The Saint Sees It Through s-26 Page 5

Within its hand-sewn compartments was a collection of docu­ments in blank which represented the cream of many years of research. On its selection of letterheads could be written letters purporting to emanate from almost any institution be­tween the Dozey Dairy Company of Kansas City and the Dominican Embassy in Ankara. An assortment of visiting cards in two or three crowded pockets was prepared to identify anybody from the Mayor of Jericho to Sam Schiletti, outside plumbing contractor, of Exterior Falls, Oregon. There were passports with the watermarks of a dozen governments—driv­ing licenses, pilot's licences, ration books, credit cards, birth certificates, warrants, identification cards, passes, permits, memberships, and authorisations enough to establish anyone in any role from a Bulgarian tight-rope walker to a wholesale fish merchant from Grimsby. And along with them there was a unique symposium of portraits of the Saint, flattering and unflattering, striking and nondescript, natural and disguised— together with a miscellany of stamps, seals, dies, and stickers which any properly conditioned bureaucrat would have drooled with ecstasy to behold. It was an outfit that would have been worth a fortune to any modern brigand, and it had been worth exactly that much to the Saint before.

  He sat down at the desk and worked for an unhurried hour, at the end of which time he had all the necessary documents to authenticate an entirely imaginary seaman by the name of Tom Simons, of the British Merchant Marine. He folded and refolded them several times, rubbed the edges with a nail file, smeared them with cigarette ash, sprinkled them with water and a couple of drops of coffee, and walked over them several times until they were convincingly soiled and worn.

  Then he finished dressing and went out. He took a Fifth Avenue bus to Washington Square, and walked from there down through the gray shabby streets of the lower east side until he found the kind of store he was looking for.

  He couldn't help the natural elegance of his normal appear­ance, but the proprietor eyed him curiously when he announced himself as a buyer and not a seller.

  "I've got a character part in a play," he explained, "and this was the only way I could think of to get the right kind of clothes."

  That story increased his expenses by at least a hundred per cent; but he came out at the end of an hour with an untidy parcel containing a complete outfit of well-worn apparel that would establish the character of Tom Simons against any kind of scrutiny.

  He took a taxi back to the Algonquin.

  There were two telephone messages.

  Miss Dexter phoned, and would call again about seven o'clock.

  Miss Natello phoned.

  Simon arched his brows over the second message, and smiled a little thinly before he tore it up. The ungodly were certainly working. Fundamentally he didn't mind that, but the per­sistence of the coverage took up the slack in his nerves. And it wasn't because he was thinking about himself.

  He called Avalon's number, but there was no answer.

  There are meaningless gulfs of time in real life which never occur in well-constructed stories—hours in which nothing is happening, nothing is about to happen, nothing is likely to happen, and nothing does happen. The difference is that in a story they can be so brightly and lightly skimmed over, simply by starting a fresh paragraph with some such inspired sentence as "Simon Templar went downstairs again for a drink, and Wolcott Gibbs waved to him across the lobby, and they spent a couple of congenial hours lamenting the sad standards of the current season on Broadway."

  Simon Templar went downstairs again for a drink, and Wolcott Gibbs waved to him across the lobby, and they spent a couple of congenial hours lamenting the sad standards of the current season on Broadway; and all the time Simon was watch­ing the clock and wondering what held back the hands. •

  It was fifteen hours, or minutes, after seven when the call came.

  "Merry Christmas," she said.

  "And a happy new year to you," he said. "What goes?"

  "Darling," she said, "I forgot that I had a date with my arranger to go over some new songs. So I had to rush out. What are you doing?"

  "Having too many drinks with Wolcott Gibbs."

  "Give him my love."

  "I will."

  "Darling," she said, "there's a hotel man from Chicago in town—he used to come and hear me bellow when I was at the Pump Room—and he wants me to go to dinner. And I've got to find myself another job."

  He felt empty inside, and unreasonably resentful, and angry because he knew it was unreasonable.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "So am I. I do want to see you, really."

  "Have you met this creep before?"

  "Oh, yes. Lots of times. He's quite harmless—just a bit dreary. But he might have a job for me, and I've got to earn an honest living somehow. Don't worry—I haven't forgotten what you told me about being careful. By the way, you'll be glad to hear Cookie called me."

  "She did?"

  "Yes. Very apologetic, and begging me to drop in and see her."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. I hate the joint and I hate her, but she knows everybody in town and she isn't a good enemy to have. I'll see what happens tonight. . . . What are you going to be doing later?"

  "Probably carousing in some gilded cesspool, surrounded by concubines and champagne."

  "I ought to be able to get rid of this creep at a sensible hour, and I would like to see you."

  "Why don't you call me when you get through? I'll probably be home. If I'm not, leave a number."

  "I will." Her voice was wistful. "Don't be too gay with those concubines."

  Simon went back to his table. He felt even emptier inside. It had been such a beautiful dream. He didn't know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or just careless. But he didn't want to feel any of those things. It was a persistent irritation, like a piece of gravel in a shoe.

  "What are you doing this evening?" Gibbs asked him.

  "Having another drink."

  "I've got to get some dinner before I go to that opening. Why don't you join me?"

  "I'd like to." Simon drained his glass. He said casually: "Avalon Dexter sent you her love."

  "Oh, do you know her? She's a grand gal. A swell person. One of the few honest-to-God people in that racket."

  There was no doubt about the spontaneous warmth of Wol­cott's voice. And measured against his professional exposure to all the chatter and gossip of the show world, it wasn't a com­ment that could be easily dismissed. The back of Simon's brain went on puzzling.

  2

  The Saint watched Mr. Gibbs depart, and gently tested the air around his tonsils. It felt dry. He moved to the cusp of the bar and proceeded to contemplate his nebulous dissatisfactions. He ordered more of the insidious product of the house of Dawson and meditated upon the subject of Dr. Ernst Zellermann, that white-maned, black-browed high priest of the un­conscious mind.

  Why, Simon asked himself, should a man apologise for sticking his face in the way of a fast travelling fist? Why should Dr. Z wish to further his acquaintance of the Saint, who had not only knocked him tail over teakettle but had taken his charming companion home? How, for that matter, did Dr. Z know that Avalon Dexter might have the telephone number of Simon Templar?

  Beyond the faintest shadow of pale doubt, Brother Zellermann was mixed up in this situation. And since the situation was now the object of the Saint's eagle eyeing, the type-case psy­chiatrist should come in for his share of scrutiny. And there was nothing to do but scrutinize. . . .

  Simon tossed off everything in his glass but a tired ice cube and went out into the night. The doorman flicked one glance at the debonair figure who walked as if he never touched the ground, and almost dislocated three vertebrae as he snapped to attention.

  "Taxi, sir?"

  "Thanks," said the Saint, and a piece of silver changed hands. The doorman earned this by crooking a finger at a waiting cab driver. And in another moment Simon Templar was on his way to the Park Avenue address of Dr. Zellermann.

  It was one of those im
pulsive moves of unplanned explora­tion that the Saint loved best. It had all the fascination of potential surprises, all the intriguing vistas of an advance into new untrodden country, all the uncertainty of dipping the first fork into a plate of roadside eating stew. You went out into the wide world and made your plans as you went along and hoped the gods of adventure would be good to you.

  Simon relaxed hopefully all the way uptown until the taxi decanted him in front of the windowed monolith wherein Dr. Ernst Zellermann laved the libido.

  A light burned on the twelfth floor, and that was entree even though the lobby roster placed Dr. Zellermann on the eighteenth floor. Simon entered the elevator, signed "John Paul Jones" on the form for nocturnal visitors, said "Twelve" to the ancient lackey, and was levitated on greased runners.

  He walked toward the lighted doorway, an emporium of Swedish masseurs, but wheeled on silent feet as soon as the elevator doors closed and went up six flights as swiftly and as silently as the elevator had ascended. The lock on Zellermann's door gave him little trouble, snicking open to reveal a waiting room of considerable proportions.

  The pencil beam of his flashlight told him that the man who decorated this restful room knew the value of the pause that relaxes. "This is your home," the room said. "Welcome. You like this chair? It was made for you. The prints? Nice, aren't they? Nothing like the country. And isn't that soft green of the walls pleasant to the eye? Lean back and relax. The doctor will see you presently, as a friend. What else, in these surroundings?"

  The Saint tipped his mental hat and looked around for more informative detail. This wasn't much. The receptionist's desk gave up nothing but some paper and pencils, a half pack of cigarettes, a lipstick, and a copy of Trembling Romances. Three names were written on an appointment pad on the desk top.

  He went into the consultation room, which was severely furnished with plain furniture. A couch lay against one wall, the large desk was backed against an opaque window, and the walls were free of pictorial distractions.

  Yet this, too, was a restful room. The green of the reception room walls had been continued here, and despite the almost monastic simplicity of the decor, this room invited you to relax. Simon had no doubt that a patient lying on the couch, with Dr. Zellermann discreetly in the background gloom, would drag from the censored files of memory much early minutiae, the stuff of which human beings are made.

  But where were the files? The office safe?

  Surely it was necessary to keep records, and surely the records of ordinary daily business need not be hidden. The secretary must need a card file of patients, notations, statements of accounts, and what not.

  Once more the pencil beam slid around the office, and snapped out. Then the Saint moved silently—compared to him, a shadow would have seemed to be wearing clogs—back into the reception room. His flash made an earnest scrutiny of the receptionist's corner and froze on a small protuberance. Simon's fingers were on it in a second. He pulled, then lifted— and a section of wall slid upward to reveal a filing cabinet, a small safe, and a typewriter.

  The Saint sighed as he saw the aperture revealed no liquid goods. Tension always made him thirsty, and breaking and entering always raised his tension a notch.

  As he reached for the top drawer of the file to see what he could see, the telephone on the reception desk gave out a shrill demand. The Saint's reflexes sent a hand toward it, which hovered over the instrument while he considered the situation. More than likely, somebody had called a wrong number. It was about that time in the evening when party goers reach the point where it seems a good idea to call somebody, and the somebody is often determined by spinning the dial at random.

  If it happens to be your telephone that rings, and you struggle out of pleasant dreams to curse any dizzy friend who would call you at that hour, and you say "Hello" in churlish tones, some oafish voice is likely as not to give you a song and a dance about being a telephone tester, and would you please stand three feet away from the phone and say "Methodist Episcopalian" or some such phrase, for which you get the horse laugh when you pick up the phone again.

  This is considered top-hole wit in some circles.

  If this were the case, Simon reflected, no harm could be done by answering. But what harm in any case? he asked himself, and lifted the receiver.

  "Hullo."

  "Ernst?" asked a sharp and vaguely familiar voice. "I'm glad you came early. I'll be there immediately. Something has arisen in connection with Gamaliel Foley."

  Click. The caller hung up. That click was echoed by the Saint's memory, and he directed his flashlight at the appoint­ment pad to confirm it. There it was, sandwiched between the names of Mrs. Gerald Meldon and James Prather, Gamaliel Foley.

  The Saint was torn between two desires. One was to remain and eavesdrop on the approaching meeting of Dr. Z and his caller with the vaguely familiar voice; the other was to find Gamaliel Foley and learn what he could learn. The latter pro­cedure seemed more practical, since the office offered singularly few conveniences for eavesdropping; but Simon was saddened by the knowledge that he would never know what happened when the conferees learned that it was not Dr. Zellermann who had answered the call.

  He replaced the wall panel and went away. On the twelfth floor he summoned the elevator, and he wasn't certain whether or not he hoped he wouldn't encounter Park Avenue's psyche soother. It might have been an interesting passage at charms, for the doctor could give persiflage with the best. But no such contretemps occurred on the way out; and Simon walked the block to Lexington Avenue and repaired to a drugstore stocked with greater New York's multiple set of telephone directories.

  He found his man, noted the Brooklyn address, and hailed a taxicab.

  For a short while Simon Templar gave himself over to trying to remember a face belonging to the voice that had spoken with such urgency on the telephone. The owner of the voice was excited, which would distort the voice to some extent; and there was the further possibility that Simon had never heard the voice over the telephone before, which would add further distortion to remembered cadences and tonal qualities.

  His worst enemies could not call Simon Templar methodical. His method was to stab—but to stab unerringly—in the dark. This characteristic, possessed to such an incredible degree by the Saint, had wrought confusion among those same worst enemies on more occasions than can be recorded here—and the list wouldn't sound plausible, anyway.

  So, after a few unsatisfactory sallies into the realm of Things To Be Remembered, he gave up and leaned back to enjoy the ride through the streets of Brooklyn. He filed away the incident under unfinished business and completely relaxed. He gave no thought to his coming encounter with Gamaliel Foley, of which name there was only one in all New York's directories, for he had no referent. Foley, so far as he was concerned, might as well be Adam, or Zoroaster—he had met neither.

  When the cab driver stopped at the address the Saint had given, Simon got out and walked back two blocks to the address he wanted. This was an apartment house of fairly respectable mien, a blocky building rising angularly into some hundred feet of midnight air. Its face was pocked with windows lighted at intervals, and its whole demeanor was one of middle-class stolidity.

  He searched the name plates beside the door, found Foley on the eighth floor. The Saint sighed again. This was his night for climbing stairs. He rang a bell at random on the eleventh floor, and when the door buzzed, slipped inside. He went up the carpeted stairway, ticking off what the residents had had for dinner as he went. First floor, lamb, fish, and something that might have been beef stew; second floor, cabbage; third floor, ham flavored with odors of second floor's cabbage; and so on.

  He noted a strip of light at the bottom of Foley's door. He wouldn't be getting the man out of bed, then. Just what he would say, Simon had no idea. He always left such considera­tions to the inspiration of the moment. He put knuckles to the door.

  There was no sound of a man getting out of a chair to grump to the door i
n answer to a late summons. There was no sound at all. The Saint knocked again. Still no sound. He tried the door. It opened on to a living room modestly furnished with medium-priced overstuffed pieces.

  "Hullo," Simon called softly. "Foley?"

  He stepped inside, closed the door. No one was in the living room. On the far side was a door leading into a kitchen, the other no doubt led into the bedroom. He turned the kitchen light on, looked about, switched off the light and knocked on the bedroom door. He opened it, flicked the light switch.

  There was someone here, all right—or had been. What was here now was not a person, it was a corpse. It sprawled on the rug, face down, and blood had seeped from the back to the dark green carpet. It was—had been—a man.

  Without disturbing the body any more than necessary, Simon gathered certain data. He had been young, somewhere in his thirties; he was a white-collar worker, neat, clean; he bore identification cards which named him Gamaliel Bradford Foley, member of the Seamen's Union.

  The body bore no information which would link this man with Dr. Ernst Zellermann. Nor did the apartment, for that matter. The Saint searched it expertly, so that it seemed as if nothing had been disturbed, yet every possible hiding place had been thoroughly explored. Foley, it seemed, was about to become engaged to a Miss Martha Lane, Simon gathered from a letter which he shamelessly read. The comely face which smiled from a picture on Foley's dresser was probably her likeness.

  Since no other information was to be gathered here, the Saint left. He walked a half dozen blocks to a crowded all-night drugstore and went into an empty phone booth, where he dialled Brooklyn police.

  He told the desk sergeant that at such and such an address "you will find one Gamaliel Foley, F-o-l-e-y, deceased. You'll recognise him by the knife he's wearing—in his back."

  3

  At the crack of ten-thirty the next morning, Avalon Dexter's call brought him groggily from sleep.

  "It's horribly early," she said, "but I couldn't wait any longer to find but if you're all right."

  "Am I?" the Saint asked.