Saint and the Fiction Makers Read Online Free PDF Page A

again to move, but shut his eyes and winced.
    ‘I’d better get you a doctor,’ the Saint told him. ‘Any preference?’
    ‘Later,’ Hugoson mumbled. ‘First … I’ve got to know … what they took.’
    ‘I’d be glad to tell you,’ Simon replied, ‘but it’s a little diffcult since I don’t have any idea what was here before they came to call. Where’d you keep the family treasures? I’ll check there first.’
    ‘No,’ said Hugoson. ‘I don’t keep any money or valuables in the house, except some rare books in glass cases in the library, just off to the right.’
    Simon moved to take a look at the room which Hugoson indicated with a feeble motion of his hand.
    ‘But there’s not much point even checking that,’ the publisher continued. ‘I’m afraid … those weren’t the sort of things they were after.’
    The remark brought the Saint up short, but not before he had seen that the books in their cases were undisturbed.
    ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You mean—these guests were expected?’
    ‘In a way. Yes. Please, check my desk—in the library. Did they get into that?’
    ‘They did,’ Simon reported, after a moment. ‘It looks as if they took it apart with a crowbar.’
    ‘They were probably looking everywhere for the key,’ Hugoson called, ‘but I took the precaution of carrying it with me.’
    ‘I’m afraid the power of locks and keys is greatly over-estimated,’ the Saint called back.
    He was fingering the splintered wood of several drawers in the library desk. Papers had been tossed aside at random until a certain file folder had been uncovered. The folder was open on the desk. Whatever it had once held was gone. On the tab of the folder were printed the words ‘Amos Klein.’
    ‘That’s what they were after,’ quavered Hugoson’s voice.
    The Saint looked up and saw that the publisher had made his way to the library door, and was standing there, clinging feebly to the jamb.
    ‘This?’ Simon asked, holding up the folder.
    ‘Yes. Personal correspondence with … with Amos Klein.’
    ‘Just over-eager autograph collectors, or what?’
    ‘They wanted his address primarily. I’m sure of it.’
    ‘There must be easier ways of getting it than this,’ hazarded the Saint.
    ‘There aren’t. Only I know it.’
    Hugoson’s voice trailed off, so Simon helped him into a chair.
    ‘Your employees must have learned his address,’ Simon said then. ‘Your secretary? And why all the secrecy anyway?’
    ‘One thing at a time,’ Hugoson said tiredly. ‘In the first place, I correspond from my office with Klein only to post office boxes, using fake names. Nobody could find him through information in my office files. The people who are looking for him already discovered that: they broke into my publishing house offices a couple of days ago. That, in fact, was my main reason for wanting to talk to you. I realized somebody was out to find Klein by any means necessary.’
    The Saint, lounging against the wall, held up one hand and interrupted.
    ‘Just one question, to put at least some perspective in this picture: why should Amos Klein be so difficult to find in the first place?’
    ‘Because I don’t want him to be found,’ Hugoson said.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because … because of several things, but primarily because I want to protect my investment.’
    ‘He doesn’t sound like an investment—he sounds like a pure asset.’
    ‘Whatever you want to call it …’
    ‘The goose that lays the golden eggs?’ Simon suggested. ‘You’ve hidden it away so nobody can steal it?’
    ‘Right,’ said Hugoson. ‘Exactly.’ He noted Simon’s almost unbelieving and somehow accusing stare. ‘Well, you can’t blame me! I’m a capitalist. I was dangerously close to being bankrupt when Klein came along, and I’ve no intention of letting anybody take him away from me. I don’t want to publish literature any more. I just want to be a millionaire!’
    ‘A laudable ambition,’ the