15 The Saint in New York

'It would be pretty tough,' Fernack persisted, as if he had not heard the interruption. 'Particularly after I brought Kestry as far as the door an' then sent him home. There wouldn't be anything much I could put up for an alibi. I didn't have to see you alone in my own apartment, without even a guy waitin' in the hall in case you gave any trouble, when I could 've taken you to any station house in the city or right down to Centre Street. If anything went wrong, I'd have a hell of a lot of questions to answer; an' Kestry wouldn't help me. He must be feelin' pretty sore at the way I bawled him out at the Waldorf. It'd give him a big kick if I slipped up an' gave him the laugh back at me. Yeah, it'd be pretty tough for me if you got away, Saint.'

He scratched his chin ruminatively for a moment and then turned and walked heavily over to the far end of the room, where there was a side table with a box of cheap cigars. Si­mon's eyes were riveted, in weird fascination, on the pearl-handled revolver which the detective had left behind. It lay in solitary magnificence in the exact centre of the bare table— the Saint could have stood up and reached it in one step— but Fernack was not even looking at him. His back was still turned, and he was absorbed in rummaging through the cigar box.

'On the other hand,' the deep voice boomed on abstract­edly, 'nobody would know before morning. An' a lot of things can happen in a few hours. Take the Big Fellow, for instance. There's a guy that this city is wantin' even worse than you. It'd be a great day for the copper that brought him in. I'm not sure that even the politicians could get him out again—be­cause he's the man that runs them, an' if he was inside they'd be like a snake with its head cut off. We've got a new munic­ipal election comin' along, and this old American public has a way of waking up sometimes, when the right thing starts 'em off. Yeah—if I lost you but I got the Big Fellow instead, Kestry'd have to think twice about where he laughed.'

Fernack had found the cigar which he had been hunting down. He turned half round, bit off the end, and spat it through his teeth. Then he searched vaguely for matches.

'Yeah,' he said thoughtfully, 'there's a lot of responsibility wrapped up in a guy like you.'

Simon cleared his throat. It was oddly difficult to speak dis­tinctly.

'Suppose any of those things happened—if you did get the Big Fellow,' he said jerkily. 'Nobody's ever seen him. Nobody could prove anything. How would that help you so much?'

'I don't want proof,' Fernack replied, with a flat arrogance of certitude that was more deadly than anything the Saint had ever heard. 'If a guy like you, for instance, handed a guy to me and said he was the Big Fellow—I'd get my proof. That's what you don't understand about the third degree. When you know you're right, a full confession is more use than any amount of evidence that lawyers can twist around backwards. Don't worry. I'd get my proof.'

Simon emptied his glass. His cigarette had gone out and he had not noticed it—he threw it away and lighted another. A new warmth was spreading over him, driving away the intoler­able fatigue that gripped his limbs, crushing down pain; it might have been the quality of Fernack's brandy, or the dawn of a hope that had been dead for a long time. The unwonted hoarseness still clogged his throat.

But the fight was back in him. The hope and courage, the power and tie glory, were creeping back through his veins in a mighty tide that washed defeat and despondency away. The sound of trumpets echoed in his ears, faint and far away—how faint and far, perhaps no one but himself would ever know. But the sound was there. And if it was a deeper note, a little less brazen and flamboyant than it had ever been before, only the Saint knew how much that also meant.

He stood up and reached for the gun. Even then, he could scarcely believe that it was in his power to touch it—that it wouldn't vanish into thin air as soon as his fingers came within an inch of it, a derisive will-o'-the-wisp created by weariness and despair out of the fumes of unnatural stimulation. At least, there must be a string tied to it—it would be jerked suddenly out of his reach, while the detective jeered at him ghoulishly. . . . But Fernack wasn't even looking at him. He had turned away again and was fumbling with a box of matches as if he had forgotten what he had picked them up for.

Simon touched the gun. The steel was still warm from Fernack's pocket. His fingers closed round the butt, tightened round its solid contours; it fitted beautifully into his hand. He held it a moment, feeling the supremely balanced weight of it along the muscles of his arm; and then he put it away in his pocket

'Take care of it,' Fernack said, striking his match. 'I'm rather fond of that gun.'

'Thanks, Fernack,' said the Saint quietly. 'I'll report to you by half-past nine—with or without the Big Fellow.'

'You'd better wash and clean up a bit and get your coat on properly before you go,' said Fernack casually. 'The way you look now, any dumb cop would take you in on sight.'