'Really?' drawled the Saint. 'You mean he----'
'Oh, no--nothing like that!'
Simon was prepared to give something to know what 'that' was that Allen Uttershaw was nothing like. He suspected the worst, in Mrs Ourley's peculiar mind.
He applied an expression of fascinated suspense to his mask, and waited.
'When I say that,' she elucidated, 'I mean that he's--he's-- well, I can only say that he must be anti-social.' Her voice became positively vibrant. 'Do you know, out of all the times we've invited him to dinner, last night was the first time he's been to see us in months!'
She relaxed triumphantly, with the air of having furnished incontrovertible evidence that the subject under discussion was a dangerous case who should be lured into a padded cell at the earliest opportunity.
Simon clicked his tongue gloomily, shaking his head at the dreadful realisation that his recent companion was indisputably an incurable schizophrene. His manifest distress spurred Mrs Ourley to further expansions.
'Not only that,' she said, in confidential accents that could not possibly have been heard more than three tables away, 'but I think he has a grudge against Milton. Of course, he's just as friendly and charming as he can be when he's with us, but he does things behind Milton's back.'
'How horrible,' muttered the Saint solemnly, with no qualms at all that either innuendo or sarcasm would register on that target.
He was absolutely right, for whatever satisfaction the experiment was worth.
'Yes, indeed,' she trilled. 'For instance, when Milton was put up for one of Allen's clubs, only a little while ago, he was voted down. And I have it on very good authority that it was Allen who blackballed him. And after he'd been a guest in our home, too!'
Simon searched for words to express his revulsion at such perfidy, but before he had formulated the fitting phrase he was saved by the bell again. The same heaven-sent bellboy stood by the table again.
'Telephone, Mr Templar.'
'Thank you,' said the Saint, and really meant it.
He went out to the booth in the lobby and said: 'Hullo.'
'What the hell,' roared the voice of Inspector Fernack, like a bursting dam, 'are you doing there?'
The Saint smiled, and picked a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket.
'Hullo, John Henry,' he said cordially. 'I'm just finishing lunch and making love to a retired Ziegfeld girl. What are you doing?'
'How did you get loose?'
'I didn't. The FBI turned me loose. I promised to be a good boy, and they took one look at my cherubic countenance and knew they could trust me.'
'If you think----'
'I do, Henry. And don't you send half a dozen squad cars screaming up here to grab me again, because if you do the FBI will hear about it at once, and then they'll think I've violated my parole by getting into bad company and associating with policemen again, and of course they'd have to come right over and ask to have me back.'
'I don't believe----'
'But you must, Comrade. If you don't, you're liable to look awful foolish. And that would never do. Think of your dignity. Think of the prestige of the Force. And if that's too much work for you, call Brother Eldon's office and verify it.'
There was an interval of silence, during which Simon could almost see the detective's aorta laboring like a stimulated blow-fish.
Finally Fernack said, in a painful parody of his ordinary voice: 'Templar, what are you doing in this setup?'
'You heard from Fiftyfirst Street?'
'Yes.' It was a grudging admission. 'But----'
'Then at least you've got something.'
'But where did you find it?'
'I can't tell you yet. But at least I'm giving you a break. Don't. you think I'm being good to you? I don't think you appreciate j it. Think of the glory I'm helping you to grab for yourself. And now I'm going to give you some more. By tomorrow, you'll have half the morning paper headlines all to yourself.'
Fernack said suspiciously: 'What's this?'
'In just a few minutes, any bright bull who walks into my suite here will be able to pinch a couple of old- timers. Their names are Ricco Varetti and Cokey Walsh. They will be trying to steal a very handsome piece of luggage from me, and they might even be attempting some private unpleasantness on my person. You've got their records, no doubt.'
'I know 'em both. But what've they got to do with----'
'You'll find out. Come on over and play some flagrante de-licto.'
'I can't,' Fernack said tormentedly. 'I've got to go into court on another case in just a few minutes.'
'Then send someone else.'
'Is this on the level?'
'Word of honor.'
After a second or two Fernack said: 'I'll send Kestry and Bonacci. I think you've met them.'
The Saint had met them. The acquaintance dated back to the first episode in which he had met Inspector Fernack, and it had been enlightening. The recollection drew his mouth down in a tight line that still did not embitter his eyes.
'I guess they can take care of the situation,' he admitted. 'As a matter of fact, there must be very few situations in which those two goons couldn't take care of themselves.'
'I expect they can keep out of trouble,' Fernack agreed with ponderous deference. 'But what are they supposed to hold Varetti and Walsh for?'
'I don't know what technical charge would be the worst they'd settle for,' said the Saint, 'but if they can't work out a good one on the spot, they must have slipped a lot since I met them. And anyhow, I'm sure they'll be able to do some great detecting in a back room with a rubber hose. Or has this priority business got-ten so tough that you can't even buy your laboratory equipment any more?'
The receiver seemed to grow hot against his ear.
'You can be funny about that some other time,' Fernack grunted. 'But I'm telling you, Templar, if this turns out to be mother of your----'
'Henry,' said the Saint patiently, 'I haven't got much more time to waste. And if you're just trying to keep me here until your flying squad arrives, don't say I didn't warn you.'
'I haven't got any flying squad out after you.'
'Then why did you call me?'
'I just wanted to find out if you'd been back; and when they put you on the wire----'
'Your little heart had kittens. Now cancel the prowl car and carry on. I've got a job to do.'
'But where did you----'
'I'll call you back in a little while,' said the Saint. 'Keep in touch with your office, give my love to the judge, and I hope you win your case without perjuring yourself.'
He hung up on a last imploring squawk from the other end of the wire, and went back to the dining room to close out an interrupted chapter.
He still wanted to hear a little more from Mrs Ourley, and yet he was conscious of time ticking away, and of the vital connections that he had to make. But there was nothing he could ignore, and no prejudice that he could permit to blind him to the reversals of new knowledge.
He sat down again as if no counterplot at all had intervened, and picked up the conversation as smoothly as if he had never been away at all.
'I don't think Milton needs to worry about a little thing like a club membership,' he offered. 'He must be doing pretty well these days.'
'I can't complain,' Mrs Ourley said smugly. 'Although of course the taxes are frightful and I don't know what we shall do next year if That Man keeps on trying to ruin everybody. But I make Milton save every penny he can; and then I take care of it for him. One of these days, when I've got enough put by, I'm going to buy some War
