The Saint Steps In

'You broke in!'

Simon shook his head.

'I didn't break anything,' he said innocently. 'I just used one of my little tricks on the lock. Really. I did no damage at all.'

Imberline made gargling noises in his throat.

'This is—this is——'

'I know,' said the Saint wearily. 'I know. I should have ap­plied for an audience through the usual channels, and filled out half a dozen forms in quintuplicate. But after all there is a war going on—to coin a phrase— and it just occurred to me that this might save us waiting a few months to meet each other.'

The red came back into Frank Imberline's square face and he seemed to swell within his gorgeous pajamas.

'I'll have you know,' he said, in a half-bellow, 'that such high-handed tactics as this—these—must be dealt with by the proper authorities I I will not be intimidated, sir, by any high handed——'

'You said that before,' Simon reminded him politely. 'Well—what in hell do you want?'

'I want to talk to you about a man who has invented a syn­thetic rubber process. One Calvin Gray.'

Imberline drew his heavy brows down over his little eyes. 'What about Calvin Gray?' he demanded.

'I'm interested in Mr. Gray's process,' said the Saint, 'and I'm wondering why the man can't get a hearing with you.'

Imberline waved a pudgy hand in a disdainful gesture.

'A nut, Mr.—er—Templar,' he said. 'A nut, pure and sim­ple. From what I've heard, he claims he can make rubber out of rhubarb, or something. Impossible, of course. I hope you haven't invested any money in his invention, sir.'

'A fool and his money are soon parted,' Simon said wisely.

'Yes,' Imberline grunted. 'Quite so. But this outrageous breaking into a man's house—a man's house is his castle, you know—you really have no excuse for that.'

The big man got out of the chair by the desk and stalked over to the bureau. He took a fat cigar from the box on the bureau top and rammed it into his mouth. Simon's eyes were watchful. But Imberline's hand did not move toward the han­dle of any drawer that might have contained a gun. He marched back across the room and slumped down into a deep easy chair.

'Okay,' he said over his cigar. 'So you broke in here to talk to me about Gray's invention. I could throw you out or have you arrested, but instead I'll listen to what you have to say.'

'Very kind of you,'  Simon  murmured.  'A soft  answer turneth away stuff.'

'What is it you want to know?' Imberline asked bluntly. 'I'm a busy man, and every minute counts.'

'While time and tide wait for no man.'

'Get to the point. Why are you here?'

Simon placed a cigarette between his lips and snapped his lighter. He was aware of Imberline's gimlet eyes watching his every movement. He exhaled a long plume of smoke and sat on the end of the bed.

'Have you ever seen Gray's product?' he asked.

'Once—or maybe twice.'

'And what was your opinion?'

If it were possible for the hulking shoulders of Frank Im­berline to shrug, they would have.

'It's something that could be synthetic—and it's something that could be made-over rubber, cleverly disguised.'

'You investigated it thoroughly, I suppose?'

'I had my staff investigate it. Their report was bad. That man Gray pestered me for weeks, trying to get to see me, and finally gave up. I hear his daughter is in town now, still trying to waste my time.'

'You haven't made an appointment with her?'

'Certainly not. There are only so many hours in the day——'

'And so many days in the week——'

'Young man,' said Mr. Imberline magisterially, 'I am a public servant. I have the most humble respect for the trust which has been placed in me, and my daily responsibility is to make sure that not one hour— not one minute—of my time shall be frittered away on things from which the Community cannot benefit.'

'You couldn't by any chance have made an appointment with her for tonight and forgotten it?' Simon asked, unawed by that resounding statement.

Imberline drew his chins together.

'Certainly not! I never forget an appointment. Punctuality is the politeness of princes ——'

'You really ought to have seen her. She's quite something to look at.'

There seemed to be a flicker of interest in the close-set eyes. Suddenly, the middle-aged lecher was there for Simon to see. The big man grinned nauseatingly.

'A nice dish, eh?'

'A very nice dish. But to get back to Gray's invention—you haven't seen it demonstrated yourself, I take it?'

Imberline shook his head.

'No. I'm a busy man. I can't be running all over the country to view the brainstorm of every crackpot. I looked at his sam­ple and I told my staff to investigate it. That's all I could do. Even you might understand that.'

Simon stared at him thoughtfully through a couple of clouds of smoke. He was beginning to get an odd feeling about this interview which fitted with nothing that he had expected. Frank Imberline was as pompous and phony as a bullfrog with a megaphone; his thinking appeared to be done in resonant cliches, and he uttered them all the time as if he were address­ing a large rally in a public square. And yet from the beginning his reaction to Simon's presence had been one of righteous indignation and not fear. It was true that the Saint hadn't waved a knife under his nose or made any threatening noises. But the Saint had also calmly admitted a technical act of burglary, which there was no denying anyhow; and any normal citizen would have regarded such an intruder as at least a po­tentially dangerous screwball. Well, possibly Imberline was one of those men who are too obtuse to be subject to ordinary fear. But in that case, why hadn't he simply rung or called for help and had the Saint arrested?

Because he was more profoundly afraid that the Saint had something else up his sleeve? Or for some other reason?

Imberline was returning his scrutiny just as shrewdly. He took the cigar out of his mouth and bit off the end. 'You tell me that Miss—er—Gray is a very attractive young woman,' he said.

'She is.'

'Young man, I'm going to ask you a question.'

'Shoot.'

'Is there any romantic reason for this interest of yours?'

The Saint shook his head.

'None at all.'

'Have you invested any money in this so-called invention?'

'No.'

Imberline struck a match and put it to the cigar.   

'Well, then,' he said in a gust of smoke, 'what the hell are you here for?'