The Saint in Action (24 page)

“Vell?”

“The same to you, comrade,” said the Saint fraternally. “Kindly put me through to Mr Thistle-thwaite–-“

“Vot? Der iss nobody named that,” said the thick voice.

“You’ll pardon me, but there’s a very large somebody named that,” said the Saint firmly. “Senior partner of the firm of Thistlethwaite and Aber-nethy–-“

“This iss not the firm you say.”

“No? Then who is it?” asked the Saint obstinately. “What’s the idea of using Thistlethwaite and Aber-nethy’s telephone number? Aren’t you Parliament 5577?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t be silly. You’re Thistlethwaite. Or are you Abernethy?”

“Ve are not dose names,” shouted the thick voice.

The line became dead, but Simon Templar was not discouraged. He had not expected to click at the first attempt. He dialled the number a second time and waited.

“Vell?”

“Oh, it’s you again, is it?” said the Saint cheerfully. “Vell—I mean, well, that proves that you must be Thistlethwaite. Or else you’re Abernethy. I damn well know I dialled the right number.”

“Ve are not Thistle-vot-you-say und somebody,” roared the thick voice, its owner clearly under the impression that he was dealing with a genial half-wit. “You got the wrong number again, you fool!”

“If you’re Parliament 5577 you’re Thistlethwaite and Abernethy,” insisted the Saint. “Think I don’t know?”

“Ve are Zeidelmann und Co.,” bellowed the angry voice, “und ve know nothing of the peoples you say.”

“Well I’m damned!” said Simon in surprise. “Then am I the bloke who’s been making the mistake? A thousand apologies, dear old frankfurter. And the same to Co.”

He hung up, and with his cigarette slanting dangerously out of the corner of his mouth he turned over the last few pages of Vol. II of the London Telephone Directory, which lay on a shelf. There was only one Zeidelmann & Co.; and the address was Bryerby House, Victoria.

The Saint paused for a moment to remove the potato from the taxicab’s exhaust pipe, and as he strode silently down a long narrow yard with high walls on either side he reflected on the absurdity of a mere humble potato rendering impotent one of man’s greatest mechanical wonders. And at the same time he reflected on his own remarkable good fortune. Beyond any shadow of doubt, his guardian angel was having a busy day… .

VI

He was somewhere in the Cricklewood district, and he found his great cream-and-red Hirondel parked where he had left it. His opportune arrival in the garage cellar a little earlier had been no coincidence. He had allowed Patricia Holm to go to Parkside Court alone, but he had hovered cautiously in the offing himself, and it had been a simple matter to follow the taxi which had started off with such suspicious abruptness.

“The Z-Man—Zeidelmann & Co.,” he said to himself as he drove swiftly towards Victoria. “Significant —and yet rather too easy. There’s a catch in it somewhere.”

Bryerby House stood in a quiet road off Victoria Street. Simon parked his car near by and walked to the office building. He had formulated no plan of action, but doubtless something would occur to him when it was necessary. Direct action, the straightforward and devastatingly simple approach which had always appealed to him, continued to offer tempting possibilities. It looked as if Zeidelmann & Co. had something to do with the Z-Man. Therefore he wanted to feast his eyes on Zeidelmann & Co. The logic of the proposition seemed incontrovertible; and as for its consequences, Simon was cheerfully prepared to let the Lord provide.

There was a wicked glimmer of anticipation in his eyes as he inspected the grubby board in the hall on which was painted a list of the occupants and their various callings. Zeidelmann & Co. apparently did nothing for a living, for beyond stating that their ofiice was situated on the ground floor the board was completely dumb. The Saint wandered down a shabby bare-boarded passage, scanning the names on the doors as he passed them. He met nobody, for Bryerby House was one of those janitor-less office buildings in which one could wander unhindered and unchallenged at any hour of the day; and although the evening was quite young it was still old enough for most businessmen to have paddled off to the discomfort of their suburban homes. The passage took a turn at the end, and Simon Templar found himself facing a glass-topped door. There was a light within, and painted on the glass were the illuminating words:

ZEIDELMANN & CO.

Curios

Simon cocked his hat at the sign.

“And indeed they are,” he drawled and knocked on the door.

“Vell?” came a familiar thick voice.

“So our old pal Mr Veil is here,” murmured the Saint, turning the door handle and entering. “Good evening, Z-Man,” he added affably as he closed the door and lounged elegantly against it. “This is the Saint calling. And how’s the trade in old pots and pans?”

One hand rested carelessly in his pocket, and the other flicked a cigarette into his mouth and then snapped a match head into flame. His languidly mocking eyes had missed nothing in the first quick survey of the room. The office was small and barren. It contained nothing but a shabby flat-topped desk, a couple of chairs, a table lamp and a telephone. At the desk sat a big shadowy man—the Saint could only see him indistinctly, for the lampshade was tilted over so that , the light shone towards the door and left the man at the desk in semigloom. It seemed to be a popular lighting system among the clan.

“Himmel! You are the crazy fool who telephoned, yes?”

“Well, I did telephone,” Simon admitted. “But I don’t know if I’d answer to the rest of it.” His gaze swept coolly over the room again. “You must do a thriving business here,” he drawled. “I see your stock’s pretty well sold out. Or do you mostly keep it in old cellars?”

“Vot you vant mit me?” demanded the other. “Vot iss tiss ‘Saint’ nonsense? I am Mr Otto Zeidelmann, und you I do not know.”

“That’s a condition which will be remedied from now onwards, brother,” said the Saint pleasantly. “You’ll get to know me better every minute. I dropped in this evening to have a look at you, and I must say you’re not very obliging. That lampshade—excuse me.”

Thud!

Something like a streak of silver lightning hissed across the desk and buried its point in the arm of the chair a fraction of an inch from Mr Zeidelmann’s hand, which had been edging towards the centre drawer of the desk.

“I’m getting out of practice,” said the Saint regretfully. “I meant that knife to pin your sleeve to the chair.”

Mr Zeidelmann looked down at the still quivering ivory hilt and sat as still as a mummified corpse.

“God!” he muttered shakily. “Are you a lunatic?”

“No,” said the Saint mildly. “But I’m afraid you’ll look like one if you waste any time denying that you’re the Z-Man. By the way, did you notice that in your perturbation you said ‘God’ just now instead of ‘Gott’? You want to watch little details like that when you disguise yourself. Respectable manufacturers’ agents don’t keep guns in their desk drawers, either—or any other kind of drawers, if it comes to that. Besides, I heard Mr Gump—Mr Raddon to you—talking to you over the phone. He made an appointment for tomorrow. That’s why I’m here this evening.”

The Z-Man stared at him without speaking, rolling a pencil monotonously between his fingers. The sudden shattering discovery that the notorious Saint knew so much must have hit him like a blow in the stomach. Recovery was not easy. Meanwhile Simon had leisure to inspect his victim with greater care. His sight had accommodated itself to the unequal lighting, and he was able to form a fair picture of Mr Zeidelmann’s appearance.

He had to acknowledge that if he had set out to feast his eyes he was doomed to be disappointed again. Mr Zeidelmann was no feast except in sheer quantity. He was grossly fat, with a great swelling belly which occupied all the space between his chair and the desk. A thick woollen muffler was bundled round his neck, and above it the Saint could catch only a glimpse of the dark beard which camouflaged the shape of his chin. Big horn-rimmed spectacles with clumsily thick rims covered his eyes, and a wide-brimmed soft hat was pulled well down over his forehead.

“You know, brother, if you’re one of the curios I wouldn’t want you on my mantelpiece,” observed the Saint critically. “You remind me of a great, fat, overgrown slug. Only in appearance of course; for slugs are highly moral and inoffensive creatures, and their only crime is to sneak up on your lettuces at night and test their succulency. By the way, I wonder if you leave a visible trail of slime behind you wherever you go?”

“You make the mistake!” Zeidelmann said gut-turally. “I nodding vot you say understand. I am not this man you say. You come here, und you insult me–-“

“And call you a slug–-“

“Und say I am a Z-Man, votever that iss,” proceeded Mr Zeidelmann wrathfully. “I tell you, you make the mistake. You are one pig fool.”

“You can’t get away with it, Ariolimax Agrestis— which, believe it or not, is what Mama Slug calls Papa Slug when she wants to cut a dash,” said the Saint imperturbably. “You didn’t know I was such a walking encyclopedia, did you ? There’s no mystery about it really. You see, slug, I always make a point of knowing everything there is to be known about obnoxious vermin and pernicious germ life.”

“Vill you go avay?” thundered Mr Zeidelmann.

“In a way,” said the Saint, “you puzzle me. You’re not particularly good, and I’m wondering where you got your Frankenstein reputation. I’m beginning to think that you’re just an amateur. Blackmailers often are. But your racket isn’t exactly common-or-garden black, is it? You seem to mix it with kidnapping on the side. You’ve hit a new angle of the game, and you’ve got me guessing.”

“Me, too!” fumed the big man in the chair. “I, too, guess! Vot you mean I do not know.”

“Oh yes, you do; and you’d better know what I mean when I tell you that Beatrice Avery is now out of your reptilian reach,” said the Saint coldly. “She’s safely hidden away—and so are your other intended victims.”

“You are crazy mad. I haf no victims.”

“You also have a large sackful of boodle tucked away somewhere, Mr Vell, and when the right time comes I’m going to dig my shovel into it.” The Saint was missing none of the Z-Man’s many reactions. He watched his victim’s hands, his heaving stomach and his dark vicious eyes, just visible behind the big lenses. “As far as I can see you’ve been running your show too long, so I’m going to close it down.” He pulled himself off the door and shifted closer towards the desk. “And now if you don’t mind we’re going to have a much more intimate look at you, as the bishop said to the actress. Take off the fur and the windows and give your face an airing.”

He made a suggestive move of the hand which still rested in his pocket; and then his ears caught a faint whisper of sound behind him. He started to turn, but he was a shade too late. The door behind him was already open, and something round and hard jabbed accurately into his spine. The toneless voice of Mr Raddon spoke behind him.

“Take your hand out of your pocket and keep still.”

The Saint kept still.

“This is a dirty trick, Andy,” he complained. “I distinctly heard you tell Comrade Vell that you’d meet him tomorrow at the usual place. Why can’t you keep your word instead of butting in like this and spoiling everything?”

He continued to keep studiously still, but he did not move his hand from his pocket. The bantering serenity of his voice had not changed in the slightest degree, and the smile on his lips was unaltered. The Z-Man, who had struggled cumbersomely to his feet, did not know that behind that blandly unruffled smile the Saint’s brain was turning over like a high-speed turbine.

“Shut the door, Raddon,” he said tensely. “Your gun in his back keep, und if he a muscle moves, shoot.”

“Well done, slug,” approved the Saint. “You sound exactly like Dennis the Dachshund.”

“So, Mr Saint, your cleverness iss not so hot, yes?” Zeidelmann’s voice came in a throaty purr. “There are things that even you do not know—you who knows so much about slugs. You do not know that I haf a code with Raddon for use on the telephone. ‘Tomorrow’ means ‘today’, und ‘today’ means ‘tomorrow.’ ‘Yes’ means ‘no’, und ‘no’ means ‘yes.’ Ve are careful, yes?”

“No,” said the Saint. “Or should that be ‘yes’? It sounds like a silly game to me. Don’t you ever get muddled?”

The pressure on his spine increased.

“You talk too much,” Raddon said curtly. “Take your gun out of your pocket and put it on the desk.”

The Saint’s eyes were twinkling blue icicles.

“Talking about guns, where did you get this one from?” he enquired. “I took one rod from you, and I’ve got it in my pocket at this very moment. Guns aren’t so easy to pick up in London. I believe you’re bluffing, Andy.”

“You drivelling fool!” grated Raddon. “Do as I tell you.”

There was more than impatience and exasperation in his voice. It was just a little too sharp to be convincing. Simon Templar laughed almost inaudibly and took the chance that he had to take.

“You haven’t got a gun, brother,” he said softly. “Have you?”

Without warning his right heel swung back in a kick that any mule in the full bloom of robust health would have boasted about for weeks. Mr Raddon collected it on his shin, and as he reeled back with a shriek of agony the Saint spun round like a human flywheel, his arm slamming vimfully into the other’s wrist. His precaution was unnecessary, for the object which clattered to the floor from Raddon’s hand was a harmless piece of iron piping.

“Your ideas are too juvenile,” said the Saint sadly. “I read detective stories myself. Instead of fooling about with that chunk of gas barrel you ought to have whacked me on the back of the head with it.”

Several other things happened immediately afterwards—one of them quite unrehearsed and unexpected. As Raddon bumped into the wall and clawed wildly at it to keep his balance his hand dragged over the electric light switch to which the standard lamp was connected. Instantly the room was plunged into inky darkness, for there was no light out in the passage near enough to penetrate the glass top of the door. The Saint leaped towards the switch, his gun now snug in his fist; and as he did so a splintering crash of glass came from the other side of the room, and he looked round and saw an uneven patch of grey light in the blackness. He knew just what had happened. The Z-Man, fearing that the tables were to be turned again, had left his lieutenant to his fate and charged desperately into the window, taking blind and glass and broken frame with him. Mr Zeidelmann was nothing if not thorough.