15 The Saint in New York

six feet three in his shoes and must have weighed approximately three hundred pounds; the other, it should be sufficient to say, was a great deal larger. Taken as a team, they summed up to one of the most undesir­able deputations of welcome which the Saint could imagine at that moment.

The larger man bulked ponderously round the intervening table and advanced towards him. With the businesslike Colt jabbing into the Saint's middle, he made a quick and efficient search of Simon's pockets and found the gun which had be­longed to the late lamented Joe. He tossed it back to his com­panion and put his own weapon away.

'Now, you,' he rasped, 'what's your name?'

'They call me Daffodil,' said the Saint exquisitely. 'And what's yours?'

The big man's eyebrows drew together, and his eyes hard­ened malevolently.

'Listen, sucker,' he snarled, 'you know who we are.'

'I don't,' said the Saint calmly. 'We haven't been intro­duced. I tried a guess, but apparently I was wrong. You might like to tell me.'

'My name's Kestry,' said the big man grudgingly, 'and that's Detective Bonacci. We're from headquarters. Satisfied?'

Simon nodded. He was more than satisfied. He had been thinking along those lines ever since he had looked down the barrel of the big man's gun and it had failed to belch death at him instantly and unceremoniously, as it would probably have done if any of the Kuhlmann or Ualino mobs had been behind it. The established size of the men, the weight of their shoes, and the dominant way they carried themselves had helped him to the conclusion; but he liked to be sure.

'It's nice of you to drop in,' he said slowly. 'I suppose you got my message.'

'What message?'

'The message I sent asking you to drop in.'

Kestry's eyes narrowed.

'You sent that message?'

'Surely. I was rather busy at the time myself, but I got a. bloke to do it for me.'

The detective expanded his huge chest.

'That's interesting, ain't it? And what did you want to see me about?'

The Saint had been thinking fast. So a message had actually been received—his play for time had revealed that much. He wondered who could have given him away. Fay Edwards? She knew nothing. The taxi driver who had been so interested in him on the day when Papulos died? He didn't see how he could have been followed——

'What did you want to see me about?' Kestry was repeating.

'I thought you might like to hear some news about the Big Fellow.'

'Did you?' said the detective, almost benignly; and then his expression changed as if a hand had smudged over a clay model. 'Then, you lousy liar,' he roared suddenly, 'why did the guy that was phoning for you say: 'This is the Big Fellow —you'll find the Saint in the tower suite of the Waldorf Astoria belonging to a Mr. Valcross—he's been treading on my toes a damn sight too long'?'

Simon Templar breathed in and out in a long sigh.

'I can't imagine,' he said. 'Maybe he'd had too much to drink. Now I come to think of it, he was a bit cock-eyed——'

'You're damn right you can't imagine it,' Kestry bit out with pugnacious satisfaction. He had been studying' the Saint's face closely, and Simon saw suspicion and confirmation pass in procession through his mind. 'I know who you are,' Kestry said. 'You are the Saint!'

Simon bowed. If he had had a chance to inspect himself in a mirror and discover the ravages which the night's ordeal had worked on his appearance, he might have been less surprised that the