The Saint Steps In

going to say before he said it.

'I was with a friend. Playin' cards.'

'You were with a friend. But you weren't playing cards. You were trying to kidnap Miss Gray. That was when we met again.'

'You'll have to prove that, bud.'

'Both Miss Gray and I are ready to identify you.'

'And my friend will say we were playin' cards.'

'Quite a while after that,' Simon continued unperturbed, 'did you by any chance take a long shot at me through my window at the Shoreham?'

'No.'

Simon inhaled throughtfully.

'No, maybe that wasn't you. That was probably your chunky friend.' He glanced down at the Pullman stub for a moment. 'You came up on the sleeper last night, so you'd have been headed for the station by that time.'

'It's a free country.'

'I didn't think you'd be a guy who appreciated free coun­tries.'

The other went on looking at him with his mouth clamped shut and his eyes hard with hate.

'I hope you know just what sort of a spot you're in,' said the Saint carefully. 'Kidnaping has been a federal rap for quite a while now, and I don't imagine you'd be very happy about having a lot of G-men move in on your life. On top of that, I catch you breaking in here——'

'I didn't break anything. The door was unlocked.'

'That doesn't make any difference. And you know it. You were carrying concealed weapons ——'

'Only because you say so.'

'And just how do you explain being here?'

'I left a coupla books,' Morgen said slowly. 'I forgot them when I was packin'. I came back to get them.'

'Why didn't you go to the house and ask for them?'

'I didn't want to make any trouble. I just thought I could find them and take them away.'

Simon shook his head judicially.

'It's a lovely story, Karl. The FBI will have lots of fun with it.'

'Go ahead. Tell them.'

'Aren't you afraid they might be a little rough with you?'

'Why don't you turn me in and find out?'

'Because,' said the Saint, 'I want to talk to you myself first.'

The man licked his lips, standing very stiffly and still holding on to the work-bench with big bony hands.

'I don't want to talk to you, bud.'

'But you don't have any choice,' Simon pointed out mildly. 'And I've got a whole lot of questions I want answered. I want to know who gave you that note to put in my pocket at the Shoreham. I want to know who hired you to put the arm on Madeline Gray. I want to know who you're working for, in a general way. I want to know where Calvin Gray is right now.'

'You better ask somebody who can tell you.'

'And who's that?'

'I wouldn't know.'

The Saint smiled very faintly.

'Tough guy, aren't you?'

'Maybe.'

'So am I,' Simon said, rather diffidently. 'I'm sure you know who I am. And I expect you've heard about me before. I'm a pretty tough guy too, Karl. I could have quite a good time getting rough with you.'

'Yeah? When do you start?'

'You don't want to play?'

'No, bud.'

The smile didn't leave the Saint's lips.

'Bud,' he said, 'your dialogue is a little dull.'

He put his weight on the foot that was on the floor, and fol­lowed it with the other.

He knew exactly what he was going to do, and he was per­fectly calm about it. It wouldn't be pretty, but that wasn't his fault. He couldn't see anything handy to tie Morgen up with at the moment, and he couldn't afford to take any chances. The man really was tough, out of the down-to-bone fiber of him—and dangerous.

The Saint's expression was amiable and engaging, and he really felt that way, taking an audit of his good fortune. Only the icy blue of his eyes matched the part of his mind that was detached and passionless and without pity or friendliness.

He walked around the bench until he was within arm's length of Morgen, and raised his right hand until his gun was at the level of Morgen's face. The other stared at it without blinking. Simon swung his wrist and forearm through a sudden arc that smashed the gun barrel against the side of the man's head. Morgen staggered and clung to the table. The Saint took another step towards him and jabbed the muzzle of the gun like a kicking piston into the region of his solar plexus. Morgen gasped throatily and sagged towards him.

The Saint took a half step back and slipped the automatic into his pocket. He used Morgan's chin like a punch-bag, giving him a left hook and then a right. The man let go the table and reeled back until he crashed into the wall behind him and slid down it to the floor.

'Get up,' Simon said relentlessly. 'This is only the begin­ning.'

The man clawed himself up against the wall. He spat blood, and spat out an unprintable phrase after it.

Simon hit him again. Morgen's head caromed off his knuckles and thudded against the wall. The man's eyes were glazing, and only the same wall at his back held him upright.

He stood flattened against it, his arms spread out a little to hold himself up.

'How does it feel to suffer for your Fuhrer?' Simon asked gently.

He hit the man once more, not so hard, but stingingly.

It wasn't a magnificent performance, and it wasn't meant to be. It was simply and callously the mechanical process known in off-the-record police lore as softening up the opposition. But the Saint had no more compunction about it than he would have had about gaffing a shark. He was too sure of how Karl Morgen would have behaved if the positions had been reversed.

He was even more sure as he stared down Morgen's eyes, still unchangeably vicious and hate-filled in spite of their un­certain focus, but beginning to shift in sheer animal dread of such ruthless punishment.

'This can go on as long as you like, Karl,' said the Saint, 'and I won't mind it a bit. I can spend the rest of the day beat­ing you to a pulp. And in between times we can try some new tricks with bunsen burners and some of the hungrier acids.'

'You son of a bitch!'

'You won't get around me by flattering my mother. Do we talk or shall we go on playing?'

He poised his fist again; and for the first time Morgen flinched and raised one arm to cover his face.

'Well?' Simon prompted.

'What d'ya want to know?'