The Saint Steps In

'All right, Junior,' the Saint said pleasantly. 'We can do without all that. Just who are you and who do you work for?'

The little man drew himself up to his full height of about five feet three.

'I might ask you the same question,' he retorted. 'Who are you that you think you can attack ——'

'Look,' said the Saint. 'I haven't much time, and although I'm usually an exceedingly patient sort of bloke, I'm slightly allergic to people who listen at my door with patent listening gadgets. Who sent you here and what did you expect to find out?'

'My name,' squeaked the little man, 'is Sylvester Angert. And I was not listening at your door. I was trying to find my own room. I thought this was it. I was about to try my key in the lock when you assaulted me.'

'I see,' said the Saint thoughtfully. 'Of course, you didn't check the number of my room with the number on your key before you—er—prepared to try the lock. And you always have a good reason to listen to what might be going on inside your room before you enter. Is that it?'

The little man's eyes held Simon's firmly for a second and then slid away.

'If you must know,' he said, with a spark of defiance, 'that's exactly what I do. Listen, I mean. I've done that ever since I had an unpleasant experience in Milwaukee. I walked into my room, and I was held up by two thugs who were wait­ing for me there. I procured this little instrument to safeguard myself against just that sort of thing.'

'Oh, Lord,' said the Saint faintly. 'Now I've heard every­thing.'

'Believe it or not,' said Sylvester Angert, 'that's the truth.'

'Suppose you show me your key,' Simon suggested.

Mr. Angert probed his pockets and came up with the tabbed key and offered it to the Saint. Simon checked the number and frowned thoughtfully. Its last two digits corresponded with the number of Simon's room. Mr. Angert, it appeared, oc­cupied the suite immediately above the Saint's.

Simon returned the key and smiled easily.

'Everything checks beautifully, doesn't it?' he asked. 'Sup­pose you have a seat, Sylvester, and toy with a drink while we talk this over.'

Reluctantly the little man took a chair across the room from the door. Simon splashed liquor into a glass and fizzed the soda syphon. He nodded in the direction of the girl.

'I suppose introductions are in order,' he said. 'Mr. An­gert, this is Miss Millie Van Ess. Miss Van Ess, Mr. Angert.'

His eyes were bland but they would not have missed the minutest change in Angert's expression, if there had been any reaction to the alias he had inflicted on Madeline Gray. But he saw no reaction at all.

The little man nodded stiffly to the girl and murmured something that might have been 'How do you do.' He took the glass from Simon and sipped the highball daintily.

Simon's long brown fingers reached for a cigarette.

'Now, Mr. Angert,' he said. 'I'm sure you'll agree that ex­planations are in order—on both sides, possibly. Just what is your business, Comrade?'

The liquor seemed to give the little man courage, or perhaps it was the realisation that he was not going to be stretched on a rack—at least not immediately. Over the rim of his glass, he said: 'I don't know your name, sir.'

'So sorry. It's Templar, Simon Templar.'

Angert's voice was quite calm as he said: 'I believe I've heard of you. Aren't you the one they call the Saint, or some such name?'

Simon bowed modestly.

'My wife, that's Mrs. Angert, takes a great interest in the crime news in the papers, and I've heard her mention your name. I, personally, don't pay much attention to that sort of thing.' He looked up apologetically. 'Not,' he added, 'that I have anything against crime news, but——'

Simon held up a hand.

'No apologies, please,' he said. 'I much prefer the funnies and the produce market reports, myself. But what do you do, brother, besides not read crime news?'

The little man delved into a vest pocket and brought out a card. Simon read that Sylvester was sales manager of the Choctaw Pipe and Tube Company of Cleveland.

'I'm in Washington, trying to get to see somebody about a subcontract, but, oh dear, I just haven't been able to do any­thing! They all keep sending me from one office to the other and then back to the place I contacted first.'

Simon casually slipped the card into his pocket and dragged at his cigarette.

'I take it you make pipes and tubes,' he said.

'We did, up until the war,' explained Sylvester. 'Then we converted to more direct war products. Naturally, I can't ex­plain just what we're turning out now, but it's important Yessiree, very important, if I may say so.'

'I'm sure you may,' Simon murmured.

Then he shot his next question in a rapier-like tone that cut away the smug complacency Sylvester seemed to be building up as thoroughly as a sharp knife would rip away cheesecloth.

'Does your plant have anything to do with rubber?' he de­manded.

This time Mr. Angert's eyes bounced a bit. He had been prepared for the other questions, but this one had come out of nowhere and there was a split second's interval before he recovered.

'Rubber? Oh no. We're a metal production outfit No, we have nothing to do with rubber at all.'

Simon half turned away to freshen his drink.

'Naturally not,' he said. 'That was rather a silly question.'

Sylvester Angert finished his drink and got out of his chair. He laughed rather uncertainly.

'I'm sorry I was so—so harsh when I first—er—arrived here, but the surprise ... I guess I do owe you an apology at that. Perhaps we could get together for a drink tomorrow.'

'Perhaps,' said the Saint noncommittally.

'And now I'd better be getting up to my room. It's getting late and I've had a hard day. Goodnight Miss Van Ess, Mr. Templar.'

He ducked his head and scuttled out of the room.

Madeline giggled.

'A funny little man,' she said.

'Very. Will you excuse me for a second? I've got a couple of calls to make.'

He went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He called a local number which was not in any directory, and talked briefly with a man named Hamilton, whom very few people knew. Then he called the desk and exchanged a few words with Information. He returned to the living room, smil­ing in his satisfaction.

'A funny little man indeed,' he said. 'There is no such ani­mal as the Choctaw Pipe and Tube Company of Cleveland. And the suite above this is occupied by a senator who's been living there ever since his misguided constituents banded to­gether in a conspiracy to get him out of his home state.'

'Then——'

'Oh, he's harmless,' the Saint assured her. 'I don't think he'll bother us again. It will be somebody very different from little Sylvester who'll probably get the next assignment.

'But who's he working for?'

'The same people, my dear, who seem to be determined that your father's invention is going to blush unseen. I only hope for your sake that hereafter they limit their activities to such things as visits by Sylvester Angert. But I'm afraid they won't.'

'What difference does it make?' she protested. 'If you'll really help me—and if you're really like any