The Saint Sees It Through

a dead mouse would to a slab of Camembert. It also crossed his mind that a great deal of aimless chatter was being cast upon the chaste air of that burnished beanery.

Was there some dark and undefined purpose in the doctor's Hegelian calisthenics? Did that turgid bouillabaisse of un-semantic verbiage have significance, or was it only stalling for time? Surely the distinguished salver of psyches hadn't asked Simon and Avalon here to philosophise with them?

Well, the ulterior motives, if any, would be revealed in due course. Meanwhile, it seemed as if the vocal merry-go-round, if it had to keep rolling, could spin to more profitable purpose.

So Simon Templar, in that completely unexpected fashion of his which could be so disconcerting, turned the channels of the conversation towards another direction of his own choosing.

'In the Orient,' he said, 'the standard of living remains a fairly deplorable constant. Millions of those people put an astounding amount of energy into the process of survival, and what do they get?' His shrug answered the question.

Dr. Zellermann made a small motion with one hand. He took his fingers from the stem of his Martini glass and moved them. The Saint, who happened to be looking at the hand, marvelled that so much could be expressed in a gesture. The small, graceful, yet definite motion said as clearly as if the thought were expressed in boxcar letters: 'But, my dear Mr. Templar!'

'What do they get?' Dr. Zellermann asked, looking some­what like an equine bishop granting an indulgence. He an­swered his own question. 'Life, my dear Mr. Templar—the only actually free gift in the universe. What they do with it is not only their business, but the end product is not open to censure or sympathy.'

'Still the old free-will enthusiast?'

'That's all we have. What we do with it is our own fault.'

'I can be president, eh, or dog catcher?'

'That's up to you,' Zellermann said.

'A moment, old boy. Suppose we consider Chang.'

The doctor's eyebrows said: 'Chang?'

'As a guinea pig,' the Saint explained. 'Chang, once upon a time, chanced to smoke a pipe of opium. It was free, and anything for a laugh, that's our Chang. Then he had another pipe, later. And another. Not free, now. Oh, no. There are dealers who have to make a living; and behind the dealers there are interested governments. So Chang becomes an addict. He lets his family, his home, everything, go hang. Where is the free will, Doctor, when he's driven by that really insatiable desire?'

'It was his decision to smoke the first pipe.'

'Not entirely,' the Saint pointed out. 'Someone was inter­ested in making it available. You can't tell me that it wouldn't be possible to restrict the production of opium to established medical requirements if the principal world governments were really interested. Yet India alone produces more opium than the whole world could use legitimately. Very profitable. So profitable that governments have come out fighting to keep the market open. Do you happen to remember the so-called Boxer Rebellion?'

'Vaguely,' Zellermann said in bored tones.

'All the wretched Chinese wanted was their own country back,' said the Saint. 'But the—ah, Powers, made a great pitch about rescuing their missionaries, and so put down the rebellion and so saved the market.'

'Isn't this rather non sequitur?' asked the doctor.

'Is it?' Simon asked. 'If you're tired of Chang, throw him, away—in his millions. He means no more personally than a treeful of yaks, because we have no contact with his daily so-called living. But take Joe Doakes in Brooklyn.'

'Really, Mr. Templar, your train of thought is confusing.'

'It shouldn't be, dear boy. Just translate Chang into Joe, and consider the identical operation in New York. Even America the Beautiful, leave us face it, contains certain citizens who don't much care how they make a million dollars so long as they make it. And particularly don't care who gets hurt in the process. So now Joe's the boy we're after. He's like Chang, in the low income group, not averse to a bit of petty thievery, possibly ready for a pipe after a hard day's pocket-picking.'

'Who,' Zellermann inquired, 'are 'we'?'

'We here at the table,' the Saint said expansively, 'for purposes of hypothetical discussion.'

'Not me,' Avalon interpolated. 'I got troubles of my own, without including pipes.'

'Let's say you are 'we,' Doctor. Your problem is twofold. You must transport the stuff, and then sell it. If you solve the transportation problem, you have to find Joe. The first problem is fairly elemental. Who goes to the Orient these days? Sailors. They can bring in the stuff. Finding Joe is easy, too. Go into the nearest pool hall and turn to your right.'

'This leads us where, Mr. Templar?' Dr. Zellermann asked. 'Though I admit your conversation has its scintillating aspects, I fail to see——' He let it hang.

'To this point, comrade. A group of men putting drugs into the hands—mouths—of persons rendered irresponsible by economic circumstance are creating tools. Governments learned that a long time ago. Beat a man down enough, and he'll come to think that's the normal way to be. But private groups—shall we say rings—who are foolish enough to think they can get away with it couldn't be expected to do anything but follow an established lead.'

The Saint watched for any reaction from the doctor. He would have settled for a tapping ringer, but the Park Avenue psychiatrist would have made the Great Stone Face look like Danny Kaye.

Simon shrugged.

He looked at Avalon and winked.

'In other words, your theory—'Faites ce que voudras,' if I may borrow from an older philosopher—is jake so long as you and I are the guys who are doing what they damn please. So far I only know one of your forms of self-indulgence, and you only know one of mine. I have others.'

Avalon smiled; and the Saint marvelled that all those people who were so busy clattering their silverware, churning the air with inanities, and trying to impress a lot of people who were only interested in impressing them, shouldn't feel the radiance of that smile and halt in the middle of whatever they were doing. They should feel that smile, and pause. And think of things lost, of beauties remembered, and recapture rapture again.

But they didn't. The bebosomed Helen Hokinson woman at the nearest table giggled at the young man opposite her; the promoter type over there went right on citing figures, no doubt, blowing a bugle of prosperity; the Hollywood actress went on ogling the Broadway producer, who went on ogling her, being just as happy to get her in his highly speculative play as she was to have the chance of reviving a career which had failed to quite keep up with her press agent.

The Saint sighed.

He turned his attention back to Dr. Zellermann, waiting for a hint of the point that must be shown sometime.

'Another drink?' asked the doctor.

They had another drink; and then Zellermann said, with a thread of connection which was so strained that it sang: 'I imagine one of the things you would like is forming theories about current crimes as the newspapers report them. That Foley murder in Brooklyn, for instance, rather intrigues me.'

The Saint took a deep pull on his cigarette; and a little pulse began to beat way inside him as he realised that this, at last, whatever it was, was it.

His own decision was made in a split second. If that was how Zellermann wanted it, okay. And if Zellermann favored the shock technique, Simon was ready to bounce it right back without batting an eyelid and see what happened.

'Yes,' he said, 'even in these days of flowing lucre, it must be sad to lose a good patient.'

'I wasn't thinking of the money,' Dr. Zellermann began. He broke off suddenly, leaving the remainder of the thought unexpressed. 'How did you know he was a patient of mine?'

The Saint sipped at his Manhattan.

'I saw his name on your secretary's appointment pad,' he said calmly.

'But look here, Templar. When were you in my office?'

'Oh, I thought you knew,' Simon said with a touch of sur­prise. 'I broke in on Thursday night.'

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