15 The Saint in New York

Ten minutes later Simon Templar left the house. Fernack did not even watch him go.

*    *    *

Chris Cellini himself appeared behind the bars of his base­ment door a few moments after Simon rang the bell. He recog­nized the Saint almost at once and let him in. In spite of the hour, his rich voice had not lost a fraction of its welcoming cordiality.

'Come in, Simon! I hope you don't want a steak now, but you can have a drink.'

He was leading the way back towards the kitchen, but Simon hesitated in the corridor.

'Is anyone else here?'

Chris shook his head.

'Nobody but ourselves. The boys have only just gone—we had a late night tonight, or else you'd of found me in bed.'

He sat the Saint down at the big centre table, stained with the relics of an evening's conviviality, and brought up a bot­tle and a couple of clean glasses. His alert brown eyes took in the pallor of Simon's face, the marks on his shirt which showed beyond the edge of his coat, and the stiffness of his right arm.

'You've been in the wars, Simon. Have you seen a doctor? Are you all right?'

'Yes, I'm all right,' said the Saint laconically.

Chris regarded him anxiously for a moment longer; and then his rich habitual laugh pealed out again—a big, mean­ingless, infectious laugh that was the ultimate expression of his sunny personality. If there was a trace of artificiality about it then, Simon understood the spirit of it.

'Say, one of these days you'll get into some serious trouble, and I shall have to go to your funeral. The last time I went to a funeral, it was a man who drank himself to death. I remem­ber a couple of years ago ...'

He talked with genial inconsequence for nearly an hour, and Simon was unspeakably glad to have all effort taken out of his hands. Towards the end of that time Simon was watch­ing the slow crawling of the hands of the clock on the wall till his vision blurred; the sudden jangle of the bell in the passage outside made him start. He downed the rest of his drink quickly.

'I think that's for me,' he said.

Chris nodded, and the Saint went outside and picked up the receiver.

'Hullo,' said a thick masculine voice. 'Is dat Mabel?'

'No, this is not Mabel,' said the Saint viciously. 'And I hope she sticks a knife in you when you do find her.'

Over in Brooklyn, a disconsolate Mr. Bungstatter jiggered the hook querulously and then squinted blearily at the danc­ing figures on his telephone dial and stabbed at them dog­gedly again.

The Saint went back to the kitchen and shrugged heavily in answer to Chris's unspoken question. Chris was silent for a short while and then went on talking again as if nothing had happened. In ten minutes the telephone rang again.

Simon lighted a fresh cigarette to steady his nerves—he was surprised to find how much they had been shaken. He went out and listened again.

'Simon? This is Fay.'

The Saint's heart leaped, and his hand tightened on the receiver; he was pressing it hard against his ear as if he were afraid of missing a word. She had no need to tell him who it was—the cadences of her voice would ring in his memory for the rest of his life.

'Yes,' he said. 'What's the news?'

'I haven't been able to get him yet. I've tried all the usual channels. I'm still trying. He doesn't seem to be around. He may get one of my messages at any time, or try to get through to me on his own. I don't know. I'll keep on all night if I have to. Where will you be?'

'I'll stay here,' said the Saint