The Saint Sees It Through

This brought motionless silence to Dr. Zellermann. He eyed the Saint coldly for a long moment. Then he said: 'Are you in the habit of breaking and entering?'

'I wouldn't say it's a habit, old boy. The word habit has connotations of dullness. As a matter of fact, I should say I have no habits whatever, as such, unless you classify breathing as a habit. That is one to which I cling with— on occasion—an almost psychotic firmness. There have been times, I admit, when certain persons, now among the dear departed, have tried to persuade me to give up breathing. I am glad to say that their wiles had no effect on my determination.'

The doctor shook his head irritably.

'You know you committed a felony?'

'By going on breathing?'

Dr. Zellermann raised his voice slightly. 'By breaking into my office.'

'Technically, I suppose I did,' Simon confessed. 'But I was sure you'd understand. After all, I was only applying your own pet philosophy. I felt like doing it, so I did.'

'As the victim,' Zellermann said, 'I'm surely entitled to hear your reason.'

The Saint grinned.

'Like the bear that came over the mountain, to see what I could see. Very interesting it was, too. Did Ferdinand Pairfield do your decorating?'

Dr. Zellermann's face was impassive.

'A philosophy, Mr. Templar, is one thing. Until the world adopts that philosophy, the law is something else. And under the present laws you are guilty of a crime.'

'Aren't you sort of rubbing it in a bit, Ernst?' Simon protested mildly.

'Only to be sure that you understand your position.'

'All right then. So I committed a crime. I burgled your office. For that matter, I burgled the late Mr. Foley's apartment too—and his murder intrigues me just as much as you. So what?'

Dr. Zellermann turned his head and glanced across the room. He made an imperious gesture with a crooking finger.

The Saint followed his gaze and saw two men in incon­spicuous blue suits at a far table detach themselves from the handles of coffee cups. One of them pushed something small and black under the table. Both rose and came towards Dr. Zellermann's table. They had that deadpan, slightly bored ex­pression which has become an occupational characteristic of plainclothes men.

There was no need for them to show their badges to convince the Saint, but they did.

'You heard everything?' Dr. Zellermann asked.

The shorter of the two, who had a diagonal scar on his square chin, nodded.

Simon ducked his head and looked under the table. He saw a small microphone from which a wire ran down the inside of one of the legs of the table and disappeared under the rug. The Saint straightened and wagged an admiring head.

'That, my dear doctor, is most amusing. Here I thought that I was talking privately, and it would be your word against mine in any consequent legal name-calling. It simply didn't occur to me that you'd—er—holler copper.'

Dr. Zellermann paid no attention to Simon. He spoke to Scar-chin.

'You know this man is the Saint, a notorious criminal, wanted in various parts of the world for such things as mur­der, blackmail, kidnaping, and so forth?'

'Not wanted for, chum,' the Saint corrected him amiably. 'Merely suspected of.'

Scar-chin looked at his partner, a man with sad spaniel eyes. 'Guess we better go.'

Spaniel Eyes laid a hand on the Saint's arm.

'One moment,' Simon said. This was said quietly, but there was the sound of bugles in the command. Spaniel Eyes withdrew his arm. The Saint looked at Zellermann. 'Your information came from somewhere. You didn't deduce this by yourself and so lay a trap. Did Avalon tip you off?'

'Oh, Simon!' she cried. 'No, darling, no!'

Her voice was brimming with anguish and outrage. Real or simulated, the Saint couldn't tell. He didn't look at her. He held the doctor's eyes with his own.

Dr. Zellermann showed no expression whatever. He looked at the Saint woodenly, with a supreme disinterest. He might have been watching a fly he was about to swat.

'Once one understands a certain type of mind,' Dr. Zellermann said almost contemptuously, 'predictions of action patterns are elementary——'

'My dear Watson,' the Saint supplied.

'You visited Mrs. Gerald Meldon and James Prather,' Zellermann continued. 'Theirs were two of the three names on my appointment pad. It follows that you also visited Foley. It was obviously you who telephoned the police—the phrasing of the message fits your psychological pattern exactly. Foley was dead when you left. The police are looking for a murderer. I knew that my office had been entered, of course, because someone answered the telephone when no one should have been there. I suspected that that 'someone' was you; and the rest followed. It was only necessary to have you confirm my deductions your­self.'

The Saint's smile held a wholly irrational delight.

'I see,' he said softly. 'You know, Ernst, my esteem for you has raised itself by its mouldy bootstraps. I bow to you. From now on, life will have a keener edge.'

'Life, if any, Templar. In spite of what you read in the papers, murderers frequently do go to the chair.'

'Not this one, dear old wizard.' The Saint turned to Spaniel-Eyes. 'Shall we begin our invasion of Sing Sing?'

'Yerk, yerk,' Spaniel Eyes said.

As the Saint got to his feet, Avalon stood beside him. He looked into her dark eyes deeply and ironically. Her gaze didn't waver.

'I didn't,' she whispered. 'I didn't.'

Simon kissed her lightly.

'Be a good girl. Don't forget to eat your vitamins.'

'But you're not going like a lamb,' she cried. 'Aren't you even going to try to do something?'

That gay and careless smile flashed across his face. 'My dear old Aunt Harriet always said that as long as there's life there's life. Thanks for the drinks, Doctor.'

He was gone, walking straight as a magician's wand between Scar-chin and Spaniel-Eyes. Their passage between the tables was leisurely and attracted no notice, aside from a bold and admiring glance now and then from women lunchers. They might have been three executives headed back to their marts, or three friends popping off to green and manicured pastures to chase a pellet of gutta percha from one hole to another. Certainly no one would have suspected that the Saint was a prisoner—in fact, any speculations would have tended to reverse their roles.

But under his calm exterior, thought processes moved at incredible speed, toying with this idea, discarding that. He didn't put it beyond himself to stage a spectacular escape as soon as they were outside but on the other hand it would be no help to him to become a fugitive. He even wondered whether Dr. Zellermann's system of psychological projection had antici­pated an attempt to escape and was even now listening with one ear for the rattle of shots which would mean that the shadow of the Saint's interference had perhaps been lifted permanently.

Simon saw too many arguments against obliging him. His best bet at the moment seemed to be discretion, watchful wait­ing, and the hope that the cell they gave him to try on for size would have southern exposure.

Spaniel-Eyes hailed a cab. Scar-chin climbed in first, followed by the Saint, and Spaniel-Eyes gave short inaudible directions to the driver.

'Well,' the Saint said after a few moments of riding, 'how about a swift game of gin rummy?'

'Shaddup,' Spaniel-Eyes said, and looked, at his watch.

'By the way,' Simon asked, 'what are visiting hours in the local calaboza?'

'Shaddup,' Spaniel Eyes said.

They rode some more. They wound through Central Park, entering at Columbus Circle, curving and twisting along the west side of that great haven for nurses, sailors, nurses and sailors, up around the bottleneck end of the