The Saint Sees It Through

'Merry Christmas,' she said.

'And a happy new year to you,' he said. 'What goes?'

'Darling,' she said, 'I forgot that I had a date with my arranger to go over some new songs. So I had to rush out. What are you doing?'

'Having too many drinks with Wolcott Gibbs.'

'Give him my love.'

'I will.'

'Darling,' she said, 'there's a hotel man from Chicago in town—he used to come and hear me bellow when I was at the Pump Room—and he wants me to go to dinner. And I've got to find myself another job.'

He felt empty inside, and unreasonably resentful, and angry because he knew it was unreasonable.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'So am I. I do want to see you, really.'

'Have you met this creep before?'

'Oh, yes. Lots of times. He's quite harmless—just a bit dreary. But he might have a job for me, and I've got to earn an honest living somehow. Don't worry—I haven't forgotten what you told me about being careful. By the way, you'll be glad to hear Cookie called me.'

'She did?'

'Yes. Very apologetic, and begging me to drop in and see her.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I don't know. I hate the joint and I hate her, but she knows everybody in town and she isn't a good enemy to have. I'll see what happens tonight. . . . What are you going to be doing later?'

'Probably carousing in some gilded cesspool, surrounded by concubines and champagne.'

'I ought to be able to get rid of this creep at a sensible hour, and I would like to see you.'

'Why don't you call me when you get through? I'll probably be home. If I'm not, leave a number.'

'I will.' Her voice was wistful. 'Don't be too gay with those concubines.'

Simon went back to his table. He felt even emptier inside. It had been such a beautiful dream. He didn't know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or just careless. But he didn't want to feel any of those things. It was a persistent irritation, like a piece of gravel in a shoe.

'What are you doing this evening?' Gibbs asked him.

'Having another drink.'

'I've got to get some dinner before I go to that opening. Why don't you join me?'

'I'd like to.' Simon drained his glass. He said casually: 'Avalon Dexter sent you her love.'

'Oh, do you know her? She's a grand gal. A swell person. One of the few honest-to-God people in that racket.'

There was no doubt about the spontaneous warmth of Wol­cott's voice. And measured against his professional exposure to all the chatter and gossip of the show world, it wasn't a com­ment that could be easily dismissed. The back of Simon's brain went on puzzling.

2

The Saint watched Mr. Gibbs depart, and gently tested the air around his tonsils. It felt dry. He moved to the cusp of the bar and proceeded to contemplate his nebulous dissatisfactions. He ordered more of the insidious product of the house of Dawson and meditated upon the subject of Dr. Ernst Zellermann, that white-maned, black- browed high priest of the un­conscious mind.

Why, Simon asked himself, should a man apologise for sticking his face in the way of a fast travelling fist? Why should Dr. Z wish to further his acquaintance of the Saint, who had not only knocked him tail over teakettle but had taken his charming companion home? How, for that matter, did Dr. Z know that Avalon Dexter might have the telephone number of Simon Templar?

Beyond the faintest shadow of pale doubt, Brother Zellermann was mixed up in this situation. And since the situation was now the object of the Saint's eagle eyeing, the type-case psy­chiatrist should come in for his share of scrutiny. And there was nothing to do but scrutinize. . . .

Simon tossed off everything in his glass but a tired ice cube and went out into the night. The doorman flicked one glance at the debonair figure who walked as if he never touched the ground, and almost dislocated three vertebrae as he snapped to attention.

'Taxi, sir?'

'Thanks,' said the Saint, and a piece of silver changed hands. The doorman earned this by crooking a finger at a waiting cab driver. And in another moment Simon Templar was on his way to the Park Avenue address of Dr. Zellermann.

It was one of those impulsive moves of unplanned explora­tion that the Saint loved best. It had all the fascination of potential surprises, all the intriguing vistas of an advance into new untrodden country, all the uncertainty of dipping the first fork into a plate of roadside eating stew. You went out into the wide world and made your plans as you went along and hoped the gods of adventure would be good to you.

Simon relaxed hopefully all the way uptown until the taxi decanted him in front of the windowed monolith wherein Dr. Ernst Zellermann laved the libido.

A light burned on the twelfth floor, and that was entree even though the lobby roster placed Dr. Zellermann on the eighteenth floor. Simon entered the elevator, signed 'John Paul Jones' on the form for nocturnal visitors, said 'Twelve' to the ancient lackey, and was levitated on greased runners.

He walked toward the lighted doorway, an emporium of Swedish masseurs, but wheeled on silent feet as soon as the elevator doors closed and went up six flights as swiftly and as silently as the elevator had ascended. The lock on Zellermann's door gave him little trouble, snicking open to reveal a waiting room of considerable proportions.

The pencil beam of his flashlight told him that the man who decorated this restful room knew the value of the pause that relaxes. 'This is your home,' the room said. 'Welcome. You like this chair? It was made for you. The prints? Nice, aren't they? Nothing like the country. And isn't that soft green of the walls pleasant to the eye? Lean back and relax. The doctor will see you presently, as a friend. What else, in these surroundings?'

The Saint tipped his mental hat and looked around for more informative detail. This wasn't much. The receptionist's desk gave up nothing but some paper and pencils, a half pack of cigarettes, a lipstick, and a copy of Trembling Romances. Three names were written on an appointment pad on the desk top.

He went into the consultation room, which was severely furnished with plain furniture. A couch lay against one wall, the large desk was backed against an opaque window, and the walls were free of pictorial distractions.

Yet this, too, was a restful room. The green of the reception room walls had been continued here, and despite the almost monastic simplicity of the decor, this room invited you to relax. Simon had no doubt that a patient lying on the couch, with Dr. Zellermann discreetly in the background gloom, would drag from the censored files of memory much early minutiae, the stuff of which human beings are made.

But where were the files? The office safe?

Surely it was necessary to keep records, and surely the records of ordinary daily business need not be hidden. The secretary must need a card file of patients, notations, statements of accounts, and what not.

Once more the pencil beam slid around the office, and snapped out. Then the Saint moved silently—compared to him, a shadow would have seemed to be wearing clogs—back into the reception room. His flash made an earnest scrutiny of the receptionist's corner and froze on a small protuberance. Simon's fingers were on it in a second. He pulled, then lifted— and a section of wall slid upward to reveal a filing cabinet, a small safe, and a typewriter.

The Saint sighed as he saw the aperture revealed no liquid goods. Tension always made him thirsty, and breaking and entering always raised his tension a notch.

As he reached for the top drawer of the file to see what he could see, the telephone on the reception desk gave out a shrill demand. The Saint's reflexes sent a hand toward it, which hovered over the instrument while he considered the situation. More than likely, somebody had called a wrong number. It was about that time in the evening when party goers reach the point where it seems a good idea to call somebody, and the somebody is often determined by spinning the dial at random.

If it happens to be your telephone that rings, and you struggle out of pleasant dreams to curse any dizzy