The Saint Steps In s-24

by Leslie Charteris

  "I'm driving in to New York," Schindler offered. "I can give you a lift, Simon."

  It was still a while before they got away.

  They talked the case to pieces all the way to the city, but the Saint was guilty of keeping most of his conclusions to himself and only contributing enough to sound natural and stay with the conversation. He had had enough analysing and theorising to last him for a long time. And now he was even more restless to get his hands on the dossiers that should be on their way to meet him. Somewhere in them, he hoped, there would be a key to at least one of the puzzles that was twisting through his brain. In spite of his friendship for Ray Schindler, he was glad when the ride was over and he could feel alone and unham­pered again for whatever came next.

  He was at the Roosevelt at four-thirty, and he was down to the last drop of a studiously nursed Martini when a thin gray man say down at his table and laid a bulky envelope between them. Typed on the envelope was "Mr. Sebastian Tombs."

  "From Hamilton," said the thin gray man dolefully.

  "God bless him," said the Saint.

  "I hope I didn't keep you waiting?"

  "No, I was early." Simon signaled a waiter. "Have a drink."

  "Thank you, no. I have ulcers."

  "One dry Martini," said the Saint, and turned back to the thin gray man. "Did Hamilton give you a message too?"

  "The party you asked about is staying at the Savoy Plaza to­night."

  "Good."

  "If you'll excuse me," said the thin gray man sadly, "I must go and keep some other appointments."

  He got up and went grayly and wispily away, a perfect nonentity, perfectly enveloped in protective coloring, whom nobody would ever notice or remember—and perfect for his place in a machine of infinite complexity.

  Simon weighed the package in his hand and teased the flap with his thumb while he tasted his second cocktail, but he de­cided against opening it there. At that hour, the place was getting too busy and noisy, filling tip with business men intent on restoring themselves from the day's cares of commerce, and he wanted to concentrate single-mindedly on his reading.

  He finished his drink more quickly than the last, but still with self-tantalising restraint, and put the envelope in his pocket and went out. His thoughts were working towards a quiet hotel room, a bottle of Peter Dawson, a bowl of ice, a pack of cigarettes, and a period of uninterrupted research. That may have been why he suddenly realised that he had been staring quite blankly at an open green convertible that swerved in to the curb towards him with a blonde blue-eyed goddess waving to him from behind the wheel.

  He walked over to the car quite slowly, almost as though he were uncertain of the recognition; but he was absolutely certain, and it was as if the pit of his stomach dropped down below his belt and climbed up again.

  "Hullo, Andrea," he said.

  2

  After the first chaotic instant he knew that this was only a coincidental encounter. No one except Hamilton and the thin gray courier could have told that he would be there at that moment—he had even let Schindler decant him at the Ritz-Carlton and walked over. But out of such coincidence grew the gambler's excitement of adventure. And there was no doubt any more that Andrea Quennel was adventure, no matter how dangerous.

  Even if the only way she looked dangerous was the kind of way that had never given the Saint pause before.

  She wore a soft creamy sweater that clung like suds to every curve of her upper sculpture, and her lips were full and invit­ing.

  "Hullo," she said. "Surprised?"

  "A little," he admitted mildly.

  "We flew up this morning. Daddy had some business to at­tend to in New York, so I was going to Westport."

  "What are you running on—bathtub gasoline?"

  She laughed without a conscience, and pointed to the "T" sticker on the windshield.

  "All our cars belong to Quenco now, and that's a defense industry ... I was going to see if I could track you down in Stamford."

  "That was nice."

  She made a little face.

  "Now you're stuck with me anyway. Get in, and you can buy me a drink somewhere."

  He got in, and she let in the clutch and crept up to the light on Madison.

  "Where would you like to take me?" she asked.

  He had gone that far. He had picked up the dice, and now he might as well ride his own roll to the limit.

  He said: "The Savoy Plaza."

  He was watching her, but she didn't react with even a flicker of withdrawal. She made the right turn on Madison, and sent the convertible breezing north, weaving adroitly and com­placently through the traffic, and keeping up a spillway of trivial chatter about some congressman who had been trying to date the hostess on the plane. The Saint was in practice by that time for interjecting the right agreeable noises. By the time they reached the Savoy Plaza he was cool and relaxed again, completely relaxed now, with a curious kind of patience that hadn't any immediate logical connection.

  She berthed the car skillfully, and they went down into the cocktail lounge. He ordered drinks. She pulled off her gloves, giving the room the elaborately casual once-over of a woman who is quite well aware that every man in it has already taken a second look at her.

  She said: "How are your protégés?"

  "Fine."

  "Did you leave Madeline in Stamford?"

  As if he had only just said it, the recollection of what he had told her in Washington scorched across his mind; and he cursed himself without moving a muscle of his face. That was the one loophole which he had overlooked. Yet when he had created it, there had been no reason for not telling Andrea Quennel that he was taking Madeline back. It had seemed like ingenious tactics, even. A good deal had happened since then ...

  He said, as unhesitatingly as he had told the same lie before, but with less comfort in it: "I parked her with a friend in New York. I decided afterwards that too many accidents could hap­pen on a lonely country estate."

  "What about the Professor?"

  "He's also been moved and hidden," said the Saint, most truthfully.

  She looked at him steadily, simply listening to him, and her face was as unresponsive as a magazine cover. It was impossible to tell who was learning what or who was fooling who.

  Their drinks came, and they toasted each other pleasantly. But the Saint had a queer fascinated feeling of lifting a sword instead of a glass, in the salute before a duel.

  "You haven't found out any more yet?" she asked.

  "Not much."

  "When am I going to do something for you?"

  "I don't know."

  "You're terribly talkative."

  He was conscious of his own curtness, and he said: "How long are you going to be at Westport?"

  "Maybe not very long. We've got a place at Pinehurst, North Carolina, and Daddy wants to spend some time there as soon as he can get away. He wants me to go down and see that it's all opened up ready." She turned the stem of her glass. "It's a lovely place—I wish you could see it."

  "I wish I could."

  "The gardens are gorgeous, and there's an enormous swim­ming pool that's more like a lake, and stables and horses. The riding's wonderful. Do you like to ride?"

  "Very much."

  "We could have a lot of fun if you came down with me. Just the two of us."

  "Probably."

  Her eyes were big and docile, asking you to write your own meaning in them.

  "Why couldn't you?"

  "I've got a job to do," he said.

  "Is it that important?"

  "Yes."

  "I know it must be ... But is it going on for ever?"

  "I hope not."

  "Mightn't it be over quite soon?"

  "Yes," he said. "It might be over quite soon."

  "Very soon?"

  He nodded with an infinitesimal smile that was more in­scrutable than complete expressionlessness.

  "Yes," he said, "it might be very soon indeed."

  "The
n you must have been finding out things! Do you really know who all your villains are—what it's all about, and who's doing everything, and so on? I mean did you find your Axis agents or whoever they are?"

  He lighted a cigarette and looked at her quite lazily. "I've been rather slow up to now—I don't know what's been the matter with me," he confessed. "But I think I'm just com­ing out of the fog. You have these dull spells in detecting. It isn't all done by inspiration and rushing about, firing guns and leaping through windows. Sometimes a very plodding investi­gation of people's pasts, and present brings out much more interesting things. I think mine are going to be very interest­ing."

  Her gaze went over his face for a little while; and her mouth looked soft in an absentminded way, or perhaps it was always like that.

  She lighted a cigarette herself, and there was a silence that might have held nothing at all.

  "Daddy's coming up to Westport tonight," she said.

  "Oh, is he?" Every one of the Saint's inflections and expres­sions was urbane and easy; only the soaring away of his mind had left nothing but a shell of the forms and phrases.

  "Why don't you drive up with me and have dinner, and you can meet him when he gets there? We can find you a bed, too."

  "I'd love to. But I've got my job."

  "Can't she take care of herself at all?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "Are you—more than professionally interested?"

  He caught the flash in her words, but he didn't let it bring a spark back from him.

  "I'm sorry," he smiled. "I just couldn't go to Westport to­night."

  She said: "Daddy's very interested in you. I broke down and told him about our talk last night. He thinks you're a pretty sensational person, and he's very anxious to meet you. He said he wanted to tell you something that he thinks you ought to know."

  The Saint was aware of a fleeting touch of impalpable fin­gers on his spine.

  "What was it about?"

  "He didn't say. But he wanted me to be very sure and tell you. And he doesn't make much fuss about anything unless it's important."

  "Then we'll certainly have to get together on it."

  "What about tomorrow?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "If you find you can get away," she said, "you've only got to call us. We don't dine till eight, and any time up till then . . . Will you do that?"

  "Sure," he said, with just the right amount of politely mean­ingless promise.

  "Let me give you our number in Westport."

  He wrote it down.

  "Your father isn't going home till late?" he said idly.

  "No. He's got one of those awful business conferences. I'd have waited for him if I had anything to do." She pouted at her empty glass. "Why don't you get me another drink, sweetie?"

  "I'm sorry."

  He gave the order; and she sat back and reflected his gaze with blue eyes as pale and vacant as a clear spring sky.

  "Are you staying in town tonight?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  He had only just decided that, but it struck him as a con­venient step with a multitude of enticing possibilities.

  She brightened her cigarette with a deep fretful inhalation.

  "Why do you have to play so hard to get?" she demanded abruptly.

  "I suppose I must be anti-social."

  "I think you're wonderful."

  "So do I. But maybe I have eccentric tastes."

  "You.don't like me."

  "I don't really know you."

  "You could do something about that."

  It was quite plain to him that he could. It had been just as plain at their first meeting; but he hadn't given it any serious thought. Now he knew exactly why he had kept Andrea Quen­nel for his own special assignment, and what he had to do about it, because this was the part he had been cast for with­out even asking for it. Perhaps in a way he had known for sev­eral hours that it would come to this, without thinking about it, so that there was no shock when he had to realise that the time was there.

  Two more dry Martinis arrived, and he raised his glass to the level of his mouth again; but this time he knew that it was a sword.

  "Here's to crime," he said, and she smiled back.

  "That sounds more like you."

  Deliberately he let his eyes survey her again, and they did not stop at the neck. There wasn't a blush in her. She gave him back glance for glance, her red lips moist and parted. He let about half the calculated reserve soften out of his face.

  "I told you I'd been a bit slow," he murmured. "Maybe I've been missing something."

  "Want to reform?"

  "It seems as if it might be more fun to degenerate."

  "I could have fun watching you degenerate."

  Then she pouted again.

  "But," she said, "you're so frightfully busy . . ."

  He knew just where he was going now, and he had no scruples about it. He was even going to enjoy it if he could.

  "I've got some things that I must do," he said. "I can't get out of that. But I could get through a lot of them by eight o'clock. If you'd like to meet me then, we could nibble a ham­burger and spend a few hours making up some lost time. Would that tempt you?"

  "My resistance has been low ever since I met you," she said, and touched his hand with her fingers.

  His mind was totally dispassionate, but there were human responses over which the mind held very nominal control. He was very much aware of the way her breathing lifted the round­ness under her clinging sweater, and the eagerness that went out to him from her face. And he had a disturbing intuition, against all cynical argument, that her part in the game was no harder for her to play than his was for him.

  Which was a good idea to forget quickly.

  He said: "I'll have to get started if I'm not going to keep you waiting at eight o'clock. Let's meet at Louis-and-Armand's. We can fight out the rest of it over dinner."

  "We won't fight," she said. "I'll chase around and see if I can find Daddy and tell him I'm not going straight home: And I'll see you at eight."

  "I always seem to be giving you a sort of bum's rush," he remarked, "and here it is again."

  She shook her head. She was suddenly very gay.

  "Tonight is different, darling. Do you think it was Fate that made me see you outside the Roosevelt?"

  "It could have been."

  They drained their glasses while he waited for the check, and presently he took her outside and opened the door of her car for her. She got in and adjusted her skirt without any particu­lar haste.

  "I'll wait for you," she said. "You wouldn't stand me up, would you?"

  "Not tonight, for a dictator's ransom," he answered lightly, and watched her drive away with the lines around his mouth smoothed in sober introspection.

  He went back into the lobby, found a writing table, and enclosed a postcard announcing the forthcoming appearance of Larry Adler in an envelope which he addressed to Mr. Frank Imberline. He took the envelope over to the desk and put it down there, moving away at once and unnoticed behind the ample cover of the woman to whom the room clerk was talk­ing. From the other side of the lobby he watched until the woman billowed off, and the clerk found the envelope, glanced at the name, time-stamped it, and put it in one of the pigeon­holes behind him.

  The Saint strolled back to the desk without taking his eyes off the pigeonhole until he could read the number on it. The number was 1013.

  "Can you find me a room for tonight?" he asked. "Some­thing about the tenth floor—I like to be fairly high up, but not too high."

  He was about to register in the name of Sebastian Tombs, from nothing but automatic caution, when he remembered that Andrea Quennel might call him. He wrote his own name instead, and never guessed how he was to remember that de­cision.

  After some discussion he settled for 1017, which seemed al­most like divine intervention.

  Having no luggage, h
e made a cash deposit, and went up­stairs at once. He sent for ice and a bottle of Peter Dawson. By the time it came he already had his coat and tie off, and he was stretched out comfortably with his feet up, poring over the contents of Hamilton's envelope.

  3

  He took the report on Calvin Gray first, since it was the shortest. And it only amplified with dates and places the kind of picture which he had sketched by then for himself.

  Old New England family. Graduated from Harvard, magna cum laude. Member of the faculty of Middleburg College, five years. Married; one daughter, Madeline, later B. Sc. at Co­lumbia. Wife died in childbirth. Member of the faculty of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, nine years. Then a pro­fessorship at Harvard for six years. Inherited California gold mine at death of father. Check, check, and check. Retired, and devoted himself to private research. Author of one book, Molecular Principles of Chemical Synthesis, and sundry con­tributions to scientific journals. No political affiliation. A quiet modest man, well liked by the few people who got to know him.

  Nothing much more than could have been found in Who's Who, if Calvin Gray had ever bothered to seek an entry there. But enough to confirm the Saint's information and his own final estimate.

  He turned next to Walter Devan. He had recalled a few associations of that name since their meeting, and he found them verified and extended.

  Born in a small town in Indiana, father a carpenter. Ran away to Chicago at sixteen. Newsboy, Postal Telegraph mes­senger, dishwasher, car washer. A few preliminary bouts as fall guy for rising middleweights. professional football. A broken leg. Garage mechanic; night school. Machinist in an automo­bile factory in Detroit. Repair man in the Quenco plant at Cincinnati. Repair foreman. Then, in a series of rapid promotions, engineering manager, assistant plant superintendent at Mobile, personnel manager for the entire organization of the Quennel Chemical Corporation.

  And that was where the biography became quite interesting, for Walter Devan's conception of personal management, which apparently had the approval of Quenco to the extent of raising his salary to an eventual high of $26,000 a year, was something new even in that comparatively youthful industry. He was credited with having become the field commander of Quennel's long and bitter fight against unionism, a miniature civil war which had only been ended by congressional legisla­tion. He had been accused in a Senate investigation of institut­ing an elaborate system of spies and stoolpigeons, of coercing employees with threats and blackmail, of saying that any union organizers caught on Quenco property would be qualified for a free funeral at the corporation's expense. Certainly he had more than once imported regiments of strike-breakers, and been the generalissimo of pitched battles in which several lives had been lost. But he had easily cleared himself of one indict­ment for manslaughter, and the blackest mark on his legal record was an order to cease and desist. Entrenched behind his own taciturnity and protected by all the power of Quenco, he had become a semi-mythical bogey man, an intermittent subject for attacks by such writers as Westbrook Pegler, a name that the average public remembered without being quite sure why; but even if the papers in Simon's hands only collated facts and rumors which had already been found inadequate by the Law, they still solidified into a portrait which was realistic and three-dimensional to him.