15 The Saint in New York

whatever Fate had in store. If he must go down, he would go down as he had lived, with a jest and a smile; but the fight was sapped out of him. His whole being had settled down to the acceptance of an infinity of pain and fatigue. He only wanted to rest. He scarcely noticed the brief order from Fernack which switched the cab across towards Washington Square; and when it stopped and the door was opened he climbed out apathetically, and was surprised to find that he was not in Centre Street

Fernack followed him out and turned to Kestry.

'This is my apartment,' he said. 'I'm going to have a talk to the Saint here. You can go on. Report to me in the mom-ing. Good-night.'

He took the Saint's arm again and led him into the house, leaving the bewildered Kestry to find his own explanations. Fernack's apartment was on the street level, at the back— Simon was a trifle perplexed to find that it had a bright, com­fortable living room, with a few good etchings on the walls and bookcases filled with books which looked as if they had been read.

'You're never too old to learn,' said Fernack, who missed nothing. 'I been tryin' to get some dope about these Greeks. Did you ever hear of Euripides?' He pronounced it Eury-pieds. 'I asked a Greek who keeps a chop house on Mott Street, an' he hadn't; but the clerk in the bookstore told me he was a big shot.' He threw his hat down in a chair and picked up a bottle. 'Would you like a drink?'

'I could use it,' said the Saint with a wry grin.

Fernack poured it out and handed him the glass. It was a liberal measure. He gave the Saint time to swallow some of it and light a cigarette, and then spat at the cuspidor which stood out incongruously by the hearth.

'Saint, you're a damn fool,' he said abruptly.

'Aren't we all?' said the Saint helplessly.

'I mean you more than most. I've talked to you once. You know what it's all about. You know what I'm supposed to do now.'

'Fetch out the old baseball bat and rubber hose, I take it,' said the Saint savagely. 'Well, I know all about it. I've met your Mr. Kestry. As a substitute for intelligence and a reason­able amount of routine work, it must be the slickest thing that was ever invented.'

'We use it here,' Fernack said trenchantly. 'We've found that it works as well as anything. The only thing is, some fools don't know when you've gotta use it and when you're wastin' your time. That ain't the point. I got you here for something else. You've been out and around for some time since we had our talk. How close have you got to the Big Fellow?'

The question slammed out like a shot, without pause or ar­tifice, and something in the way it was put told Simon that the time for evasions and badinage was over.

'I was pretty damn near it when I walked into Kestry's lov­ing arms,' he said. 'In fact, I could have picked up a message in about an hour that ought to have taken me straight to him.'

Fernack nodded. His keen grey eyes were fixed steadily on the Saint's face.

'I'm not askin' you how you did it or who's sending you the message. You move fast. You're clever. It's queer that one little bullet can break up a guy like you.'

He put a hand in his hip pocket, as if his last sentence had suggested a thought which required concrete expression, and pulled out a pearl-handled gun. He tossed it in the palm of his hand.

'Guns mean a lot in this racket,' he said. 'If a bullet out of a gun hadn't hit you, you might have got away from Kestry and Bonacci. I wouldn't put it beyond you. If you had this gun now, you'd be able to get away from me.' He dropped the revolver carelessly on the table and stared at it. 'That would be pretty tough for me,' he said.

Simon looked at the weapon, a couple of yards away, and sank back further into his chair. He took another drink from his glass.

'Don't play cat-and-mouse, Fernack,' he said. 'It isn't worthy of you.'