The Saint Steps In

Angert worked for me on and off over a period of ten years, and I'd vouch for him anywhere. He was just caught in the middle, the same as I was.'

'That's what it seems like,' admitted Jetterick. 'But 1 still don't get it. If Morgen was working for the same outfit as this woman who hired you, what would he kill Angert for?'

The same riddle had been distracting the Saint's attention for a long time; but he still kept silent about his ace in the hole. No doubt it was most reprehensible of him, but he had always been rather weak on the ethics of such matters. He had called in the FBI for their obvious usefulness, and the local police out of necessity; but he had no idea at all of retiring into the background of the case. On the contrary, he felt that his own activity was only just beginning. And Andrea Quen­nel was an angle to which he felt he had a special kind of pro­prietary claim.

Madeline Gray came back and said to the other three: 'You'd better have some lunch with us while your men are finishing up.'

They were drinking coffee when there was a phone call for Jetterick from New York. When he returned to the table his pleasantly commonplace face was stoical.

'They're checked on that address,' he said. 'It's just one of those accommodation places. The girl's description fits.But she didn't leave any forwarding address. She said she'd call in for messages.'

'I could have guessed that,' Schindler said, 'as soon as I heard the rest of the story.'

'We're watching the place, of course. If she goes there, we'll pick her up.'

Simon drew on his cigarette.

'If she hears that Sylvester was cooled off,' he remarked, 'she isn't likely to go there.'

'That's true. But we can try.'

'Does she have to hear about it?' Schindler asked.

Jetterick shrugged.

'I don't have to say anything. How about you, Chief?'

'I'll do what I can to keep it quiet,' Wayvern answered. 'But I don't promise more than twenty-four hours. These things always leak out somehow. Then the reporters are on my neck, and I have to talk.'

'Twenty-four hours are better than nothing,' said Jetterick.

'While we're keeping things quiet,' said the Saint, 'I wish we could pretend that Madeline hasn't been here. The Ungodly are still looking for her. But Morgen didn't see her, so far as I know; and I told him she was in New York. Madeline can ask Mrs. Cook to stay overnight, and make up some story for her husband, so that there's no gossip around the town. The more we can keep Madeline hidden, the less likely we are to lose her.'

'I can tell my men they didn't see her,' said Wayvern.

'Besides that,' Simon went on, 'she ought to have a guard. Just in case. I've got to go to New York this afternoon, and I can't promise to be back tonight.'

Jetterick grimaced.

'If I had a man to spare,' he said, 'I could divide him into six pieces and need all of them.'

'I can take care of that,' said Wayvern.

They all looked at each other. They seemed to have reached the end of what they could do.

'I'm driving in to New York,' Schindler offered. 'I can give you a lift, Simon.'

It was still a while before they got away.

They talked the case to pieces all the way to the city, but the Saint was guilty of keeping most of his conclusions to himself and only contributing enough to sound natural and stay with the conversation. He had had enough analysing and theorising to last him for a long time. And now he was even more restless to get his hands on the dossiers that should be on their way to meet him. Somewhere in them, he hoped, there would be a key to at least one of the puzzles that was twisting through his brain. In spite of his friendship for Ray Schindler, he was glad when the ride was over and he could feel alone and unham­pered again for whatever came next.

He was at the Roosevelt at four-thirty, and he was down to the last drop of a studiously nursed Martini when a thin gray man say down at his table and laid a bulky envelope between them. Typed on the envelope was 'Mr. Sebastian Tombs.'

'From Hamilton,' said the thin gray man dolefully.

'God bless him,' said the Saint.

'I hope I didn't keep you waiting?'

'No, I was early.' Simon signaled a waiter. 'Have a drink.'

'Thank you, no. I have ulcers.'

'One dry Martini,' said the Saint, and turned back to the thin gray man. 'Did Hamilton give you a message too?'

'The party you asked about is staying at the Savoy Plaza to­night.'

'Good.'

'If you'll excuse me,' said the thin gray man sadly, 'I must go and keep some other appointments.'

He got up and went grayly and wispily away, a perfect nonentity, perfectly enveloped in protective coloring, whom nobody would ever notice or remember—and perfect for his place in a machine of infinite complexity.

Simon weighed the package in his hand and teased the flap with his thumb while he tasted his second cocktail, but he de­cided against opening it there. At that hour, the place was getting too busy and noisy, filling tip with business men intent on restoring themselves from the day's cares of commerce, and he wanted to concentrate single-mindedly on his reading.

He finished his drink more quickly than the last, but still with self-tantalising restraint, and put the envelope in his pocket and went out. His thoughts were working towards a quiet hotel room, a bottle of Peter Dawson, a bowl of ice, a pack of cigarettes, and a period of uninterrupted research. That may have been why he suddenly realised that he had been staring quite blankly at an open green convertible that swerved in to the curb towards him with a blonde blue-eyed goddess waving to him from behind the wheel.

He walked over to the car quite slowly, almost as though he were uncertain of the recognition; but he was absolutely certain, and it was as if the pit of his stomach dropped down below his belt and climbed up again.

'Hullo, Andrea,' he said.

2

After the first chaotic instant he knew that this was only a coincidental encounter. No one except Hamilton and the thin gray courier could have told that he would be there at that moment—he had even let Schindler decant him at the Ritz-Carlton and walked over. But out of such coincidence grew the gambler's excitement of adventure. And there was no doubt any more that Andrea Quennel was adventure, no matter how dangerous.

Even if the only way she looked dangerous was the kind of way that had never given the Saint pause before.

She wore a soft creamy sweater that clung like suds to every curve of her upper sculpture, and her lips were full and invit­ing.

'Hullo,' she said. 'Surprised?'

'A little,' he admitted mildly.

'We flew up this morning. Daddy had some business to at­tend to in New York, so I was going to Westport.'

'What are you running on—bathtub gasoline?'