The Saint Steps In

building. The cover grew very low towards the corner, but by going flat on his stomach he was able to come up against the next wall, which had no windows in it. A few strides took him to a second corner; then he had to travel on his toes and fingertips again, stretched low like a lizard, to pass well below the front win­dows. Then he was at the door.

As he was rising, he paused when his eye reached the level of the keyhole. He could see through the tiny hall, and framed directly beyond it the man stood at one of the work-benches, facing towards him and studying something in a test tube.

Simon waited.

Presently the man put down the test tube and moved away, passing out of sight into another part of the laboratory.

The Saint straightened up.

He took the gun out of his shoulder holster and thumbed off the safety catch with his right hand while his left turned the door handle and eased the door open. The hinges re­volved without a creak. He crossed the hallway in three sound­less steps, and stood just inside the laboratory.

'Hullo, Karl,' he said softly.  

3

The man whirled at his voice, and then stood rigidly as the Saint moved his automatic very slightly to draw attention to its place in the conference.

'Looking for something?' Simon inquired politely.

The man didn't answer. Above the fold of the handkerchief that crossed his nose, his eyes were cold and ugly. The Saint had no more doubt whatever about one part of his identifica­tion. He wouldn't forget those eyes. They were the kind that didn't like anybody, and wanted to show it. They were the kind of eyes that the Saint loved to be disliked by.

'Suppose you take the awning off your kisser,' Simon sug­gested, 'and let's really get acquainted.

The man finally spoke.

'Suppose I don't.'

If there had been any doubt left, it would have ended then. That hoarse cavernous voice was recorded in the Saint's mem­ory as accurately as the eyes.

'If you don't,' Simon said definitely, 'I'll just have to shoot it off. Like this.'

The gun in his hand coughed once, a crisp bark of power that slammed the eardrums, and the bullet ruffled the cloth over one of the man's ears before it spanged into the wall behind him. The man ducked after the bullet had gone by, and felt the side of his head with an incredulous hand. His forehead was three shades paler.

'Please,' said the Saint.

He was not particularly concerned about noise any more. The windows were closed, and they were far enough from the house to be alone even for shooting purposes.

The man put his hands up slowly and untied the handker­chief behind the back of his head, revealing the rest of his face. He had a short beak of a nose and a square bony chin, and the mouth between them was thin and bracketed with deep ver­tical wrinkles. And the Saint knew him that way, too.

He had been a silent member of Frank Imberline's entourage at the Shoreham the night before.

He certainly got around.

One of his hands was moving self-consciously towards his pocket with the crumpled handkerchief, and the Saint said gently: 'No, brother. Just hold it. Because if you tried a fast draw I might have to kill you, and then we wouldn't be able to talk without a medium, and I'm fresh out of mediums.'

The movement stopped; and Simon smiled again.

'That's better. Now will you turn around?' The man obeyed. 'Now walk backwards towards me.'

The man shuffled back, dragging his feet reluctantly. When he was still six feet away, the Saint took two noiseless strides to meet him. Without changing his grip on his gun, he brought up his right hand and smashed the butt down on the back of the man's head. The man's knees buckled, and he feel for­ward on to his hands. Simon trod hard on the small of his back and flattened him. Then he came down on him with his knees.

He dropped his gun into a side pocket, grasped the lapels of the man's coat, and hauled it back over the man's shoulders to the level of his elbows. In a few lightning movements he emptied the man's pockets. He got a short-barreled revolver from one hip, and a blackjack from the other. The other pock­ets yielded very little—a ten-dollar bill, some small change, a car key, one of those pocket-knives that open up into the equivalent of a small chest of tools, and a thin wallet.

Simon gathered up the revolver, the blackjack, the knife, and the wallet, and retreated with them to the nearest workbench. He put the revolver and the knife in another of his pockets. Then he took out his own automatic again and kept it in his hand. He sat side-saddle on the bench while he emptied the wallet. It contained three new twenty-dollar bills, a cou­ple of stamps, the stub of a Pullman ticket, a draft card with a 4-F classification, and a New York driving license.

Both the draft card and the driving license bore the name of Karl Morgen.

'Karl,' said the Saint softly, 'it was certainly nice of you to drop in.'

The man on the floor groaned and struggled to get his head off the ground.

Simon Templar fished out a cigarette and then a book of matches. He thumbed one of the matches over until he could rub the head on the striking pad one-handed. His eyes and his gun stayed watchfully on his prisoner. And all of him was awake with a great and splendiferous serenity.

If there could have been anything better than a hundred per cent fulfillment of the wildest possibilities he had dreamed of, he had been modest enough not to ask for it.

He could get along very beautifully with this much.

Karl Morgen. A man who had something to do with Imber­line. A man who could be used for kidnaping. A man who had once worked for Calvin Gray. A man of very questionable antecedents. A man who might tie many curious things to­gether. All combined in one blessed bountiful bonanza.

The Saint exhaled smoke and regarded him almost affec­tionately.

He said: 'Get up.'

Morgen had his head off the ground. He got his elbows un­der him and hunched his back. Then he gathered in his long legs. Somehow he got himself together and crawled up off the floor. He stood unsteadily, clutching the end of the work­bench for support.

'Karl,' said the Saint, 'you used to work here.'

'So what?'

'Why did you come back?'           

The man's eyes were unflinchingly malevolent.

'That's none of your business, bud.'

'Oh, but it is. Where were you last night?'

Morgen took his time.

Then he said: 'In Washington.'

'So you were. You were in the dining room of the Shoreham with Frank Imberline.'

'That's no crime.'

'We got a bit crowded, and you slipped a note in my pocket.'

'I did not.'

'The note said 'Mind your own business.' '

'Why don't you do that, bud?'

The Saint was still patient.

'Where were you after that?'

Again that deliberate pause. This wasn't a man who panicked. He thought all around what he was