Saint Steps In Read Online Free PDF Page B

little
instrument to safeguard myself against
just that sort of thing.”
    “Oh, Lord,” said the Saint faintly. “Now I’ve heard
every thing.”
    “Believe
it or not,” said Sylvester Angert, “that’s the truth.”
    “Suppose you show me your key,” Simon suggested.
    Mr. Angert probed his pockets and came up with the tabbed key and offered it to the Saint. Simon checked the number
and frowned thoughtfully. Its last two
digits corresponded with the number of
Simon’s room. Mr. Angert, it appeared, oc cupied the suite immediately
above the Saint’s.
    Simon returned
the key and smiled easily.
    “Everything
checks beautifully, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Suppose you have a seat,
Sylvester, and toy with a drink while we talk
this over.”
    Reluctantly the little man took a chair across the room from the door. Simon splashed liquor into a
glass and fizzed the soda syphon. He nodded in the direction of the girl.
    “I
suppose introductions are in order,” he said. “Mr. An gert, this is Miss Millie Van Ess.
Miss Van Ess, Mr. Angert.”
    His
eyes were bland but they would not have missed the minutest change in Angert’s expression, if there had been any reaction to the alias he had inflicted on Madeline
Gray. But he saw no reaction at all.
    The little man nodded stiffly to the girl and murmured something that might have been
“How do you do.” He took the glass
from Simon and sipped the highball daintily.
    Simon’s long brown fingers reached for a cigarette.
    “Now, Mr.
Angert,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll agree that ex planations are in order—on both sides, possibly.
Just what is your business,
Comrade?”
    The liquor seemed to give the little man courage, or perhaps it was the realisation that he was not
going to be stretched on a rack—at least
not immediately. Over the rim of his glass, he said: “I don’t know your name, sir.”
    “So sorry.
It’s Templar, Simon Templar.”
    Angert’s
voice was quite calm as he said: “I believe I’ve heard of you. Aren’t you the one they call the Saint,
or some such name?”
    Simon bowed modestly.
    “My wife, that’s Mrs. Angert, takes a great interest in the crime
news in the papers, and I’ve heard her mention your name. I, personally, don’t pay much attention to that
sort of thing.” He looked up apologetically. “Not,” he added,
“that I have anything against
crime news, but—— ”
    Simon held up a hand.
    “No
apologies, please,” he said. “I much prefer the funnies and the produce market reports, myself. But what do you do, brother, besides not read crime news?”
    The little man delved into a vest pocket and brought out a card. Simon read that Sylvester was
sales manager of the Choc taw Pipe and Tube Company of Cleveland.
    “I’m in
Washington, trying to get to see somebody about a subcontract, but, oh dear, I just haven’t been able to do anything! They
all keep sending me from one office to the other and then back to the place I contacted first.”
    Simon casually slipped the card into his pocket and dragged at his cigarette.
    “I take it you make pipes and tubes,” he said.
    “We did, up until the war,” explained Sylvester. “Then
we converted to more direct
war products. Naturally, I can’t ex plain just what we’re turning out now, but it’s important Yessiree, very important, if I may say so.”
    “I’m sure
you may,” Simon murmured.
    Then
he shot his next question in a rapier-like tone that cut away the smug
complacency Sylvester seemed to be building up as thoroughly as a sharp knife would rip away
cheesecloth.
    “Does your plant have anything to do with rubber?” he de manded.
    This
time Mr. Angert’s eyes bounced a bit. He had been prepared for the other questions, but this one had
come out of nowhere and there was a split second’s
interval before he recovered.
    “Rubber?
Oh no. We’re a metal production outfit No, we have nothing to do with rubber at all.”
    Simon half turned
away to freshen his