Authors: Leslie Charteris
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Simon Templar had been in New York before; but
that
was in the more spacious and leisurely days when only 8.04
of the gin
was amateur bathtub brew, before the Woolworth Building was ranked as a
bungalow, when lawbreakers were
prosecuted for breaking the law more
frequently than for
having falsified their income-tax returns. Times Square
and
42nd Street were running a shabby second to the boardwalk
at Coney
Island; the smart shops had moved off the Avenue one block east to Park; and
the ever-swinging doors of the
gilded saloons that had formerly decorated
every street corner
had gone down before that historic wave of righteousness
which dyed
the Statue of Liberty its present bilious shade of
green.
But there was one place, one institution, that
the Saint
could have found in spite of far more sweeping changes in
the geography of the city. Lexington Avenue could still be
followed
south to 45th Street; and on 45th Street Chris Cellini
should still be
entertaining his friends unless a tidal wave
had removed him
catastrophically from the trade he loved. And the Saint had heard no news of
any tidal wave of suf
ficient dimensions for that.
In the circumstances, he had less than no
right to be pay
ing calls at all; in a city even at that moment filled
with
angry and vigilant men who were still searching for him, he
should have
stayed hidden and been grateful for having any
place to hide; but it
would have taken more than the com
bined dudgeon of a dozen underworlds
and police forces to
keep him away. He had to eat; and in all the
world there
are no steaks like the steaks that Chris Cellini broils
over an
open fire with his own hands. The Saint walked with an easy,
swinging
stride, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets, and
the brim of his hat
tilted at a reckless angle over his eyes.
The lean brown face
under the brim of the hat was open for
all the world to see;
the blue eyes in it were as gay and careless
as if he had been a
favoured member of the Four Hundred
sauntering forth towards an exclusive
cocktail party; only
the slight tingling in his superb lithe
muscles was his reward
for that light-hearted defiance of the laws of
chance. If he
were interfered with on his way—that would be just too
bad. The
Saint was prepared to raise merry hell that night;
and he was sublimely
indifferent to the details of where and
how the fun broke
loose.
But nobody interfered with him on that
passage. He turned
in, almost disappointed by the tameness of the evening,
be
fore the basement entrance of a three-story brownstone house
and
pressed the bell at the side of the iron-barred door. After
a moment
the inner door opened, and the silhouette of a
stocky shirt-sleeved man came out against
the light.
“Hullo, Chris,” drawled the Saint.
For a second or two he was not recognized; and
then the
man within let out an exclamation:
“Buon Dio!
And where have you
been for so many years?”
A bolt was drawn, and the portal was swung
inwards. The Saint’s hand was taken in an iron grip; another hand was slap
ping him
on the back; his ears throbbed to a rich, jovial
laughter.
“Where have you been, eh? Why do you stay
away so
long? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, so I could tell
the boys
to come along?”
“They aren’t here tonight?” asked
the Saint, spinning his
hat dexterously onto a peg.
Chris shook his head.
“You ought to of telephoned,
Simon.”
“I’m just as glad they aren’t
here,” said the Saint looking
at him; and Chris was serious suddenly.
“I’m sorry—I forgot… . Well, you
know you will be all
right here.” He smiled, and his rich
voice brightened again.
“You are always my friend, whatever happens.”
He led the Saint down the passage towards the
kitchen,
with a brawny arm around his shoulders. The kitchen was
the
supplement to the one small dining-room that the place boasted—it was
the sanctum sanctorum, a rendezvous that was more like a club than anything
else, where those who
were privileged to enter found a boisterous
hospitality undreamed of in the starched expensive restaurants, where the
diners are merely so many intruders, to be fed at a price and
bowed
stiffly out again. Although there were no familiar
faces seated round the
big communal table, the Saint felt the
reawakening of an old
happiness as he stepped into the
brightly lighted room, with the smell of
tobacco and wine and steaming vegetables and the clatter of plates and pans. It
took
him back at one leap to the ambrosial nights of drinking and
endless
argument, when all philosophies had been probed and
all the world’s
problems settled, that he had known in that
homely place.
“You’ll have some sherry, eh?”
Simon nodded.
“And one of your steaks,” he said.
He sat back and sipped the drink that Chris
brought him,
watching the room through half-closed eyes. The flash of
jest
and repartee, the crescendo of discussion and the ring of laughter, came
to his ears like the echo of an unforgettable
song. It was the same
as it had always been—the same hu
morous camaraderie presided over and
kept vigorously
alive by Chris’s own unchanging geniality. Why were there
not more
places like that in the world, he began to wonder—
places where a host
was more than a shopkeeper, and men
threw off their cares and talked and
laughed openly together,
without fear or suspicion, expanding cleanly
and fruitfully
in
the glow of wine and fellowship?
But he could only take that in a passing
thought; for he
had work to do that night. The steak came—thick, tender,
succulent, melting in the mouth like butter; and he devoted
himself to
it with the wholehearted concentration which it
deserved. Then, with
his appetite assuaged, he leaned back
with the remains of his wine and a
fresh cigarette to pon
der the happenings of the day.
At all events he had made a good beginning.
Irboll was
very definitely gone; and the Saint inhaled with deep contentment
as he
recalled the manner of his going. He had no
regrets for the foolhardy
impulse that had made him attach
his own personal signature uncompromisingly
to the deed.
Some of the terror that had once gone with those grotesque
little drawings still clung to them in the memories of men
who had
feared them in the old days; and with a little adroit
manipulation much of
that terror could be built up again. It
was good criminal
psychology, and Simon was a great believer
in the science.
Curiously enough, that theatrical touch
would mean more to a
brazen underworld than anyone but an
expert would have realized; for it is
a fact that the hard-boiled
gangster constitutes a large proportion of
the dime novelette’s
most devoted public.
At any rate, it was a beginning. The matter of
Irboll had
been disposed of; but Irboll was quite a minor fish in
the
aquarium. Valcross had been explicit on that point. The
small fry
were all right in their appointed place: they could
be neatly dismembered,
drenched in ketchup and tabasco,
exquisitely iced, and served up for a
cocktail—on the way.
But one million dollars of anybody’s money
was the price of
the leaders of the shoal; and apart from the simple sport
of rod and line, Simon Templar had a nebulous idea that he
might be
able to use a million dollars. Thinking it over, he
had some difficulty in
remembering a time when he could
not have used a million dollars.
“If you offered me a glass of
brandy,” he murmured, as
Chris passed the table, “I could drink a
glass of brandy.”
There was a late edition of the
World-Telegram
abandoned
on the chair beside him, and Simon picked it up and cast
an
eye over the black banner of type spread across the front
page. To
his mild surprise he found that he was already a
celebrity. An
enthusiastic feature writer had launched him
self on the subject
with justifiable zeal; and even the Saint
was tempted to blush
at the extravagant attributes with which his modest personality had been
adorned. He read the story
through with a quizzical eye and the faintest
suspicion of a
smile
on his lips.
And then the smile disappeared. It slid away
quite quietly,
without any fuss. Only the lazy blue gaze that scanned the
sheet steadied itself imperceptibly, focusing on a name that
had cropped
up once too often.
He had been waiting for that—searching, in a
detached
and comprehensive way, for an inspiration that would lead
him to a
renewal of the action—and the lavish detail splurged
upon the
circumstances of his latest sin by that enthusiastic
feature writer had
obliged. It was, at least, a suggestion.
The smile came back as he stood up, draining
the glass
that had been set in front of him. People who knew him
said
that the Saint was most dangerous when he smiled. He turned
away and
clapped Chris on the shoulder.
“I’m on my way,” he announced; and
Chris’s face fell.
“What, so soon?”
Simon nodded. He dropped a bill on the
sideboard.
“You still broil the best steaks in the
world, Chris,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be back for another.”
He went down the hall, humming a little tune.
On his way
he stopped by the telephone and picked up the directory.
His finger
ran down a long column of N’s and came to rest
below the name in the
newspaper story that had held so much
interest for him. He made a mental
note of the address,
patted the side pocket of his coat for the
reassuring bulge of
his automatic, and strolled on into the street
The clock in the ornate tower of the old
Jefferson Market Court was striking nine when his cab deposited him on the
corner of
Tenth Street and Greenwich. He stood at the curb
and watched the taxi
disappear round the next corner; and then he settled his hat and walked a few
steps west on Tenth
Street to pick up the number of the nearest house.
His destination was farther on. Still humming
the same
gentle breath of a tune, he continued his westward stroll
with
his hands in his pockets and a cigarette slanting up between
his lips,
with the same lithe, easy stride as he had gone down
Lexington Avenue to
his dinner — and with precisely the
same philosophy. Only on this journey
his feeling of pleasant
exhilaration had quickened itself by the
exact voltage of the
difference between a gesture of bravado and a
definite mis
sion. He had no plan of action, but neither had the Saint
any
reverence for plans. He went forth, as he had done so often in the past,
with nothing but a sublime faith that the gods of all
good buccaneers would
provide. And there was the loaded
automatic in his pocket, and the
ivory-hilted throwing knife
strapped to his left forearm under his sleeve,
ready to his hand
in case the gods should overdo their generosity… .
In a few minutes he had found the number he
wanted.
The house was of the Dutch colonial type, with its roots
planted
firmly in the late Victorian age. Its broad flat fa
ç
ade
of red brick trimmed in white was unassuming enough; but
it had a
smug solidity reminiscent of the ancient Dutch
burghers who had first
shown their business acumen in the New World by purchasing the island from the
Indians for
twenty-four dollars and a jug of corn whisky — Simon had
sometimes
wondered how the local apostles of Temperance had ever brought themselves to
inhabit a city that was tainted
from its earliest conception with the Devil’s
Brew. It was an
interesting metaphysical speculation which had nothing
whatsoever
to do with the point of his presence there, and he
abandoned it reluctantly in favour of the appealing potentialities of a narrow
alley which he spotted on one side of the
building.