The Saint Sees It Through s-26

by Leslie Charteris

"I think you're wonderful. When do you want to see me?"

  "As soon as possible. Yesterday, for example. Did you have a good time last night?"

  "Miserable. And you?"

  "Well, I wouldn't call it exciting. I thought about you at odd moments."

  "Yes, I know," she said. "Whenever you did, I turned warm all over, and wriggled."

  "Must have been disconcerting to your escort."

  She laughed, bells at twilight.

  "It cost me a job, I think. He'd peer at me every time it hap­pened. I think he concluded it was St. Vitus. The job was in Cleveland, anyway."

  "Some of the best people live in Cleveland," Simon said.

  "But you don't, so I didn't go."

  "Ordinarily, I'd have a nice fast comeback for such a leading remark, but I seem to have trouble finding any words at all."

  "You could say 'I love you.' "

  "I love you," Simon said.

  "Me, too, kid."

  "This being Friday," Simon said, "what do you say we go calling on people after we have brunched together, and then let the rest of the day take care of itself?"

  "That scrambling sound," she said, "is eggs in my kitchen. So hurry."

  "Thirty minutes," said the Saint, and hung up.

  He had never needed thirty minutes to shave, shower, and dress, but he needed to make a call.

  Hamilton said: "What kind of a jam are you in this time?"

  "If you can get anything on one Gamaliel Bradford Foley," the Saint said, "it might be useful. I'd do it myself, but you. can do it faster, and I expect to be sort of busy on other things."

  "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."

  The Saint said nothing. He wanted to watch.

  "I think he appreciates them," Avalon murmured. "Don't you, dear?"

  Simon smiled.

  "So many don't," Mrs. Meldon said. "You can pour yourself into a sheer tube of a dress, like mine, and a husband will look at you, glance at his watch, and give you hell for being thirty minutes late. My God, how do men expect us to make ourselves——Oh, here are the drinks. Name your poison."

  When they had drinks, Mrs. Meldon gave the Saint a slow smile.

  "Well, Mr. Researcher, what now?"

  "I have been assigned to find out what I can about Dr. Ernst Zellermann. We're going to pick a Doc of the Year. No slow­poke, medicine, you know."

  Mrs. Meldon stared at him.

  "My God, you talk in that style! Don't you find it nauseat­ing?"

  "I quit," Simon said. "But could I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Meldon? We've picked some possible subjects from the professional standpoint, and it's my job to find out what their patients think of. them."

  "Why pick on me?"

  "You're a patient of Dr. Zellermann's?".

  "Well—uh, yes."

  The Saint filed her hesitation away for future reference.

  "How do you like him?" he asked.

  "He's rather colossal, in a nauseating way."

  "So? I should think a feeling of that sort would hamper the —er—rapport between doctor and patient."

  "Oh, it does," she said, "no end. He wishes I'd like him. A phony, he."

  "Really ? I thought he was quite reputable."

  "What is reputable?" Mrs. Meldon countered. "Is it what empty-headed bitches say, who are suckers for a patriarchal look and soft hands? Is it what some jerk says—'Five hundred dol­lars I paid, for a single interview'—after he's stung? He has an M.D., so what? I know an abortionist who has one."

  "It helps," said the Saint.

  "What do you want to know about him?" Mrs. Meldon asked. "When he was three years old in Vienna, a butcher slapped his hands because he reached for a sausage. As a result he puts his nurse in a blue smock. He won't have a white uni­form around him. He doesn't know this, of course. He has no idea that the butcher's white apron caused a psychic trauma. He says he insists on blue uniforms because they gladden the eye."

  "He begins to sound like not our kind of man," the Saint put in.

  "Oh, go ahead and pick him," said the Egyptian princess. "Who the hell cares? He wouldn't be the first mass of psychic trauma picked as an outstanding jerk. No inhibitions, says he. It's a little tough on somebody who's put inhibitions by the board lo these many moons to go to him as a patient. Shooting fish down a barrel, I calls it. Another drink? Of course. Mix it yourself."

  She crossed her lovely legs in such a fashion that a good por­tion of thigh was visible. She didn't bother to pull down her dress. She seemed tired of the discussion, even a trifle embit­tered, and a pattern began to form in the Saint's mind. He put early conclusions aside in the interest of conviviality and mixed drinks.

  "Tell me," he said, "how you expect to get psychiatric help from a man you hold in such disregard?"

  She straightened up.

  "Disregard? Nothing of the sort. He knows the patter, he has the desk-side manner. He can make you tell things about yourself you wouldn't tell yourself. Maybe it helps, I don't know. Yes, I must admit it does. It helped me to understand myself, whatever small consolation that may be. I don't want to under­stand myself. But Gerry insisted. He wants to keep up with things. Like mink coats on dogs."

  "You would say, then, that your relations with Dr. Zeller­mann have been pleasant?"

  She looked at him steadily as he handed her a drink. "Pleas­ant? What's that? Sometimes you get caught up in an emotion. Emotion is a driving power you can't ignore. When you get caught up in it, whatever you do seems pleasant at the time. Even if you curse yourself afterwards, and even if you don't dare talk about it."

  "Do you mean, then, he isn't ethical?"

  She twisted a smile.

  "What's ethical? Is being human ethical? You're born human, you know. You can't help certain impulses. See Freud. Or Krafft-Ebing. To err is human."

  "And he errs?"

  "Of course he does. Even if he is a so-called witch doctor of the mind. Even if he has studied Adler and Brill and Jung and Jones. You don't change a character. All the things that went into making him what he is are unalterable. They've happened. Maybe some of his professors, or fellow psychiatrists, have helped him to evaluate those factors in their proper perspective, but he's still homo sapiens and subject to the ills they're heir to."

  The Saint drank his drink, set the empty glass on the elabo­rate portable bar.

  "We've taken enough of your time. Thanks for being so helpful."

  Mrs. Meldon rose to her full and lovely height. "I'm no cross section on the man. Many more think he's wonderful than not. And in some ways," she said thoughtfully, "he's quite a guy, I guess."

  The Saint did not ask what those ways were. He took himself and Avalon away, and hailed a taxi. When they were in it, and he had given the address of James Prather to the driver, he let himself consider Mrs. Meldon.

  "Blackmail," he said finally.

  "Ah, beg pardon?" Avalon murmured. "Understanding not."

  "It's in the picture somewhere," he insisted. "I don't care how free from inhibition she may be, she wouldn't be as bitter as she was unless he's bleeding her in some fashion. How, is the question."

  "I don't expect to be of any help," Avalon said meekly, "but I suspect the lady has played fast and loose at one time or another with the doctor—or others."

  "Could be," Simon answered. "And you are a help, you know, just by being."

  That line of thought occupied them shamelessly during the remainder of the ride.

  James Prather they found to occupy an expensive flat in an expensive neighborhood. He gave them a rather nervous welcome, bade them be seated, and did not offer a drink. James Prather paced the floor in house slippers, smoking jacket, and fawn-colored slacks. He was a man middling thirty, with great blue eyes that reminded you of a lobster. His chin was a hue, neither pale nor blue.

  He twisted the question out between writhing fingers.

  "Yes? What is it?"

  The Saint represented himself again as a Time magazine man, and named the subject of his research.

  "Yes, yes," Prather said. "What about Dr. Zellermann? What kind of a man, or what kind of a doctor?"

  "Both," said the Saint.

  "Ah, well——" The telephone rang. "Excuse me." Prather answered, listened intently for a moment. Then he shot a glance at the Saint. "Yes," he said. "Yes. I see. Goodbye."

  He turned to Simon. "Will you please get out of here?"

  The Saint watched Mr. Prather at first with a mild disdain, as if he were watching a caterpillar in somebody else's salad; then with mild amusement, as if he had discovered the owner of the salad to be his dipsomaniac Uncle Lemuel; then with concern, as if he had remembered that Uncle Lem was without issue, and might leave that handpainted cufflink to his only nephew; then with resignation, as if it were su
ddenly too late to rescue Uncle—or the caterpillar.

  Simon motioned Avalon to a tasteful divan, and seated him­self. His eyes were now mocking and gay, with blue lights. His smile was as carefree and light as a lark at dawn. He took a gold pencil and a pad from his pocket.

  "You were saying," he prompted, "about Dr. Zellermann?"

  James Prather's fingers were like intertwined pallid snakes, writhing in agony.

  "Please," he begged. "You must go at once. I have no time for you now. Come back tomorrow, or next week. An important appointment, unexpected. Sorry, but——"

  He went to the door, and held it open.

  The Saint considered, and after due and deliberate considera­tion rose and helped Avalon to her feet.

  "I'd like to come back," he told Prather at the door.

  Prather nodded nervously, watched the Saint and Avalon walk toward the elevator for a few feet, then almost slammed the door. Simon pushed the elevator button, and just before the door opened, planted a swift kiss on her startled but quickly responsive mouth.

  "Wait for me in the lobby, darling," he whispered, and hand­ed her inside the car.

  He took up a post of observation further down the hall, so that the elevator door was halfway between him and Prather's door. He suspected he would not have long to wait before something happened. What that something might be, he was unable to predict.

  He thought of the false trails he had run down before he began to sniff around Cookie's Cellar. He wondered if this would turn out to be another. Each of his previous attempts to locate the object of his search had uncovered one or more nests of illegality.

  One had led him to a sort of warehouse, a huge structure where vast numbers of bottles of bona fide liquors were made less intoxicating by the simple addition of faintly colored dis­tilled water. All very healthful, no doubt, and tending to reduce the incidence of drunkenness among habitues of clip clubs like Cookie's—where, incidentally, one of the delivery trucks had led him. This wholesale watering of drinks had another human­itarian aspect: it saved work for the bartenders. Still, when he remembered the quality of Cookie's drinks, the Saint concluded that she and/or her bartenders had initiative along that same line. The Saint felt that there was room for reasonable doubt that the reduction of the alcoholic potency of the drinks stemmed from compassionate motives, cynical though that con­clusion might be.