testify that you spent your time waiting there--the man in the moon?'
'No,' said the Saint. 'Because I didn't go there.'
Fernack's eyes narrowed with the fog that was starting to creep into his brain.
'Well, what----'
'I was expecting some sort of call like that,' said the Saint. 'I knew somebody was going to knock off this exhibition--after the bet I'd made with Vascoe, the chance of getting away with it and having me to take the rap was too good to miss. I meant it to look good --that's why I made the bet. But of course our friend had to be sure I wouldn't have an alibi, and he was pretty cunning about it. He guessed that you'd be having me shadowed, but he knew that a message like he sent me would make me shake my shadow. And then I'd have a fine time trying to prove that I spent an hour or so standing under a traffic light in Central Park at that hour of the night. Only I'm pretty cunning myself, when I think about it, so I didn't go. I came here instead.'
Fernack's mouth opened again.
'You----'
'What are we wasting time for?' snorted Vascoe. 'He admits he was here----'
'I was here,' said the Saint coolly. 'You know how the back of the house goes practically down to the East River, and you have a little private garden there and a landing stage? I knew that if anything was happening, it 'd happen on that side--it'd be too risky to do anything on the street frontage, where anybody might come by and see it. Well, things were happening. There was a man out there, but I beat him over the head and tied him up before he could make a noise. Then I waited around, and somebody opened the window from inside and threw out a parcel. So I picked it up and took it home. Here it is.'
He took it out of his hip pocket--it was a very large parcel, and the bulge would have been easy to notice if anyone had got behind him.
Vascoe let out a hoarse yell, jumped at it and wrenched it out of his hands. He ripped it open with clawing fingers.
'My miniatures!' he sobbed. 'My medallions--my cameos! My----'
'Here, wait a minute!'
Fernack thrust himself forward again, taking possession of the package. For a second or two the denouement had blown him sky-high, turned him upside down and left him with the feeling that the pit of his stomach had suddenly gone away on an unauthorized vacation; but now he had his bearings again. He faced the Saint with homicidal determination.
'It's a fine story,' he said raspily. 'But this is one time you're not going to get away with it. Yeah, I get the idea. You pull the job so you can win your bet and then you bring the stuff back with that fairy tale and think everything's going to be all right. Well, you're not going to get away with it! What happened to the guy you say you knocked out and tied up, and who else saw him, and who else saw all these things happen?'
The Saint smiled.
'I left him locked up in the garage,' he said. 'He's probably still there. As for who else saw him, Martin Ingerbeck was with me.'
'Who?'
'Ingerbeck himself. The detective bloke. You sec, I happened to help him with a job once, so I didn't see why I shouldn't help him with another.* So as soon as I guessed what was going to happen, I called him up and he met me at once and came along with me. He even recognized the bloke who opened the window, too.'
*See Saint Overboard (Crime Club).
'And who was that?' Fernack demanded derisively, but somehow his derision sounded hollow.
The Saint bowed.
'I'm afraid,' he said, 'it was the Earl of East-ridge.'
His lordship stared at him pallidly.
'I think you must be mad,' he said.
'It's preposterous !' spluttered Vascoe. 'I happen to have made every inquiry about Lord Eastridge. There isn't the slightest doubt that he's----'
'Of course he is,' said the Saint calmly. 'But he wasn't always. It's a curious old English custom--a fellow can go around with one name for most of his life and then he inherits a title and changes his name without any legal formalities. It's funny that you should have been asking me about him, Fernack. His name used to be Dennis Umber. As soon as Meryl mentioned the Earl of Eastridge I remembered what it was that I'd read about him in the papers. I'd noticed that he came into an earldom when his uncle died. That's why I thought something like this might happen, and that's why I made that bet with Vascoe.'
The night guard fizzed suddenly out of his retirement.
'That's right!' he exploded excitedly. 'I'll bet it was him. I wondered why I went off to sleep like that. Well, about two o'clock he came downstairs--said he was looking for something to read because he couldn't get to sleep--and got me to have a drink with him. It was just after he went upstairs again that I fell off. That drink must've been doped!'
Eastridge looked from side to side and his face twitched. He made a sudden grab at his pocket, but Fernack was too quick for him.
Simon Templar hitched himself off the armchair as the brief scuffle subsided.
'Well, that seems to be that,' he observed languidly. 'You'll have to wait for another chance, Fernack. Go home and take some lessons in detecting, and you may do better next time.' He looked at Vascoe. 'I'll see my lawyers later and find out what sort of a suit we can cook up on account of all the rude things you've been saying, but meanwhile I'll collect my check from Morgan Dean.' Then he turned to Meryl. 'I'm going to lend Bill Fulton the profits to pay off his debts with,' he said. 'I shall expect a small interest in his invention and a large slice of wedding cake.'
Before she could say anything he was gone. Thanks didn't interest him: he wanted breakfast.
VI THE STAR PRODUCERS
Mr homer quarterstone was not, to be candid, a name to conjure with in the world of the Theatre. It must be admitted that his experience behind the footlights was not entirely confined to that immortal line: 'Dinner is served.' As a matter of fact, he had once said 'The Baron is here' and 'Will there be anything further, madam?' in the same act; and in another never-to-be-forgotten drama which had run for eighteen performances on Broadway, he had taken part in the following classic dialogue:
Nick: Were you here?
Jenkins (Mr Homer Quarterstone) : No sir.
Nick: Did you hear anything?
Jenkins : No sir.
Nick : A hell of a lot of use you are.
Jenkins : Yes sir.
(Exit, carrying tray.)
In the executive line, Mr Quarterstone's career had been marked by the same magnanimous emphasis on service rather than personal glory. He had not actually produced any spectacles of resounding success but he had contributed his modest quota to their triumph by helping to carry chairs and tables on to the stage and arrange them according to the orders of the scenic director. And although he had not actually given his personal guidance to any of the financial manoeuvres associated with theatrical production, he had sat in the box office at more than one one-night stand, graciously controlling the passage over the counter of those fundamental monetary items without which the labours of more egotistical financiers would have been fruitless.
Nevertheless, while it is true that the name of Quar-terstone had never appeared in any headlines, and that his funeral cortege would never have attracted any distinguished pallbearers, he had undoubtedly found the Theatre more profitable than many other men to whom it had given fame.
He was a man of florid complexion and majestic bearing, with a ripe convexity under his waistcoat and a forehead that arched glisteningly back to the scruff of his neck; and he had a taste for black homburgs and astrakhan-collared overcoats which gave an impression of great artistic prosperity. This prosperity was by no means illusory, for Mr Homer Quarterstone, in his business capacity, was now the principal, president, director, owner and twenty-five percent of the staff of the Supremax Academy of Dramatic Art, which according to its frequent advertisements had been the training ground, the histrionic hothouse, so to speak, of many stars whose names
