The Saint Sees It Through

'What sort of things?'

'I'm going to read the papers, and take my girl calling.'

'The same girl?'

'But definitely,' said the Saint.

'What have you learned?'

'Nothing,' the Saint said, 'that is of any specific use to us, but the wind is full of straws. I'm watching to see how they fall.'

'I trust you know the difference between straws and hay,' Hamilton said somewhat darkly, and rang off.

Simon picked up a paper on the way out of the hotel, and found the death of Gamaliel Bradford Foley recorded in two paragraphs on an inside page.

DEATH LOOKS IN

ON TOP SEAMEN'S

UNION OFFICIAL

Gamaliel Bradford Foley, secretary of the Seamen's Union. Local 978 (AFL). was found stabbed to death in his Brooklyn apartment early this morning by police.

A telephone tip—'You'll recognize him by the knife he's wearing, in his back'—sent patrol car 12 to the scene. Officers J. R. McCutcheon and I. P. Wright found the corpse in the apartment bedroom, with a butcher knife in its back. An arrest is expected any moment. Inspector Fernack told reporters today.

It wasn't a smile that twisted the Saint's sensitive mouth as the taxi took him to Avalon's place—it was a grimace of skep­ticism. 'An arrest is expected any moment.' He shrugged. The police certainly knew no more than himself—not as much, as a matter of fact. He knew of the connection, however nebulous, between Foley and Dr. Zellermann. How could the police ex­pect an arrest?

Ah, well. That was the sort of thing reporters put on copy paper. City editors had to be considered, too. If you, as a re­porter, phoned your desk with a story, you wanted something to lead into a follow-up yarn, and 'arrest expected' certainly indicated more to come.

Avalon met him in a housecoat of greenish blue that in a strange and not understandable way was completely right for her. She turned up her face and he kissed her on the mouth, that mouth so full of promise. They said nothing.

She led him to a divan, where he sat wordless with her beside him. Her tawny hair was shot with glints of gold. Her eyes, he noted in passing, were dark, yet alight. He thought of a title by Dale Jennings: 'Chaos Has Dark Eyes.'

She said: 'Hullo, boy.'

He grinned.

'I burgle joints and discover bodies. I am not a respectable character. You wouldn't like me if you knew me.'

'I know you,' she said. 'I like you. I'll demonstrate—later.'

She got up, went into the kitchen, and brought back a bottle of beer.

'I hope you belong to the beer-for-breakfast school.'

'There's nothing like it, unless it's Black Velvet. But that's for special breakfasts.'

'Isn't this?'

'Well, not quite, you must admit.'

'Yes, I must admit.' She gave him a smile, a short kiss. 'Excuse me while I make eggs perform.'

He sipped his beer and wondered about Mrs. Gerald Meldon, whose Park Avenue address he had decided to visit. Gerald Meldon was a name to conjure with in Wall Street. He was at one time the Boy Wonder of the mart. If he went for a stock, it signalled a rush of hangers-on. This had caused him to operate under pseudonyms, which the Saint considered having a touch of swank—a stock-market operator using phony names. If Mel­don were known to be dumping a stock, this was another signal. Everybody who could get hold of the information, dumped his. The stock usually went down.

It had been Gerald Meldon, the son—obviously—of a rich father, who had made collegiate history by dressing in white coveralls, driving along Fifth Avenue, and stealing all the street lamp bulbs one afternoon. It had been Gerald Meldon who had been chosen by Grantland Rice as All-American tackle from Harvard, accent and all.

The Saint knew nothing of Mrs. Gerald Meldon, but he could understand that reasons might exist why she should seek psy­chiatric help from Dr. Z. Well, he would see what he would see.

It was easy enough to find Meldon's address in the directory, and after breakfast that was what he did.

When he and Avalon arrived there later—she was now in a tailored suit of tan gabardine—the first thing he saw caused him to clutch her arm.

'Sorry,' he muttered, 'but my eyes have suddenly gone back on me.'

She put a hand on his. Her dark eyes clouded.

'What is it, darling?'

'I'm seeing things. It must have been the beer.'

She followed his gaze.

'I'm seeing things, too.'

'Surely not what I'm seeing. Describe to me carefully what you think you see.'

'Well, there's a kind of liveried slave on the end of a dog leash. Then, on the other end of the leash is a mink coat, and inside the coat is a dachshund. The man is leading the dog—or vice versa—from, er, pillar to post.'

The Saint sighed explosively.

'If you see it, too, there's nothing wrong with me, I guess.'

The sad-faced little dog led the liveried attendant nearer. The dog wagged its tail at them, the attendant elevated his nose a trifle.

'Doesn't the little beast find that a trifle warm, this time of year?' he asked the attendant.

'It isn't a question of warmth, sir, it's—ah, shall we say face? He's a Meldon property, you know.'

Simon could detect no trace of irony in tone or attitude.

'But—mink? A trifle on the ostentatious side?'

'What else, sir?' asked the gentleman's gentleman.

The Saint rang the doorbell. He and Avalon were presently shown into the drawing room, furnished in chrome and leather, lightened by three excellent Monets, hooded in red velvet drapes. Mrs. Meldon came to them there.

She was most unexpected. She did not conform. She was beautiful, but not in the fashion affected by the house. Hers was an ancient beauty, recorded by Milton, sung by Sappho. She was tall and dark. Her hair reminded you of Egyptian prin­cesses—black and straight, outlining a dark face that kings might have fought for. She walked with an easy flowing motion in high heels that accentuated a most amazing pair of slim ankles and exciting legs. These latter were bare and brown.

Her dress was of some simple stuff, a throwaway factor until you saw how it highlighted such items as should be highlighted. It clung with loving care to her hips, it strutted where it should strut. She had a placid smile, dark eyes brightened with amuse­ment, and a firm handshake.

Her voice held overtones of curiosity. 'You wanted to see me?'

The Saint introduced himself.

'I am Arch Williams, a researcher for Time magazine. This is my wife.'

'Quite a dish,' Mrs. Meldon said. 'I'll bet you play hell with visiting firemen. I'm very happy to meet you. Drink? Of course. You look the types.'

Her teeth, the Saint noted, were very white. She rang a bell with a brown hand. A servant appeared.

'Move the big bar in here, Walker.' To the Saint: 'Those monkey suits kill me. Gerry thinks they're necessary. Prestige, you know.' She made the phrase sound like unacceptable lan­guage from a lady. 'Time, hmm? What do you want from me? Never mind, yet. Wait'll we get a drink. You have lovely legs, Mrs. Williams.'

'Thank you.'

'Oh, don't thank me. I had nothing to do with it. But they are pretty. I hope your husband appreciates them. So many don't.'