The Saint Steps In

routine of habitual move­ments than as if she was thinking about what she was doing. 'I expect somebody called him and had him go into New York on business after I'd left, and he was kept late and had to stay over,' she said, seeming to reassure herself as much as her au­dience. 'He'll probably be home before lunch-time, and if he isn't he'll phone. He wouldn't stay away without letting me know he wouldn't be back for dinner.'

'Do you know where he usually stayed in New York?'

'He always stopped at the Algonquin. But he might have stayed with whoever he was with.'

In a little while this mythical character would be as satis­factory as a real person.

'Maybe,' said the Saint adaptively. 'I'll have some eggs and bacon as soon as they're ready.'

He went out and found the telephone in the living room, and called New York. The Algonquin Hotel informed him that nobody of the name of Calvin Gray had registered there the night before.

He lighted a cigarette and strolled out of the house. Sunlight made crazy fretwork patterns through the leaves of the sur­rounding trees, and flowers in well-kept beds splashed daubs of gay color against the white of the house and the green of square-trimmed hedges. The landscape fulfilled all the promise of the flashlight glimpses he had had the night before. The air was still cool, and there were clean and slightly damp sweet smells in it. It was a very pleasant place—a place that had been created for and that still nursed its memories of a gracious way of living that the paranoia of an unsuccessful house-painter was trying to destroy.

It seemed a long way from there to the thunder and flame of slaughter and destruction that ringed the world. And yet while that war went on Simon Templar could only acknowledge the peace and beauty around him with his mind. He had no ease in his heart to give to the enjoyment of the things he loved like fhat. No man had, or could have, until the guns were si­lent and the droning wings soared on the errands of life instead of death . . .

And perhaps even the tranquil scene in which he stood was part of a battlefield that the history books would never men­tion, but where uncountable decisions in Europe and the Orient might be lost or won.

He walked slowly around the house, his hands in his pockets and his eyes ranging over the ground. He would have missed nothing that could have told him a story, but it was a fruit­less trip. The gravel drive registered no tire prints; there were no footprints in flower beds, no conveniently dropped hand­kerchiefs or hats or wallets. Not even a button. The only con­solation was that he wasn't disappointed. He hadn't hopefully expected anything. It would have been dangerously like a trite detective story if he had found anything. But he had made the effort.

And it left him with nothing but the comfortless certainty that he had no material clues of any kind at all.

He went back into the house, and entered the dining room just as Mrs. Cook was putting a plate of sturdy eggs and crisp aromatic bacon on the table.

'That looks wonderful,' he said. 'It might even put a spark of life into my dilapidated brain.'

It was typical of him that he started on the meal with as much zest as if he had nothing more important than a day's golf on his mind. He knew that he would solve no problems by starving himself; but unlike most men, he found that ele­mentary argument quite sufficient to let him eat with un­alloyed enjoyment.

He was halfway through when Madeline Gray came in.

She wore a simple cotton dress that made her look very young and tempting, but her face was pale and her eyes were bright with strain.

'Hullo,' he said, so naturally that there might have been nothing else to say. 'How did you sleep?'

'Like a log.' She stood looking at him awkwardly. 'Did you put something in that nightcap?'

'Yes,' he said directly. 'You'd never have gone to sleep without it.'

'I know. It certainly worked. But it's left me an awful head.'

'Take an aspirin.'

'I have.'

'Then you'll feel fine in a few minutes. You should have turned over and gone to sleep again.'

'I couldn't.'

Mrs. Cook came in from the kitchen and said with excessive cheeriness: 'Good morning, Miss Gray. And what would you like for breakfast?'

'I don't feel like anything, thanks.'

'You eat something,' said the Saint firmly. 'There are going to be things to do, and even you can't keep going on air and good intentions. Bring her a nice light omelette, Mrs. Cook. Then I'll hold her mouth open and you can slide it in.'

Madeline Gray sat down at the table, and her eyes clung to the Saint with a kind of hopeless tenacity, as if he were the only thing that could hold her mind up to the verge of nor­mality.

'My father didn't come home,' she said flatly.

'No.' The Saint was deliberately as quiet and impersonal as a doctor reporting on a case. 'And you might as well have the rest of it now and get it over with. I called the Algonquin, which is where Mrs. Cook said he always stayed, and he wasn't there last night either.'

'He must have stayed with his friend,' Mrs. Cook said. 'Whoever he went to see. Any minute now he'll be calling up——'

The telephone rang while she was saying it.

Madeline ran.

And in a few moments she was back again, with the light out of her eyes.

'It's for you,' she said tonelessly. 'From Washington.'

Simon went into the living-room.

'Hamilton,' said the phone. 'I wondered if I'd find you there. About those dossiers you asked for. I happen to have a man flying to New York this afternoon. If you're in a hurry for them, you can meet him there and get them this evening.'

'When will he be there?'

'He should get in before five.'

'I'll meet him at five o'clock in the men's bar of the Roose­velt.'

'All right. He'll find you.'

'There are a couple of other things, while you're talking,' said the Saint. 'You can add a little bit to his luggage. I want one more dossier. On Frank Imberline.'

'That's easy. I'm a magician. All I have to do is wave a wand.'

'Imberline left for New York and points west this morning —or so he told me. You can check on that. And if he's stopping over in New York, find out where he can be located.'

'There aren't any other little jobs you want done, by any chance?'

'Yes. Get me okayed right away with the nearest FBI office to Stamford. I'll find out where it is. I think I'm going to have to talk to them.'

'You aren't telling me you've got more on your hands than you can hold?'

'I'm having so much fun being almost legal,' said the Saint. 'It's a new experience. You'll be hearing from me.'

He hung up, and went back to face Madeline Gray's un­spoken questions.

He shook his head.

'Just one of those things,' he said.

He sat down again; and Mrs. Cook retired reluctantly into the kitchen.

Simon faced the girl across the table. He picked up his knife and fork and made a fresh start on his meal before he said any more.