Mr Eisenfeld nodded.
'Yeah, I saw it. They got the monument about one quarter full already--I was by there this afternoon.'
Mr Schmidt gazed vacantly at the ceiling.
'Any time you've got any other job like that, we'll still be making good cement,' he said, with the same studied casualness. 'You know we always like to look after anyone who can put a bit of business our way.'
'Sure, I'll remember it,' said Mr Eisenfeld amiably.
Mr Schmidt fingered his chin. 'Too bad about Provost, wasn't it?' he remarked.
'Yeah,' agreed Mr Eisenfeld, 'too bad.'
Half an hour later he escorted his guest out to his car. The light over the porch had gone out when he returned to the house, and without giving it any serious thought he attributed the failure to a blown fuse or a faulty bulb. He was in too good a humour to be annoyed by it; and he was actually humming complacently to himself as he groped his way up the dark steps. The light in the hall had gone out as well, and he frowned faintly over the idle deduction that it must have been a fuse. He pushed through the door and turned to close it; and then a hand clamped over his mouth, and something hard and uncongenial pressed into the small of his back. A gentle voice spoke chillingly in his ear.
'Just one word'--it whispered invitingly--'just one word out of you, Al, and your life is going to be even shorter than I expected.'
Mr Eisenfeld stood still, with his muscles rigid. He was not a physical coward but the grip which held his head pressed back against the chest of the unknown man behind him had a firm competence which announced that there were adequate sinews behind it to back up its persuasion in any hand-to-hand struggle. Also, the object which prodded into the middle of his spine constituted an argument in itself which he was wise enough to understand.
The clasp on his mouth relaxed tentatively and slid down to rest lightly on his throat. The same gentle voice breathed again on his right eardrum.
'Let us go out into the great open spaces and look at the night,' said the Saint.
Mr Eisenfeld allowed himself to be conducted back down the walk over which he had just returned. He had very little choice in the matter. The gun of the uninvited guest remained glued to his backbone as if it intended to take root there, and he knew that the fingers which rested so caressingly on his windpipe would have detected the first shout he tried to utter before it could reach his vocal cords.
A few yards down the road a car waited with its lights burning. They stopped beside it.
'Open the door and get in.'
Mr Eisenfeld obeyed. The gun slipped round from his back to his left side as his escort followed him into the seat behind the wheel. Simon started the engine and reached over to slip the gear lever into first. The headlights were switched on as they moved away from the curb; and Mr Eisenfeld found his first opportunity of giving vent to the emotions that were chasing themselves through his system.
'What the hell's the idea of this?' he demanded violently.
'We're going for a little drive, dear old bird,' answered the Saint. 'But I promise you won't have to walk home. My intentions are more honourable than anyone like you could easily imagine.'
'If you're trying to kidnap me,' Eisenfeld blustered, 'I'm telling you you can't get away with it. I'll see that you get what's coming to you ! Why, you . . .'
Simon let him make his speech without interruption. The lights of the residential section twinkled steadily past them, and presently even Eisenfeld's flood of outraged eloquence dwindled away before that impenetrable calm. They drove on over the practically deserted roads--it was after midnight, and there were very few attractions in that area to induce the pious citizens of Elmford to lose their beauty sleep--and presently Mr Eisenfeld realized that their route would take them past the site of the almost completed Elmford Riviera on the bank of the river above the town.
He was right in his deduction, except for the word 'past.' As a matter of fact, the car jolted off the main highway onto the unfinished road which led down to Elmford's playground; and exactly in the middle of the two-mile esplanade, under the very shadow of the central monument which Sam Purdell had been so modestly unwilling to accept, it stopped.
'This is as far as we go,' said the Saint, and motioned politely to the door.
Mr Eisenfeld got out. He was sweating a little with perfectly natural fear, and above that there was a growing cloud of mystification through which he was trying to discover some coherent design in the extraordinary series of events which had enveloped him in those last few minutes. He seemed to be caught up in the machinery of some hideous nightmare, in which the horror was intensified by the fact that he could find no reason in the way it moved. If he was indeed the victim of an attempt at kidnapping, he couldn't understand why he should have been brought to a place like that; but just then there was no other explanation that he could see.
The spidery lines of scaffolding on the monument rose up in a futuristic filigree over his head, and at the top of it the shadowy outlines of the chute where the cement was mixed and poured into the hollow mould of stone roosted like a grotesque and angular prehistoric bird.
'Now we'll climb up and look at the view,' said the Saint.
Still wondering, Mr Eisenfeld felt himself steered towards a ladder which ran up one side of the scaffolding. He climbed mechanically, as he was ordered, while a stream of unanswerable questions drummed bewil-deringly through his brain. Once the wild idea came to him to kick downwards at the head of the man who followed him; but when he looked down he saw that the head was several rungs below his feet, keeping a safely measured distance, and when he stopped climbing, the man behind him stopped also. Eisenfeld went on, up through the dark. He could have shouted then, but he knew that he was a mile or more from the nearest prison who might have heard him.
They came out on the plank staging which ran around the top of the monument. A moment later, as he looked back, he saw the silhouette of his unaccountable kidnapper rising up against the dimly luminous background of stars and reaching the platform to lean lazily against one of the ragged ends of scaffold pole which rose above the narrow catwalk. Behind him, the hollow shaft of the monument was a square void of deeper blackness in the surrounding dark.
'This is the end of your journey, Al,' said the stranger softly. 'But before you go, there are just one or two things I'd like to remind you about. Also, we haven't been properly introduced, which is probably making things rather difficult for you. You had better know me ... I am the Saint.'
Eisenfeld started and almost overbalanced. Where had he heard that name before? Suddenly he remembered, and an uncanny chill crawled over his flesh.
'There are various reasons why it doesn't seem necessary for you to go on living,' went on that very gentle and dispassionate voice, 'and your ugly face is only one of them. This is a pretty cockeyed world when you take it all round, but people like you don't improve it. Also, I have heard a story from a girl called Molly Provost --her father was Police Commissioner until Tuesday night, I believe.'
'She's a liar,' gasped Eisenfeld hoarsely. 'You're crazy! Listen----'
He would have sworn that the stranger had never touched him except with his gun since they got into the car, but suddenly an electric flashlight spilled a tiny strip of luminance over the boards between them, and in the bright centre of the beam he saw the other's hand running through the contents of a wallet which looked somehow familiar. All at once Eisenfeld recognized it and clutched unbelievingly at his pocket. The wallet which his guest had given him an hour ago was gone; and Eisenfeld's heart almost stopped beating.
'What are you doing with that ?' he croaked.
'Just seeing how much this installment of graft is worth,' answered the Saint calmly. 'And it looks exactly like thirty thousand dollars to me. Well, it might have been more, but I suppose it will have to do. I promised Molly that I'd see she was looked after, but I don't see why it shouldn't be at your expense. Part of this is your commission for getting this cenotaph filled with cement, isn't it? . . . It seems very appropriate.'
Eisenfeld's throat constricted, and the blood began to pound in his temples.
'I'll get you for this,' he snarled. 'You lousy crook.'
'Maybe I am a crook,' said the Saint, in a voice that was no more than a breath of sound in the still night. 'But in between times I'm something more. In my simple way I am a kind of justice. . . . Do you know any good reason why you should wait any longer for what you deserve?'
There is a time in every man's life when he knows beyond doubt or common fear that the threads of destiny
