The Saint Sees It Through

She was close to him and holding him, her face against his, as if she was trying to transmit her life and wakefulness to him from every inch of her body.

It seemed like a long time; and through all of it he was working through fluctuating waves of awareness to cling on to the wandering balloon that was his only actual link to this other world that he had to keep touch with against all the cruel vio­lation of a dream and the fumes of a drug that kept creeping back to try and steal away his will.

She said after a few seconds or a thousand years: 'Darling, you shouldn't have dressed up with that moustache.' He knew that he had to shut out the note in her voice that hung between a sob and a hysterical giggle. 'It tickles,' she said.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Remind me to get rid of it. Any time when I know what I'm doing.'

She roused up beside him.

'Darling, you won't go off again now, will you?'

'No.' He rolled over and rolled up. The movement sent his head whirling away from his body on a weird trajectory that revolted his stomach. He caught it somehow as it came back, and held it firmly in his hands. He said meticulously: 'Look. You were dabbing my face with a wet cloth when I came to. You got the wet cloth from somewhere. Where?'

'There's a bathroom. Here.'

Her fingers slid into his hand. He went stumbling through the dark where she led him, as if his limbs didn't belong to him any more.

Then he was alone for a while.

A while during which he used every trick and help that his experience could lend to him. Plus an overdose of aspirin from a bottle which he found in a cabinet over the washbowl.

Plus an effort of will that tore every nerve in his body to shreds and put it painstakingly together again. He never quite knew how he accomplished that. Part of it came from the native resilience of a perfect physique in pluperfect condition, the in­estimable reserves of a phenomenal athlete who hadn't been out of training for sixteen years. Part of it came from an uncon­querable power of mind that would have torn every cell of its habitation apart and remodelled it to achieve the resuscitation that had to be achieved. The Saint didn't know, and had no sort of inward power to waste on analysing it. He only knew that it took every atom of inward power that he could gouge out of himself, and left him feeling as if he had been drawn through a steam wringer at the end. But he had done what he had set himself to do; and he knew that also.

He didn't even know how long it took; but he knew he had done it when he was finished.

He knew it when he turned out the light in the bathroom and ventured back into the dark to find Avalon, feeling strange­ly light and vacuous in his bones, but with his mind queerly cool and alive, as if the discipline had purged and polished it to stratospheric limpidity and translucence.

He knew it when she was still waiting for him, and their hands met in the blackness that was not blind any more, and they sat side by side on the edge of a bed, and he could touch the warmth of her hair and say: 'It's okay now, Avalon. Honestly. Everything's under control. Now tell me——'

'How did you do it?' she asked, huskily, and close to him, but not leaning on him. 'Why were you putting on the act, and what are you doing here?'

'I bought myself a costume and some war-paint,' he said lightly, 'and here I am, because I was invited. The important thing is—what were you doing, trying to wake me up in the middle of the night?'

'I was afraid,' she said, very quietly now.

He could feel the tenseness of her like a strung wire beside him; but he said nothing, keeping her hand steadily in his hand and his shoulder lightly against hers, until she went on.

'I told you why I came here.'

'I remember.'

'I had a scare when I saw Zellermann. Nobody had said any­thing about him, which they could hardly have helped doing unless they were holding out on purpose. But I didn't want to be silly, so I just tried to pass it off. You heard me. And I thought, Ferdy didn't count at all, and you and Pat were two outside guys who couldn't have been mixed up in anything, and nothing much could happen while you were around. But I was scared, in a silly way, inside. And then, when Pat picked on you for no reason at all, it all came up again.'

'I know,' said the Saint. 'And then?'

'Then I just tried to talk myself out of it, but I didn't get very far with that. But us Dexters never know when to say Uncle ... So then I went to bed when everybody else did, when Pat had broken everything up anyway. I thought I could go to sleep and forget it; but I couldn't ... I just lay awake and listened. . . . And nobody else seemed to go to bed. No­body tried to open my door, which I'd locked, being a bright girl; but every time I was nearly asleep I could hear people creeping about and muttering. And it never sounded like the sort of noises they'd make if they were just trying to go on with a party. And I went on being afraid all the time. I'm a very imaginative character, don't you think?'

'No,' he said. 'Not any more than you should be.'

'So finally I thought I just had to talk to somebody safe and ordinary again, and I thought you and Pat were the best bet there was. I didn't know what on earth I'd have said to you when I got here, but I'd have thought of something. I always can, being an old hardened expert. . . . But when I crept in here, and had the light on for a moment, and Pat hadn't been to bed at all, and you seemed to be out for keeps as Zellermann said you would be—I suppose I had a moment of panic. So ... Simon, will you forget me being so stupid? I'm not usually like this. But it's sort of ridiculous, after everything that's gone on, for this to be you.'

The Saint seemed to have arms vaguely attached to his body, one of them pressing her against him and the other lying across his lap and becoming conscious of something sharp-edged and metallic in his pocket—something that was definably not small change creased into a fold of his trousers. Something that both­ered his forearm and his thigh together, so that he put his hand into his pocket to fumble and identify it, while he was talking. . . . He still had to cling on to every item of his hard-won clarity, inch upon inch.

He said: 'Avalon, I've got to tell you two or three things as sharply as I can make it. I'll fill in the details later, when we have time. If we have time. But probably you can do that for yourself anyway.'

She said: 'Yes, darling.'

'If you can't, you'll have to take my word for it. We're right in the middle of a situation where human life is cheaper than the air. I'm going to try to make sense, and I want you to listen closely. I'm sure I can't do it twice.'

'I won't interrupt,' she said.

The Saint fastened his mind on what he wanted to say. He forced himself with tremendous effort to expand the phrase 'Benny sent me' into a broad picture.

'The relationship between 903 Bubbling Well Road in Shang­hai and Dean's Dock and Warehouse Company in Brooklyn is not apparent on any map. But it's there. I know it. I came along on this clambake to snap the cord that ties those two locations together. This joint is where one end of it is anchored. You've got to see the theory before you can understand the problem.'

He rested for a moment. It was still harder than he would have believed to marshal his thoughts.

'Once there was a man who got an idea. For the sake of con­venience let's call him Dr. Ernst Zellermann, though it may be somebody else. His idea was utterly simple: If you can supply a man with narcotics you can make him into a tool. The war shot the dope-smuggling racket into its proper hell, but revival on a large scale was forecast when Hiroshima became a subject for history books. And that's where 903 Bubbling Well Road entered the picture.'

He paused again.

'Let's assume that some person or persons glaumed on to the bulk of available opium in the Orient. Collaborationists, almost certainly. They established a headquarters, stored their supplies, and awaited the inevitable ending of hostilities. They knew that merchant ships would soon be coming, and that many of these ships would have touched at New York. So Dr. Z collects a pal or two and sets up a place here. For the sake of clarity let's call it Cookie's Canteen. Merchant seamen are invited, everything free, even a roll of hay with whatever hostess a boy can promote. Our likely character is wined and dined at Cookie's Cellar, everything still on the house. If he exhibits certain desirable larcenous tendencies—which would be revealed under questioning by a clever psychiatrist—the pitch is made. And the Mad Hatter said plaintively: 'It was the best