15 The Saint in New York

intrusion was disposed of, but his eyes were watching the door.

It was Inspector Fernack who came in.

He stood just inside the room, pushing back his hat, and took in the scene with hard and alert grey eyes. His craglike face showed neither elation nor surprise; the set of his massive shoulders was as solid and immutable as a mountain.

'What's this?' he asked.

'We got the Saint,' Kestry proclaimed exultantly. 'The other guy—Valcross—ain't been here, but this punk'll soon tell me where to look for him. I was just puttin' him on the grill ——'

'You're telling me?' Fernack roared in on him abruptly, in a voice that dwarfed even the bull-throated harshness of his subordinate's. 'You bloody fool! Who told you to do it here? Where d'you get that stuff, anyway?'

Kestry gulped as if he could not believe his ears.

'But say, Chief, where's the harm? This mug wouldn't come through—he was wisecrackin' as if this was some game we were playin' at—and I didn't want to waste any time gettin' Valcross as well ——'

'So that's what they taught you at the Police Academy, huh?' Fernack ripped in searingly. 'I always wondered what that place was for. That's a swell idea, Kestry. You go ahead. Tear the place to pieces. Wake all the other guests in the hotel up an' get a crowd outside. Bonacci can be ringing up the tabloids an' gettin' some reporters in to watch while you're do­ing it. The commissioner'll be tickled to death. He'll probably resign and hand you his job!'

Kestry let go the Saint's wrist and edged away. Simon had never seen anything like it. The great blustering bully of a few moments ago was transformed into the almost ludicrous semblance of a schoolboy who has been caught stealing apples. Kestry practically wriggled.

'I was only tryin' to save time. Chief,' he pleaded.

'Get outside, and have a taxi waiting,' Fernack commanded tersely. 'I'll bring the Saint down myself. After that you can go home. Bonacci, you stay here an' wait for Valcross if he comes in. . . .'

Simon had admired Fernack before, but he had never appreciated the dominance of the man's character so much. Fernack literally towered over the scene like a god, booming out curt, precise directions that had the effect of cannon balls. In less than a minute after he had entered the room he had cleaned it up as effectively as if he had gone through it with a giant's flail. Kestry almost slunk away, vacating the apartment as if he never wished to see it again. Bonacci, who had been edging away into an inconspicuous corner, sank into a chair as if he hoped it would swallow him up completely until the thunder had gone. Fernack was left looming over the situation like a volcano, and there was a gleam in his frosted gaze which hinted that he would not have cared if there had been another half-dozen pygmies for him to destroy.

He eyed the Saint steadily, taking in the marks of battle which were on him. The detective's keen stare missed nothing, but no reaction appeared on the granite squareness of his face. From the beginning he had given no sign of recognition; and Simon, accepting the cue, was equally impassive.

'Come on,' Fernack grunted.

He took the Saint's sound arm and led him out to the ele­vator. They rode down in silence and found Kestry waiting sheepishly with a taxi. Fernack pushed the Saint in and turned to his lieutenant.

'You can go with us,' he said.

They journeyed downtown in the same atmosphere of silent tension. Kestry's muteness was aggrieved and plaintive, yet wisely self-effacing; Fernack refrained from talking because he chose to refrain—he was majestically unconcerned with what reasons might be attributed to his taciturnity. Simon wondered what was passing in the iron detective's mind. Fernack had given him his chance once, had even confessed himself theo­retically in sympathy; but things had passed beyond a point where personal prejudices could dictate their course. The Saint thought that he had discerned a trace of private enthusiasm in the temperature of the bawling out which Fernack had given Kestry, but even that meant little. The Saint had given the city of New York a lot of trouble since that night when he had talked to Fernack in Central Park, and he respected Fernack's rugged honesty too much to think of any personal appeal. As the cards fell, so they lay.

The Saint was getting beyond caring. The vast weariness which had enveloped him had dragged him down to the point where he could do little more than wait with outward stub­bornness for