a cigar that had gone out, and picked up a box of matches. The fizz of a match splashed through the silence; and then the Greek was talking.

'Hullo, Judge. This is Papulos. Listen, I got a monkey down here who just flashed a twenty-grand roll in C notes, and a certain slip of paper. . . .'

The Saint saw him stiffen and grind the receiver harder into his ear. The guard with the relighted cigar blew out a cloud of malodorous smoke and drew patterns on the carpet with a pointed toe. The receiver clacked and spattered into the still­ness, and Simon flexed his forearm for the reassuring pressure of the knife sheathed inside his sleeve.

Papulos dropped the instrument back in its bracket with an ominous click and turned slowly back to the Saint. He got to his feet, with his flattened face jutting forward on his shoul­ders, and stared at Simon, with his eyes bright and glistening.

'Mr. Simon, eh?' he rasped.

The Saint smiled engagingly.

'Simon Templar is the full name,' he said, 'but I thought you might feel I was going upstage on you if I insisted on it all.'

Papulos nodded.

'So you're the Saint!' His voice was venomous, but deeper still there was a vibration of the hate that