15 The Saint in New York

phlegmatically; and then an idea struck him. He slapped his thigh. 'Chees!' he said. 'I t'ought ya was kiddin'. Dat's better 'n hoistin' de bank!'

'What is?' inquired the Saint, with slight puzzlement.

'Aw, nuts,' said the driver. 'Ya can't catch me twice. Why, puttin' de arm on Lowell Vandrick himself, of course. Chees! I can see de headlines. 'Sebastian Lipski an' de Saint Snatches off de President of de Vandrick National Bank.' Chees, pal, ya had me guessin' at foist!'

Simon grinned silently and resigned himself to letting Mr. Lipski enjoy himself with his dreams. To have disillusioned the man before it was necessary, he felt, would have been as heartless as robbing an orphan of a new toy.

He sat back, mechanically lighting another cigarette in the chain that stretched far back into the incalculable past, and watched the imposing neo-Assyrian portals of the bank. A few belated clerks arrived and scuttled inside, admitted by a liveried doorkeeper who closed the doors again after each one. An early depositor arrived, saw the closed doors, scowled in­dignantly at the doorkeeper, and drifted aimlessly round the sidewalk in small circles, chewing the end of a pencil. The doorkeeper consulted his watch with monotonous regularity every half-minute. Simon became infected with the habit and began counting the seconds until the bank would open, find­ing himself tense with an indefinable restlessness of expecta­tion.

And then, with an effect that gripped the Saint into almost breathless immobility, the first notes of nine o'clock chimed out from somewhere near by.

Stoically the doorkeeper dragged out his watch again, cor­roborated the announcement of the clock to his own satisfac­tion, opened the doors, and left them open, taking up his im­pressive stance outside. The early investor broke off in the middle of a circle and scurried in to do his business. The bank was open.

Otherwise Fifth Avenue was unchanged. A few other de­positors arrived, entered the bank, and departed, with the preoccupied air of men who were carrying the weight of the nation's commerce. A patrolman strolled by, with the pre­occupied air of a philosopher wondering what to philosophize about, if anything. Pedestrians passed up and down on their own mysterious errands. And yet Simon Templar felt himself still clutched in the grip of that uncanny suspense. He could give no account for it. He could not even have said why he should have been so fascinated by the processes of opening the bank. For all he knew, it might merely have been a convenient landmark for a meeting place, and even if the building itself was concerned there were hundreds of other offices on the upper floors which might have an equal claim on his attention; nine o'clock was the hour, simply an hour for him to be there, without any evidence that something would explode at that instant with the precision of a timed bomb; but he could not free himself from the almost melodramatic sense of expectation that made his left hand close tightly on the pearl grips of Fernack's gun.

And then, while his eyes were searching the street restlessly, he suddenly saw Valcross sauntering by, and for the moment forgot everything else.

In a flash he was out of the cab, crossing the pavement— he did not wish to make himself conspicuous by yelling from the window of the taxi. He clapped Valcross on the shoulder, and the older man turned quickly. His eyes widened when he saw the Saint.

'Why, hullo, Simon. I didn't know you were ever up at this hour.'

'I'm not,' said the Saint. 'Where on earth have you been?'

'Didn't you find my note? It was on the mantelpiece.'

Simon shook his head.

'There are reasons why I haven't had a chance to look for notes,' he said. 'Come into my taxi and talk—I don't want to stand around here.'

He seized Valcross by the arm and led him back to the cab. Mr. Lipski's homely features lighted up in applause mingled with delirious amazement—if that was kidnapping, it was the slickest and simplest job that he had ever dreamed of. Regret­fully, Simon told him to wait where he was, and slammed the communicating window on him.

'Where have you been, Bill?' he repeated.

'I had to go to Pittsburgh and see a man on business. I heard about it just after you'd gone out, and I didn't know how to get in touch with you. I had supper with him and came back this morning—flying both ways. I've only just got in.'