Leslie Charteris

The Saint on TV

Foreword

When, after many years of noble and lofty-minded resistance, I finally broke down and sold the Saint to the Philistines of Television, I fear that I must have added one more argument to the armory of the cynics who maintain that every man has his price, because I certainly got mine. It must have been a shattering blow to the countless millions who until then had thought I was perfect, even though I myself had never made that claim.

However, I did have enough remnants of probity to limit his period of bondage to two years, knowing full well the voracity of the mills which grind out the fodder for what I still regard as the mini-medium of mini-minds, and figuring that in that time, at the relentless pace of one show a week, they would have devoured the entire product of a not inactive writing lifetime, or anyway as much of it as was suitable for adaptation to filmlets of about 50 minutes without the commercial “messages” and the pauses for what is hilariously called “station identification.” I was resigned to the expectation that my stories would be considerably garbled and mutilated to conform either with the puerile tabus of unwritten censorships or the congenital megalomania of all movie-makers who can never resist “improving” any literary creation that falls into their power, or both; but it had never occurred to me to allow the Saint to be projected into plots that had absolutely no connection whatsoever with anything I had ever written, and in fact any such liberties were specifically prohibited in my first contract.

Despite all the distortions and emasculations which shook up a probable majority of hitherto faithful readers of the Saint books, that first TV series was a big hit in Britain (where it was made) and many European countries, and was even fairly successful in the United States although presented in most areas at such impossible hours that only chronic insomniacs, night watchmen, or veritably fanatic fans would have caught it. Indeed, the American success was remarkable enough for NBC to become interested in putting the show on their full network, in color, and in what is called “prime time” — promotion which had never before been offered to any series previously established in syndication.

The interesting situation then was that the British TV producers could not thumb out this possible plum without making a new deal with me, which would necessarily include the right to create original scripts.

Well, the cynics will recognize it as the same old story. After you’ve succumbed once, it is so much easier to succumb again. Especially when the bribe can be made so much fatter. And I have never pretended that I chose a career in writing without the most powerful mercenary motives.

So, after many hesitations and much tough bargaining, and not without very grave misgivings, I eventually consented.

The rest is history, of a sort. Many of the results, fulfilling my worst forebodings, were lamentable. But many of the so-called “adaptations” of my own cherished stories were no less lamentable, after the weird wizardries of television production got through with them. Some of those “adaptations,” in defiance of every contractual safeguard, had been almost unrecognizable anyhow. Some of the new original scripts were not much worse. Some were passable. And a few, to my pleasant surprise, were quite good.

Enter, next, three other Tempters: The Saint Magazine, which in 137 issues had just about exhausted the reservoir of Saint material, in spite of all the additions I had myself been able to make to the Saga during its existence, and my book publishers in America and Britain (to put them in alphabetical order) who had labored so stoutly for me in my rising years but had long since been bemoaning the indolence of success, and who were perpetually pleading with me to give them new Saint books which, they guaranteed, would be hungrily lapped up by hordes of starved aficionados throughout the British Empire and the United States (to put them in alphabetical order). Why not, they conjointly urged, extend the Saga to include readable versions of some of the best of the televised inventions — subject, of course, to my own final editing?

The idea was interesting, and by no means unique in literature. Even aside from the notable “Solar Pons” pastiches by August Derleth (of which several first appeared in The Saint Magazine) Sherlock Holmes himself had been perpetuated far beyond the range of Conan Doyle in several movies and innumerable radio series episodes based merely on the character and retailing episodes that Doyle never dreamed of. Barry Perowne, by arrangement with the estate of the late E. W. Hornung, continued the adventures of Raffles into modern times in a considerable number of stories (many of which were also first published in The Saint Magazine). Even while I was thinking it over, I heard that the heirs to the Ian Fleming copyrights were contemplating a continuation of the James Bond mythology — arrangements for which have since been concluded. If such a process could be tolerated by such a distinguished range of fictional characters, why should I reject it for the Saint?

If I had turned it down, there would still have been nothing I could do, so far as I know, to enjoin my own heirs from buying the same proposition some day — or, worse still, to prevent it being done without even any benefit to them by some later larcenist taking advantage of the privileged piracy sanctioned by the iniquitous concept of “public domain.” But by permitting it now, besides enjoying some of the financial fruits myself, I would have one privilege which was denied to all the other authors I have cited: I could personally watch over and to a great extent control the desecration.

These original scripts, after all, were by agreement first submitted to me as synopses, on which I was permitted to make criticisms and suggestions, even if the producers did not invariably adopt them. The resulting scripts were again submitted to me, and again subjected to my comments, even though these were not always embodied in the final films. Now I would be in a position to choose, first, the scripts which did least violence to my own concept of a Saint story. Furthermore, the story-form adaptations would be made under my own direct and absolute supervision, permitting me to change and improve on the basic material in any way I thought desirable, in a possibly unique reversal of the usual system under which the producer takes it upon himself to improve on the author. Finally, I would personally revise every page of the adaptations, making an honest effort to ensure that in style and phrase they were as fair a facsimile of my own writing as could be achieved without my doing all the work.

What you are about to read, therefore, is an interesting and perhaps unprecedented experiment in team work. It is not, in any sense, a ghosted job, because I do not pretend to be the outright author. For these first offerings (and if they are well received there will be more) I have chosen story lines by John Kruse, whom I rate as easily the best TV scripter who has worked on the show, and the novelizations are by Fleming Lee, a promising young writer who I think will presently make a name of his own. I have done the back-seat driving, and added a few typical flourishes of my own. Obviously, the composite result is not even now exactly the way it might have been if I had written it all myself. But it is as close as any imitation is ever likely to get.

—Leslie Charteris

The death game

[1]

1

“Hello, dahling,” the voice from the telephone said. “Zis is Zsa Zsa Gabor”

Simon Templar, his face freshly shaven, dark hair newly brushed, his clean shirt half buttoned, was not expecting a call from Zsa Zsa Gabor. He did not know Zsa Zsa Gabor, and he had no reason to believe that the actress with the often mimicked voice was any better acquainted with him.

“I’m sorry,” he said with hesitation. “I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This is Captain Kidd.”

While his formerly gushing caller hesitated, experiencing the disconcerting vertigo of rapidly turning tables, Simon admired his own psyche’s impromptu choice of a pseudonym: it was fairly appropriate for a man who had often been called — among more censorable things — the twentieth century’s brightest buccaneer. Most assuredly, had Simon Templar’s rakishly piratical face been exposed to the world three or four hundred years sooner, it would have been found on the poop of some white-winged marauder. As it was, his present day forays against the gold and jewel laden galleons of the Ungodly had brought him at least as much fame and perhaps even more fortune than in earlier tunes when heroism and daring were more common and less denigrated qualities on the face of the earth.

“You are kidding wiz me, dahling,” said the alleged embodiment of all things good in bed. “You are ze man zey call ze Saint.”

“That’s also a possibility,” said the Saint. “Now if you’ll tell me who you are we’ll be almost even.”

“I’ve told you, you funny man.” Her voice took on a sudden urgency. “But I have no time to argue any more. I am in trouble and I...”

“Perhaps,” Simon interrupted helpfully, “you’d better speak to your family doctor.”

It was impossible to tell definitely whether his caller snickered or suppressed a sigh of exasperation. At any rate she went on a moment later in the same desperate tone.

“I am told zat you are ze only one who can help me. Please, it is most important. I must see you. If you will meet me at...”

Simon, as she went on unnecessarily detailing a route by which he could arrive at a certain street corner not far from the British Museum, glanced at his watch and then out the window of his bedroom. Though it was only six in the evening, a heavy fog enveloped the autumn streets of London, and it was almost as dark as it would be at midnight.

“Listen,” he said, having no intention of refusing to accept the gauntlet which was being so charmingly flung at him, “I’m dressing for dinner now, and it just happens that I have no engagements for this evening. Why don’t you meet me at the White House at seven and...”

“White House?”

“It’s a restaurant, darling. No relation to the Birds’ Nest in Washington. Meet me there at seven and we can discuss your difficulties over the most delicious...”

“I couldn’t It... it must be later, and...”

“Then how about here at my house when it suits you? You know where I am, no doubt, since you have my number.”

“Yes, I think so. Upper Berkeley Mews. But...”

“And a charming spot it is, too,” Simon said nostalgically. “I lived here years ago and just found that the old place was available again. And I can’t think of a better partner for a housewarming than you.”

His Zsa Zsa or pseudo-Zsa Zsa was beginning to sound pressed.

“No,” she said. “It’s impossible. I beg you. Meet me where I said. At ten o’clock. Please.”

Whatever nefarious intentions she or someone she represented might have, her insistence on choosing her own ground assumed a naivete on Simon’s part which implied an almost unbelievable naivete on hers. Still, there was one inducement to go along with the proposal: if someone was out to ensnare him in some way, the Saint would not have chosen the venue but he would know where and when to be on guard — which advantage was several cuts above not being fore-warned at all.

“If you insist,” he said pleasantly. “But it’s only fair to tell you that I don’t believe for a moment that you are Zsa Zsa Gabor I’m just curious enough to want to know what the gag is — and it’d better be good, or you may find yourself getting spanked.”

“Oh, zank you for coming. It will be worth your while.”

“I’m sure it’s intended to be worth someone’s while — but just whose is the question that fascinates me.”

The fascination stayed with him as he finished dressing, cast a fond glance over the walls and refurbishings of his old haunt, and piloted his car off into the mist. It added a special piquancy to a meal which was as relaxed and fine as he had anticipated, but which without the earlier phone call would have turned his thoughts more toward relaxation and eventual sleep than toward the expectation of excitement. The voice, even if spurious, had had a timbre of genuine sexiness which he recognized in the same way that a connoisseur recognizes the scent of a good wine; and it was an article of his faith that adventure never came to those who sat at home in fear of making a mistake.

A little before ten he drove to the appointed area and circled through the almost deserted streets, always keeping a block’s distance between himself and the corner his Zsa Zsa had mentioned. He saw nothing to change his mind about keeping the date. Then he zigzagged deviously through several blocks to confuse any possible observers, and parked a full five minutes’ long-striding walk from his destination. He did not think, under the peculiar circumstances, that there was any taint of paranoia in his desire to arrive in as discreet a way as he could.

Of course it was possible — just barely possible — that the much photographed form of Miss Gabor would come drifting toward him out of the dampness like a Magyar mermaid. She had been reported in London, and only the day before he had read one of the usual idiotic newspaper interviews with her. That could also have inspired a joker whose calendar had stuck at the first of April to use her name for a stupid hoax, even more probably than that the real Zsa Zsa would have had any reason or inclination to call him. But stranger things than that had happened in his incredible life, and he could never have slept peacefully again if he had not given this one at least a sporting chance to surprise him. And yet at the same time, even while logical skepticism was resignedly prepared for a pointless jape, the conditioned reflexes of a lifetime still found themselves tautening to respond to anything more sinister than either of those simple alternatives. As he was about to emerge from an alley half a block from the trysting spot, he stopped and listened. The neighborhood, composed of small shops all closed in the evening, seemed absolutely deserted, and the more distant sounds of the city were muffled by mist. He looked along the street, both ways. Visibility was held down to barely a block, but it was obvious that within that area, at least, there was no one waiting for him.

He moved around the corner, out of the narrow passage, and went along the sidewalk. Then, almost like an echo of the sound of his own shoes on the dimly gleaming pavement, he heard the other steps. He went quickly around the comer of the block, where he was supposed to meet Zsa Zsa, and stood still to listen. The footsteps continued, drawing closer, from the direction of the alley he had just vacated.

As he heard them, swiftly analyzed their character, compared them with footsteps in general, the Saint felt the hairs prickle icily on the back of his neck. For the footsteps were not those of a woman — nor of a man either. Certainly of no animal. With mechanical steadiness they came on, accompanied now by a faint whining sound like that begun by a cuckoo clock just before the bird pops out to announce the hour.

Simon looked, and the unknown — which had aroused such aboriginal stirrings of his body fur — became the ridiculously familiar.

A metal toy soldier about twelve inches in height was marching along the sidewalk, its tin rifle on its shoulder, its wide painted eyes staring sightlessly straight ahead.

The Saint, feeling it safe to assume that the clockwork man has not happened along at just that moment by sheer accident, watched its progress as it passed him by and walked straight off the curb, falling on its face in the gutter. From that unmilitary position it continued its stiff movements, going nowhere, until finally, with some sporadic dying ticks, it lay still and totally silent.

Only after that did Simon venture a close approach to the thing. He rolled it over with his foot, then knelt to pick it up. For a second or two after he took it into his hands, searching it for a sign of its purpose — it seemed more the vehicle for a joke than for anything serious — nothing happened. Then it almost soundlessly emitted, from the barrel of its rifle, a single puff of black smoke.

The Saint flung it away from him and backed off, covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. But even though a little of the smoke had found its way into his nostrils he was suffering no ill effects beyond a mild and easily satisfied urge to sneeze.

The next event, however, was less harmless. There was a swift hiss over his head, and he turned to see an arrow, shaft fractured by its impact with the brick side of the building, clatter to the sidewalk at his feet.

The angle of the arrow’s flight told him the approximate place of its source and at the same time the location where he would be most safe. Out in the open, taking pot shots into the fog, he might very well receive, during the next few seconds, an unwelcome steel-tipped addition to his already quite adequately equipped anatomy.

In three strides he achieved the shelter of the nearest doorway and waited, automatic in hand, for some further charming manifestation from his rendezvous. It was not long in coming. A car barely poked its nose around the next corner, a red MG convertible with the top up, and from its blacked-out interior came a quick drum-roll of faint popping noises that matched the closer thudding of lead slugs pocking the brickwork on either side of the entranceway.

Flattening himself as deep into the alcove as possible while he was trying to decide where he could aim back most effectively against an invisible sniper with some kind of silenced automatic rifle who had to be in the rear part of the MG that was still mostly shielded by the corner building, Simon felt the door that he had his back to yield slackly to his pressure. His change of purpose was faster than thought; he was outgunned, and he knew it, and anything was better than his present exposed position. In a flash he was inside, slamming the door behind him.

The shooting stopped. There was no further sound.

The Saint took advantage of the lull and his new temporary security to survey what he could of his surroundings. His pocket flashlight, combined with the glow of streetlamps filtered through the transom from outside, showed that he was in the entrance hall of an obviously vacant building. Ahead of him was a staircase whose landing had been appropriated by spiders. The target shapes of their webs, stretching from bannister to wall, had an unpleasant association for him: he did not like being a target himself, a tin duck in somebody’s shooting gallery — especially a somebody who was probably insane as well as an incompetent marksman.

There was a closed door near the base of the stairs, facing the street entrance, and on the right was an open door, leading into a room which had to overlook the street. Since the Saint did not want to signal his position with the beam of his torch, he put it back into his pocket before leaving the hall.

The front room showed even more signs of decrepitude and neglect than had the staircase. Its only furnishings, aside from the marbleized bowl which covered its ceiling bulb, were a sagging table and a three-legged chair. The naked windows gave a full view of the street, but Simon could not see the MG, or any other assailant. The toy soldier lay dented where it had fallen in line of duty. Fog veiled everything else.

Then Simon’s fantastic reactions, in the blinding fragment of time which followed, sent him to his knees by the wall even before his conscious mind had been able to register what was happening. Only then did he realize that the overhead light in the center of the room had flashed on, though no one stood by the wall switch. Immediately afterward there had been a sound like that of a firecracker exploding.

Now, down from the light fixture drifted a long black rectangle of silk, attached at the top to the marbleized bowl, unfurling to its full length of a yard or more, so that its vivid scarlet lettering became perfectly legible.

BOOM, it said.

Simon, preferring invisibility to the continued opportunity of admiring the artful banner, shot out the light. He did not even care if the report of his gun brought Chief Inspector Claud Teal himself scurrying over from Scotland Yard. Indeed for once he might have welcomed Inspector Teal’s presence, if for no other reason than to have an independent witness corroborate the nightmarish ballet macabre in which he had been caught up.

A click and a humming noise came from the part of the room where the chair lay near the rickety table. Then a muffled voice began speaking.

“You have been gassed by a toy soldier, been shot through the head with an arrow, been mowed down with a submachine gun, and been blown up by a plastic bomb hidden in a light fixture. This is your killer speaking. You, the once famous Mr Simon Templar, are dead.”

Another click signaled the end of what was obviously a recording, and the Saint, feeling unamused but somewhat more at ease, decided that he was simply the victim of one of the most extreme practical jokes ever perpetrated. That realization, however, did not diminish by one erg his earnest desire to discover the identity of his persecutor. Using his pocket light again, he went to the table, opened the drawer, and looked in at a small battery-operated tape recorder which by means of some clever Japanese mechanism had turned itself on and then turned itself off again.

He closed the drawer. The recorder might carry fingerprints, or the comedian might come back to get it. And then Simon realized that there might be no need on his part for the tracing of identities or the setting of traps: a most faint sound had just reached his ears — a sound which, if noted at all by an ordinary man, would have been passed off as the inevitable creaking of antique lumber. But if the Saint had not possessed senses discriminating enough to prevent him from assuming such things, he would never have survived so long to enjoy the material rewards of his adventures.

What he was hearing, after the creak, was the stealthy approach of stockinged feet from behind him. Either his assailant had not been content with four types of mayhem and was about to attempt to add a fifth, or some new character was taking the stage.

The Saint waited for him, his back turned as bait, reasonably certain that any violent move would be presaged by a warning noise beyond that of foot-filled woolen material padding on old boards. Besides, any really serious killer would not have passed up his chance with a goodly proportion of the weapons in the human arsenal only to engage Simon Templar, of all people, in face-to-face combat.

So the Saint waited those few breathless seconds — breathless at least on the part of the stalking individual behind him. Simon’s lungs continued operating at the same easy pace they would have kept during the annual radio reading of Dickens’ Christmas Carol. And then, when the moment was exactly right, and he could somehow feel the presence of another body at just the proper position, he moved.

For the stalker turned victim, it must have been an astonishing sensation. At one moment his cautious feet were on the floor; an instant later he was in the air, experiencing the delightful but short-lived astronautical sensation of weightlessness without any effort at all on his part; and then he was forcibly reminded of the persistence of those natural laws which make apples fall and keep pigs out of the paths of soaring hawks. Then he knew nothing. He was flat on his back, unconscious.

Simon, using his pocket torch, found only one thing surprising about his sleeping adversary: the man was scarcely a man. He could not have been much over twenty — thin, brown-haired, neatly dressed in turtle-neck sweater and slacks, with a kind of intelligence in the molding of his face which one would not expect to find in the countenance of any ordinary young back-alley bandit.

He was carrying a single weapon: a string necktie, one of whose ends was still wrapped around his left hand. With that, in traditional commando fashion, he had apparently intended to throttle the Saint — or to pretend to throttle him, if his use of the strangling cord was to conform with the mock attacks that had already taken place.

Out in the hall, from the vicinity of the base of the stairs, a door opened. This time there was no attempt at silence. The door not only opened quite noisily, but was kicked back against the wall, and the footsteps which followed were completely uninhibited.

The hall bulb was flicked on, flooding the larger room with light, but by that time the Saint had already flattened himself against the wall just inside the door. He was ready for almost anything except what happened.

A very pretty young blonde walked in, carrying a tray on which were arranged a tea pot, three cups, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar. On the young lady herself were arranged, with much greater effectiveness, a very tight little sweater, a very short little skirt, and a pair of fashionable white boots. As she entered and saw the prone figure on the floor just beginning to groan and stir, she stopped and said to him in the mildly exasperated tone of a housewife whose husband has just failed to bring the swatter down directly on the fly, “Oh, Grey, you didn’t get him!”

2

Simon, who had planned a startling and entirely physical greeting for the newcomer before he got a look at her, decided that even without her hands full of tea things she would have posed about as much threat to him as a gladiola bulb.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t drop it,” he said softly.

The girl gasped, turned quickly, but did not drop the tray, even when she saw Simon’s automatic aimed at her middle.

“Oh, Mr. Templar, you frightened me.”

“And that’s only the beginning. Why don’t you set that stuff on the table over there and put your hands very high over your head until I can check over your few available hiding places for knives, bombs, and mustard gas grenades.”

The girl giggled as she freed her hands of the tray and raised them over her head.

“But I’m not even playing,” she said.

“Neither am I,” said Simon. “I hope you’re not going to be mad at us.”

“That’s the chance you have to take when you ambush people,” the Saint replied. “Now I shall shoot both of you and be on my way.”

The girl’s ingenuous green eyes became a little rounder.

“Wouldn’t it be awful,” she said, “if you took this seriously and really did kill us?”

“Oh, I am going to kill you,” Simon said casually. “The only thing that’s stopping me is a question of etiquette. Does the old business about ladies going first apply when one’s performing an execution?”

The girl blinked, and her high spirits were visibly lowered. Her accomplice was sitting up on the floor now, rubbing his face with both hands in an apparent effort to restore the clarity of his eyesight.

“Grey,” the girl said tentatively. “Grey? I think he’s angry at us. Why must you always overdo things?”

The young man managed to focus his eyes on the Saint.

“I’m Grey Wyler,” he said, pushing strands of hair out of his face, “and this is Jenny Turner.”

Simon nodded, and the little imps of humor which had beat a temporary retreat reappeared in the clear blue of his eyes.

“It’s safe to say the pleasure is all yours,” he remarked. “But curiosity may move me to spare your lives if you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

“We’re psychology students,” Grey Wyler began.

“At the bottom of the class, no doubt,” said Simon.

Wyler did not seem to share any of the light-heartedness of his female companion. His whole manner reflected an inner tension, and there was an unrelieved seriousness in the tone of every word he spoke which made the Saint feel an instinctive distrust and antagonism. The humorlessness showed the kind of lack of perspective which so easily verges over into insanity — and certainly nothing which had happened during the evening so far gave him any assurance as to the mental stability of his playmates.

“This is what’s called the Death Game,” Wyler went on. “It’s a hunters and victims kind of thing. Nobody really gets hurt, of course, but...”

“May I put my hands down?” Jenny interrupted.

“First step over this way and let’s see what sort of armaments you’re packing,” Simon said.

Jenny obeyed, keeping her arms up while the Saint checked over her from neck to knees with a gentle but not-entirely discreet hand.

“Oh, Mr Templar,” she murmured. “It’s such a thrill meeting you in person.”

“Same to you, Zsa Zsa. You can put your hands down now.”

The girl laughed.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“It took some very high class reasoning — the first step of which is that your boyfriend’s voice is about an octave and a half too low for the job.”

Jenny looked at him admiringly.

“You’re funny, too,” she said, “and better looking in person than your pictures. Don’t you think he’s better looking than his pictures, Grey?”

Wyler made a noncommittal noise and got to his feet.

“How about pouring us some tea before it gets cold?” he said. “Mr Templar?”

“No, thank you. My nine lives have just about been used up tonight, and I can’t afford the chance of drawing a tea bag with a skull and crossbones on it.”

“Game’s over,” Jenny said, serving. “No more killing tonight. Sorry you have to stand up, but this place belongs to my Dad and he’s trying to sell it. At least the kitchen was still in working order.”

Simon allowed himself to be talked into taking a cup.

“Now,” he said, “what is this Death Game?”

“It’s a bit kinky, but terribly in,” said Jenny. “Grey gets slightly carried away — he does with everything — but most people take it as a joke. Milk?”

“Please.”

Grey Wyler took over the explanation.

“The players are divided into hunters and victims.”

“They doing it in universities all over the place,” Jenny interrupted.

Wyler looked at her with cold irritation.

“If you’ll let me tell it.”

Jenny shrugged and moved to stand nearer Simon, watching him with an intensity that bordered on worshipfulness.

“Sometimes the hunters and victims are paired by lot,” Wyler said. “In our department at the college here we use a computer. There’s an instructor, Bill Bast, who works the game in as part of the educational process. Dr Manders, our department head, encourages it too.”

Wyler had pronounced the words “educational process” with a subtle sarcastic sneer which the Saint soon realized was one of his most persistent mannerisms. It was the boy’s way of making it clear that in his vast superiority he could not risk being identified with or associated with anything on the common earthly plane. Someday, Simon thought, he would fit in very well as a professor.

“At any rate,” Wyler continued, “the hunters are told who their victims are, and the victims are told only that they are on somebody’s death list. Whose, of course, they don’t know. Then the hunter proceeds to try to ‘kill’ his assigned victim in the most ingenious way possible.”

“And as many times as possible, apparently,” the Saint said. “Tonight’s the first I’ve ever seen mass murder performed on one man — assuming your attempts on me would have worked if you’d been serious.”

Wyler again demonstrated his lack of humor by narrowing his eyes and looking almost venomously indignant.

“You deny that I could have succeeded?”

Simon studied the boy for a few seconds and decided that an argument over hypothetical murder was not worth his own time.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he said.

“It’s the scoring Grey’s worried about,” Jenny explained. “Just killing somebody won’t get you much. Like if you shoot him in the back or something while he’s getting out of his car it’s only worth a couple of points.”

“But something like the toy soldier with the poison gas,” Wyler put in, “would be worth four or five.”

“On the other hand,” Jenny said, “if you kill an innocent bystander you get docked three points.”

“The first person to accumulate ten points is named a decathlon winner,” said Wyler.

“And gets a prize,” added Jenny.

Simon gazed at her with fascination.

“It beats tiddlywinks,” he conceded finally.

“Groovy, isn’t it?” Jenny bubbled. “We’re all just absolutely wild about it.”

“Meaning that the whole student body is buzzing with homicidal ingenuity?” Simon asked.

“That’s about it,” Wyler answered.

“And just how did I get involved?” the Saint asked.

“My psychology advisor, Bill Bast, bet me ten pounds I couldn’t kill the great Simon Templar,” Grey said. “Frankly, I thought it would be much more difficult.”

It took some unusual adherence to the qualities implicit in his nickname for the Saint to avoid an overt demonstration of his feelings about Grey’s puppy haughtiness.

“Assuming, since it’s only a game, that you did kill me tonight,” he said, “I have to remind you that you weren’t playing fair.”

“In what way?”

“You didn’t notify me that I was a victim.”

Grey Wyler tensed.

“The circumstances were... It wasn’t practical. Bast knew I couldn’t let you know. It was part of the bet. We assumed that someone like you would always be on his guard.”

“They were afraid you wouldn’t go along with it,” Jenny said. “And besides, old Maunders would’ve hit the ceiling if he’d known they were going after somebody outside the university. I almost think he takes this more seriously than the students do.”

“Old Maunders being some recalcitrant bulwark of professorial tradition?” Simon asked.

“Exactly,” Wyler said. “But you’ll meet him in a few minutes. Now that I’ve won I don’t give a damn what he knows or thinks.”

“I’ll meet him?”

“At the party,” Jenny said. “End of the term — and the Death Game winners get prizes and everything.”

“Having passed the age for student pranks,” Simon said, “and having been killed several times over, I think I’ll just retire to my cozy den and try to summon up forgiveness for those who lured me out of it in the first place.”

His refusal instantly brought from Jenny some of the most ingenuous persuasion to which he’d ever had the pleasure of being subjected. First she gave a little squeal of dismay, and then she flung both her arms around one of his arms, pressing herself against him and fairly jumping up and down.

“Oh, you just can’t disappoint us! I told everybody you were coming — and you’re supposed to pass out the prizes, and everything, and if...”

“The Death Game prizes?” Simon asked, intrigued at the prospect of getting to know more about this college fad that was so much like the game he had played, for real life and death stakes, during most of his existence.

“Oh, yes,” Jenny exclaimed, seeing her opening. “And the winners tell about their kills. You’ll love it. You’ve been such a great sport so far. Just string along a little longer, won’t you, please?”

“Jenny,” he said, “you’re more than I can resist. I’m yours to command.”

Jenny’s car was parked a block from the building where Simon had met his imaginary doom. It was, of course, the red MG from which the shots had been fired. They all squeezed in, as far as the place where Simon had left his own car, and then he followed them out of the deserted neighborhood of shops to the university district half a mile away. The college, forced to expand in the heart of a crowded city, had done so by occupying already existent structures in the area surrounding its original core. The only things distinguishing the academic buildings from nearby apartment houses, book dealers, and purveyors of technical supplies were modest identifying plaques beside each entrance door.

The MG stopped in front of a building labeled PSYCHOLOGY AND SOCIOLOGY. It was dark except for a single row of lighted windows on the ground floor.

“Party’s not here,” Jenny called as Simon left his car and joined her and Wyler, “but Bill Bast is. We’ll run in and see him first, then go over to the club.”

“Looks practically deserted around here,” the Saint commented as they went through the door and entered a corridor smelling strongly of age and floor wax and mildly of unidentifiable chemicals.

“End of term,” Jenny explained. “Most people have left. In fact just the ones who really took an interest in the Death Game are still here. They aren’t all in psychology, of course. Here we are.”

She opened the door to the very large, long room whose windows had helped to illuminate the street outside. Two rectangular tables surrounded by chairs ran down the center. Along the walls were a number of smaller tables, some desks, built-in storage cabinets, and cages of drowsy mice. At the far end was a computer, and beside it a tall almost skinny man of thirty or so wearing a white laboratory smock over his street clothes. The care he did not lavish on the crease of his trousers or the shine of his shoes was apparently devoted to experimental work.

“We got him!” Jenny called as she took a proprietary grip on Simon’s arm and led him between the tables. “This is Bill Bast, our assistant lecturer in psychology. Of course he knows who you are.”

Bast turned from the computer, smiling, and offering the Saint his hand.

“It’s a privilege to meet you,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to this very much.”

Wyler did not contribute to the general good-feeling.

“You owe me ten pounds,” he said in a flat tone that emphasized his arrogance. “It was at least a five point killing, and every step went just as I planned.”

Bast’s acknowledging glance at Grey was not marked by affection.

“Congratulations,” he said coolly, digging into his pocket for a pair of notes which Wyler took without thanks.

“It was nothing,” he said.

Bill Bast turned again to the Saint.

“I take it Grey and Jenny have filled you in on the Death Game?”

Simon nodded.

“It sounds like good clean fun.”

“We think it may have a real psychological value, too,” Bast said. “Just a second, I’ll cut off the computer and we can talk.”

“This machine is what pairs hunters and victims?” Simon asked.

“That’s only a sideline for it,” Bast replied. “It’s used primarily for much more important things — all kinds of data-comparing functions.”

“As a matter of fact,” Jenny said, “I’m surprised old Manders lets us use it for the game at all.”

“Dr. Manders is the head of the Psychology Department,” Bast explained, and it was immediately obvious that a subject had been broached which was disturbing to him.

“He’s a good man,” Jenny said. “Not many of these scholarly types would go along with something like this. I think he’d like to pitch right in himself if it wasn’t beneath his dignity.”

Bast seemed to feel increasingly uncomfortable as the discussion of his superior went on.

“Shouldn’t you kids be getting on over to the party?” he asked, looking at his watch.

“Right,” Jenny said. “I promised to help touch up the decorations. Will you bring Mr Templar? Don’t be late, though. Prize giving’s at midnight sharp.”

“What other time could it be?” Simon said.

“You’re absolutely groovy. It’s right around the corner — basement of the University Club, and...”

“I’ll see that he makes it,” Bast assured her, recovering enough of his former good mood to laugh and shake his head as she and Grey went out.

“Quite a girl,” Simon remarked. “Does she ever slow down?”

“Never. But Mr Templar, there’s something I must talk to you about,”

Simon did not miss Bast’s sudden reversion to an apprehensive tone.

“Yes?”

“In fact, I have to admit that wanting to involve you in this — to give myself an opportunity of talking with you — was one of my motives in making the bet with Grey Wyler.”

“It does seem a little touchy, attacking strangers on the streets, even in fun. They might fight back — with real bullets. Or lawsuits.”

“I know. You were the first one. Outside the college, I mean.”

The Saint was growing a little impatient with Bast’s reluctance to get to the point.

“Well,” he said, glancing at his watch, “just what is it that’s bothering you?”

Bill Bast hesitated once more and finally got it out.

“I’m afraid that the Death Game... is becoming something more than a game.”

3

But that was as much enlightenment as the Saint was to receive just then on the subject of Bill Bast’s worries. The unannounced entrance of a third party cut off his words as abruptly as if a guillotine had cut off his head. Simon himself was almost startled by the entrance, which was so entirely unheralded that there was something suspect about it. The sound of a walking man should have been audible for some distance through the almost deserted building, and yet there had been no sound at all until the door opened and a short, round-headed, balding man stepped in, his middle-aged portly frame invested with more dignity than it probably deserved by the black folds of an academic gown. He spoke with what might have been either ungraceful surprise or ill-concealed irritation.

“Ah, Bast... not at the party?”

“Dr. Maunders,” Bast said. “We weren’t expecting you here.”

“I trust not.”

“This is Mr Templar. Mr Templar, this is Dr Maunders, head of the Psychology Department.”

Dr Maunders gathered enough aplomb to grant Simon a soggy handshake and a limp rendition of a smile. Even those improvements, however, failed to put him anywhere near the category of people whom the Saint found charming at first sight. The only things intriguing about Dr Maunders — who otherwise seemed as spiritually weak as his handshake and as characterless as the bald expanse of his forehead — were his unhappy effect on Bill Bast and his peculiar ability to approach doors without making any noise.

“How do you do?” said Simon, realizing even as he spoke that certain groups of synapses were meshing beneath Dr Maunders’ hairless cranium, bringing cloudy recognition to the Grey lenses of his eyes.

“Could it be Simon Templar, the Saint, by any chance?” he asked.

Simon nodded.

“I confess. My halo’s in need of some repairs, though, after my contact with your students.” Maunders looked puzzled.

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with any of them.” He put down the book he had been carrying when he entered, at the same time trying to suppress the annoyance which had crept again into his face. “But of course there’s no reason for me to know the details of my students’ and associates’ private lives.”

“Mr Templar was brought into the Death Game,” Bast said, reminding Simon of a ludicrously overgrown George Washington confronting his father beside the cherry tree. “By Grey Wyler.”

Maunders’ irritation broke the surface entirely.

“Wyler? Brought in a non-student? There could be serious trouble from something like that. I really must say...”

“He had my permission,” Bast said.

Possibly it was a well-formed habit of coming to the rescue which prompted Simon to interpose himself.

“Not that he’d need anyone’s permission necessarily,” he put in. “I assume that what students do with their time outside the college is their own business. I can’t say I was delighted to have my hair parted by your prize pupil’s arrow, but I wouldn’t hold anyone responsible but Wyler himself.”

Whatever gratitude the Saint’s intervention earned from Bill Bast was more than balanced by the obvious hostility he seemed to provoke in Dr Maunders.

“I’m pleased that you take such a broadminded view,” said the professor acidly. “On the other side of the situation, however, is the fact that the Death Game is so closely associated with my department here at the university that any public unpleasantness that grew out of it would reflect very seriously on me.”

Bast was holding himself in a state of controlled rigidity. His tone was stiffly correct but not obsequious.

“I didn’t expect you’d be quite so upset. Now that it’s done there’s nothing I can say except that it won’t happen again, as far as I have any control over it.”

“There’s no harm done,” Simon said. “And the fad will probably pass after a few more weeks anyway. Why don’t we just forget it and go see how the new generation enjoys itself in between mock murders?”

Bast looked at his watch and began pulling off his laboratory smock.

“You’re right. We should be getting along.” He paused and then gave Dr Maunders’ sensitivity another inevitable tweak. “They’ve asked Mr Templar to give out the prizes.”

Manders turned away abruptly to busy himself with some charts on a nearby table.

“Oh, really?”

“You don’t mind, I hope?”

“I assumed... It doesn’t matter.”

“Dr Manders,” Simon said, “if I’m interfering with any plans of yours I’d be more than willing to withdraw.”

Manders looked up pettishly from his charts and performed another of his flaccid smiles, making only too clear the effort it cost him.

“Not at all, Mr Templar; the students will be thrilled to have such a... celebrity at their bash. Go right ahead, please. I’ll join you there in a few minutes.”

“Pleasant chap,” Simon remarked when he and Bast had left the laboratory. “Sort that makes you love the human race.”

Bast, his gangling stride emphasizing his eagerness to get away from the awkwardness they had just experienced, shook his head.

“He wasn’t always like that. A year ago he was a different man. Jolly almost. Then...”

“Hullo there, Mr Bast! They’re waiting.”

Two young men had appeared from around the corner as Bast and Simon came out onto the sidewalk, evidently a search party from the student assemblage, and any more private conversation was impossible.

A couple of blocks’ walk through the clammy mist brought them to a large brick building whose staid facade bore the modest legend, lettered on a small wooden plaque, THE UNIVERSITY CLUB.

The basement of the Club — or at least that one moderately sized room of it which had been commandeered for the night’s social affair — was anything but staid. Jammed with thirty or forty students from wall to wall, unlighted except for candles, it gave the immediate impression of a tin of anchovies viewed from the inside. On closer inspection, it became apparent that the students were sharing the confined space with a half dozen round tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths, with a mercifully silent juke box, with a small dais near the door, and with a striking assortment of strange or macabre decorations: strings of onions with black ribbon bows on them, skull and crossbone pennants, ketchup-stained rubber daggers, and hangmen’s nooses.

Simon could not inventory much more in the general turmoil, before Jenny Turner came shoving through the crowd, waving and shouting to him.

“Oh, Simon, I’m so glad to see you. What about the old Death Game motif? Great, huh? I did almost all of it.”

Simon was amused to find that she had already put him on a first name basis, but of all the young women he’d seen for some time he could not think of any to whom he would have been more willing to permit such familiarity. In fact, what Jenny Turner’s lushly curved shape did for her short skirt and sweater would have guaranteed a desire for intimacy in any even semi-sentient male.

“It’s lovely,” said the Saint. “Are these spiders on the tables hors d’oeuvres or guests?”

She laughed.

“I made them out of dyed pipe cleaners.”

Bast was opening a pack of cigarettes preparatory to further enriching the already dense atmosphere of the cellar.

“A highly developed originality quotient has our Jenny.”

“Among other things,” Simon said appreciatively.

If he expected a maidenly blush and lowered eyelids he had for once miscalculated. The girl gave him a bold gaze, and the half-smile that lingered on her lips took on a tinge of expectancy and invitation. Far from turning shyly aside, she drew her shoulders further back as if to make it impudently clear that she knew quite well what he was referring to.

“It’s almost eleven,” Bill Bast said. “If we don’t want a riot on our hands we’d better get on with the prize giving.”

As the young lecturer led the way to the dais, Jenny leaned towards Simon.

“Where’s Dr Manders?”

“Sulking in his tent,” said the Saint in a low voice. “I’m afraid he’s not only upset about you people attacking strangers on the streets, but also because you’ve giving me the spot he should have had.”

“He’s acting like an old sourpuss. Who cares? Come on.”

She took his hand and led nun to Bill Bast’s side as the din of chattering and laughing died away.

“Tonight,” Bast said, “we’re very fortunate to have with us a gentleman who — if even half the legends about him are true — has been through much more in reality than we’ve ever dreamed of in our Death Game.”

The speaker went on in the same vein for several minutes, working in some humorous comments about the game in general. Dr Manders came into the basement, avoided meeting Simon’s eyes, and took up a station next to the wall on the other side of the room, sucking his cold pipe as if it were his thumb. Jenny, who had seen fit not to relinquish her warm grasp on Simon’s hand, squeezed his fingers and looked up at him with something uncomfortably close to adoration as Bast concluded his remarks.

“Now,” he said, “I’m very pleased to introduce Mr Simon Templar, who will give out the prizes for the three highest scores in the Death Game.”

Bast started to step aside as applause filled the low ceilinged room, but then he had an afterthought.

“And let’s hope this too shall pass, and in the next term we can stop dreaming up ways to kill one another and get back to our white mice and mazes.”

He said it without a smile, and Simon thought it doubtful that many of the students even heard him, since most had begun clapping enthusiastically to welcome the Saint. But it probably did not matter to Bast whether they heard him or not. He had addressed himself directly to the sullen Dr Manders.

Simon was given a piece of paper with the citations on it, and Bast briefly explained the procedure to him. Then it was his turn to take the stand.

“As one whose bones tend to creak with boredom at the mere thought of anyone lecturing me on any subject whatever for a period of more than three and a half minutes,” he said, “I’m going to spare you all the funny cracks and solemn thoughts and get on with the prizes. I’ll just say that it’s quite a novel experience to be here — even though my invitation did arrive on the nose of a bullet — and that I truly appreciate this unique opportunity to see how the world’s leaders of tomorrow are spending their time today.”

There was laughter and more applause. Simon looked at his script by the light of a candle which Jenny held for him.

“Now for the Death Game first prize. Will Alastair Davidson stand, please? He’s one of the dead ones.”

A tall, blond, sheepish-looking boy raised himself halfway from his chair, grinned, and sat back down.

“Mr Davidson’s hunter was the winner of the prize for the highest accumulated score. And I must say that after my experience with him this evening I can testify to his homicidal skills: Grey Wyler.”

As Wyler got to his feet with a lazy, contemptuous nod, it was apparent that the applause he was receiving was not really what he would have expected for a first-prize winner. And to anyone who had spent ten seconds in Grey’s arrogantly chilly presence the reason for the lack of popular enthusiasm would also have been predictable.

“We’ll ask the champion to describe his prize-winning murder for us,” Simon said.

“Rather simple, actually,” Wyler said, letting it be known with his expression and tone that he found the whole business of public acclaim slightly boring. “Alastair has ambitions to be a writer.”

Alastair squirmed as Wyler paused to let his unspoken but completely obvious evaluation of his victim’s literary potential impress itself on the group. Then Wyler continued.

“I knew he had an electric typewriter and that he spent a couple of hours every night writing his fictional productions. I wired the typewriter space bar to a pen light concealed under the machine. As soon as Alastair started to type the pen light turned on. But it wasn’t a pen light. It was a laser beam. In two seconds it had burned through his vital organs to his spine, rendering him quite dead... and depriving the world, I’m sure, of a quantity of artistic outpourings second only to the works of Tobias Smollett.”

Grey sat down amid grudging chuckles and a new round of applause.

“Congratulations,” the Saint said dryly. “It seems you won’t get your prize until the other announcements have been made.” He looked at his paper and then out over the crowd. “Would Eleanor Knight please stand?”

In the dim light Eleanor Knight was not much more than a plump ghost with long dark hair and an apologetic smile.

“She doesn’t look dead,” Simon said gallantly, “but according to these notes she is. And the one who killed her is certainly one of the most lovely murderesses I’ve ever met: Jenny Turner.”

Jenny, still holding the candle, told her story. Unlike Grey Wyler, she was more giggly than blase about her accomplishment.

“I gave Eleanor a can of hair spray for her birthday. When she pressed the button the first time, out came a blast of spray, the top popped off, and there was a note that said, ‘Congratulations. You have just been instantly killed by prussic acid gas. Many happy returns of the day. From your hunter, Jenny Turner.’ ”

The next victim introduced by the Saint was almost invisible at his crowded table in the darkest recesses of the room.

“Now David Green’s hunter, the third prize winner, Bill Bast.”

Bast, like Jenny, treated the whole thing as a joke — emphasizing even more Grey Wyler’s seriousness about the whole thing.

“I wrote David a letter commenting on his work,” Bast said. “On college stationery. All very official. But at the end I put something like this: ‘For the last minute you have been handling paper impregnated with a deadly contact poison, phenylhydrazine. This is spreading through your system. By the time you finish reading this, you will be dead.’ ”

As the applause subsided, Simon gratefully concluded his own part in the program.

“The nature of the prizes has been kept secret. I’m told that Dr Manders will make the announcement.”

Manders managed to suppress the more obvious signs of his peevishness as he mounted the dais. Simon supposed that all men who spent a great deal of time lecturing must develop some skill as actors. Manders, while hardly enchanting, at least arranged his face into a pleasant mask.

“The prizes have been kept secret because of their nature,” he said. “And I think the news of that nature will come as a surprise to all of you — who perhaps expected something on the order of a fountain pen or a cheap chess set. You will be very pleased, I think, to hear that a special grant has been made to me by the British Foundation for the Advancement of Psychological Research — five hundred pounds worth, to be exact.”

When the oos and ahs abated, Manders went on.

“This, along with certain anonymous private donations, will be used to send our three victorious young murderers to an international conclave of Death Game prize winners... for a week’s holiday on Grand Bahama Island.”

At that point, which might have set loose an uproar, the audience seemed too stunned to move.

“I have the air tickets, which I shall now distribute. Grey Wyler, Jenny Turner, and Bill Bast will be flying across the Atlantic to the Bahamas tomorrow.”

As Manders stepped down, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket, the response delayed from the first moment of the announcement broke with full force. Simon kept to the relative safety of the wall as students milled among the tables talking excitedly and trying to shake the hands of the prize winners. Manders had opened his envelope and was holding the tickets over his head, making his way into the center of the tumult.

Bill Bast emerged from the melange of bodies like a particle compensatorily discharged because of the entry of Dr Manders’ greater mass. He wore anything but the expression one might expect to see on the face of a man who has just been awarded a free trip to a West Indian island.

“You don’t seem very pleased,” Simon volunteered, to give Bast another chance to resume his interrupted confidences.

“I... I’m not. This is even worse — or maybe I should say stranger than I expected.”

“I gather you want to tell me about it, so I don’t think I’m prying if I suggest that you speak up. The suspense is beginning to get me.”

“Not here,” Bast said, glancing into the crowd. “You leave now while they’re all worked up and not noticing anything. I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

The Saint nodded agreeably. He knew now that his instinct had not been at fault. The night was definitely not going to have been wasted.

4

In the space of a few welcome lungfuls of comparatively unpolluted smog, the Saint found his way back to the psychology building. He entered the main hallway without any difficulty, but found the door to the laboratory locked. He did not have to wait long, however, before Bast appeared, a lanky figure loping along the hall like a worried giraffe.

“They think I left something behind here,” Bast said, as he unlocked the door. “They don’t know you’re with me, so I’ll try to explain fast,”

When they were inside the big room he relocked the door behind them and looked furtively around as if expecting some spy to be hiding among the fragrant cages of drowsy mice which occupied the lower part of one wall.

“If you’re worried,” Simon said, “I’m fairly certain nobody followed me.”

Bast motioned Simon to one of the wooden chairs arranged around a central table.

“I feel like an idiot, carrying on like this,” he said. “But I know it’s not my imagination. Or at least I think I know. Maybe I’m manufacturing a big dramatic fantasy out of almost nothing.”

“The psychologist speaking,” Simon said. “Let’s not worry about the epistemology of it and get on with the facts. What’s on your mind?”

Bast took a deep breath and perched on a stool with all the relaxation of a praying mantis on the head of a pin.

“I don’t have a clue as to how this Death Game started,” he said, “but it wasn’t here in London. Six months ago nobody’d ever heard of it. All of a sudden students all over the world were playing it.”

Simon shrugged.

“Stranger things have happened. Hula hoops, marathon dancing, the frug. You think there was something ominous involved?”

“Not necessarily in the beginning. As I say, I don’t know. It’s what’s happened since — here — that bothers me and makes me wonder if the whole thing really did start merely as some kind of spontaneous student fad.”

“Well, what has happened?”

“To begin right now instead of at the beginning, the British Foundation for the Advancement of Psychological Research didn’t give Dr Manders any grant of five hundred pounds.”

“So you think Manders is lying?”

“I know he is.”

“You checked with the foundation, I suppose,” Simon said.

“I couldn’t,” Bast answered. “I couldn’t even find the foundation.”

“It doesn’t exist?”

Bast fulfilled the threat of his nervous posture and took off for a fast lap around the long table.

“Oh, it exists all right — on paper. But try to find out anything about it. They’ve got a post office box and somebody who sends out vague answers to queries, and that seems to be it. They claimed they were a branch of the International Foundation for the Advancement of Psychological Research, with headquarters in Vienna, but when I inquired at that address — by mail, of course — I got no answer at all.”

“Well,” the Saint said, “so long as they’re passing out funds for worthy causes — like holidays for you in the Bahamas — I wouldn’t rock the boat. Some of the few millionaires left in this drearily democratized world choose strange ways of arranging their tax deductions.”

“I don’t think the gift comes without strings attached,” Bast said earnestly. “And I think there’s something fishy at the bottom of it. All Manders’ talk about the value of the Death Game as a research device... nonsense! There aren’t enough controls. There aren’t enough opportunities for observation — under the present setup, I mean. And who the hell would choose to donate five hundred pounds for transatlantic vacations when the department’s crying for a... well, for a better computer, for instance.”

“Maybe some millionaires just aren’t mad about computers,” Simon hazarded. “But that isn’t positive evidence of skullduggery.”

“There’s more, and this is what really got me worked up about this thing in the first place. About a month ago I was at Manders’ house one evening. We used to be on quite good terms back... before he started changing. You might say we were getting together for old times’ sake — after a faculty meeting. Anyway, he went out to the kitchen to get a bottle of whiskey. I happened to notice a letter on the floor, and I picked it up. I think the breeze may have flipped it off a stack of other papers. It was very short, so even with a glance I got the idea. It told Manders — as if it were from somebody who had a perfect right to give him orders — to send a full report on Death Game activities. The whole thing was so strange that I took another look at the signature. It was typed in under an initial ‘T’ sploshed on with one of those splurgy felt-tipped pens: Kuros Timonaides.”

The expression that appeared on Simon’s face reflected the combined feelings of recognition and distaste of a man who, after being bothered for some time by mystifying noises in his home, has just discovered a rat under the bed.

“You’ve heard of him?” asked Bill Blast.

“Haven’t you?”

“Just vaguely before I saw that letter. Mostly because he entertains film stars and titled people quite a lot and gets his name in the papers because of them. Since I saw the letter I’ve tried to find out more about him, but nothing much has been written, as far as I can tell.”

“I’m sure he likes it that way,” Simon said. “He’s one of those characters who becomes less endearing in direct proportion to the amount you know about him.”

“I can tell I picked the right person when I helped to get you mixed up in this. I’ve heard you have more in your head about the underworld than Scotland Yard has in its files.”

Simon stretched out his long legs and gave Bast a deprecating smile.

“Possibly,” he said. “More that matters, anyway. But before I share my treasure trove of knowledge about the life and good times of Kuros Timonaides, let’s hear the rest of your side of the story.”

“Just one more thing — and this is all I’ve been able to find out. Twenty-four students are flying to the Bahamas tomorrow, from all over the world. Until the party, or whatever you want to call it, tonight, I didn’t know where they were going, but I managed to find out by contacting friends at different universities that something like this was coming up. And all financed by that phony-sounding International Foundation. The only trouble is, everybody has the same reaction you had at first .. .”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Exactly.”

The Saint stood up and paced across the room to the window, by completely automatic force of habit positioning himself so that he could see out without being easily seen.

“In Timonaides’ case I’d make an exception,” he said. “I’d have any gift horse of his inspected by the most highly qualified dentist I could get — and I expect I’d find I’d just been given the world’s first stallion with three-inch tiger fangs.”

Bast grinned.

“Quite a hybrid.”

“That’s Timonaides for you: a real hybrid. Traitor, patriot, philanthropist, thief. Friend one month and blackmailer the next. But the fact that he’s not in jail, or dead, shows how skillful he’s been at keeping his head above the legal waters. Unless you can prove something — for instance that Manders is breaking the law, or that fraud is involved, or somebody’s being bilked, you won’t get much but sympathetic shrugs.”

“I have something more concrete,” Bast said.

He stood there hesitating, and the Saint gave him an encouraging nod.

“Yes?”

“I hate to admit... that I stole it.”

Simon smiled.

“What fun would it be if the bad guys had a monopoly on such grand old methods? Where is it, whatever it is?”

“Here.”

Bast plunged his hand into his jacket, pocket and drew out, his fingers trembling with nervousness, a folded sheet of stationery. Simon took it and began to read. As he scanned the typed lines his expression changed from one of tolerant interest to intense concentration.

Manders:

Enclosed, 5000 for expenses. In answer to your first question, we realize that you cannot control winners of competitions at your school, but we emphasize again the extreme importance of discovering and encouraging properly oriented students. In answer to your second question, regarding suspicions of colleagues, we hold you entirely responsible in such matters and remind you of our earlier warnings. It may be necessary to eliminate B. and if so you need no further authorization.

The letter was signed by brush-point pen with an ornate capital T.

Simon looked at Bast with his lips thoughtfully compressed.

“Well, B., I don’t blame you for feeling nervous. I don’t suppose I need to ask if Manders might have somebody else with the same initial in mind.”

Bast shook his head.

“No. He’s realized I was watching him for some time. I can tell, and I know I’m not a very subtle spy. But of course I can’t take seriously this business about eliminating anybody. Manders isn’t the sort to...”

“I wouldn’t be overconfident about that. Remember, Timonaides is today’s greatest living proof of the power of unscrupulous money. Blackmail and bribes can turn a worm into a snake. You...”

The telephone rang and Bast automatically turned to answer it.

“Bill Bast...”

He glanced at Simon, puzzled.

“Doesn’t seem to be anybody there,” he muttered. “Hullo? Hullo?”

He frowned, and held the earpiece just slightly away from his ear.

“Sounds like somebody’s whanging a bloody tuning fork...”

That was the last thing Bill Bast ever heard, except perhaps for one unearthly eternal instant of shattering thunder as the telephone receiver exploded with the noise of a shotgun shell and blasted away the side of his head.

When Simon reached him he had already stopped writhing. A final twitching spasm passed through the long body, and it lay as dead and meaningless as the slaughtered carcass of a cow or the car-smashed body of a rabbit.

5

The Saint had spent his life in the tangled jungles of violence, but he was not so inured to the spectacle of death that he could see a man destroyed directly in front of him, even one who could not yet have been called a friend, and not feel a powerful compulsion to guarantee personally that the same fate would be dealt to the murderer. He knew now that whatever plans he might have made for the next few days would have to wait until he had played out his own part in the Death Game that had not remained a game.

Within thirty seconds after the explosion, an old and half blind but obviously not entirely deaf night watchman had arrived and departed to spread the alarm, cautioning Simon not to leave the scene of the crime. The aged guardian of taxpayers’ property showed his trust of the stranger he had found in the psychology lab by locking the door behind him as he ran out and went off skidding and stumbling down the freshly waxed hall.

Simon chose not to depart by one of the easily available windows, and instead spent his time of confinement searching through Manders’ files for further clues as to his more than scholarly interest in the Death Game and his contact with Kuros Timonaides. But he had found nothing when there was a renewed sound of running footsteps in the hall and a rattle in the lock of the door.

Dr Manders hurried in, key in hand, with Jenny Turner and Grey Wyler following. Behind them were several other students.

“The watchman...” Manders gasped.

Simon pointed.

“Oh, no...” somebody whispered.

It was to Jenny’s credit that she did not scream as girls do in the movies when confronted with terrible sights. She simply gasped and turned away, supporting herself on the side of the nearest table with her eyes closed. Manders looked palely sick, and for a moment Simon thought the man was going to faint, but he held himself up, mouth trembling, and his eyes seemed to dart around the room as if looking for a place where they could hide from the sight of the mutilated body.

Grey Wyler was the first who was able to say anything.

After an initial moment of shock he had begun to study the scene with the intense fascination of a strong-stomached biology student peering into the bowels of his first dissected cat.

“It’s real,” he murmured to himself. “It happened.”

He looked at Simon, who appeared to be the only person with sturdy enough nerves to hold up the other side of a conversation.

“It really worked,” said Wyler.

“Am I to take that as a confession?” asked the Saint.

Wyler ignored the question and bent down to inspect the blasted end of the telephone receiver without touching it.

“I invented the idea,” he said. “I used it to get Peter Collins several months ago. My first decathlon.”

“Oh, Grey,” Jenny said. “This is no time to...”

Wyler interrupted her.

“The beauty of it is, you can control the timing. There was... I suppose you wouldn’t know... a tuning fork used at the other end of the line?”

“He mentioned the sound of one,” said Simon.

“There,” Wyler announced triumphantly. “Exactly as I planned it. If the wrong person answers when you call to set off the blast, you don’t twang the tuning fork.”

“Ingenious,” Simon said with dry abhorrence. “You deserve something for that.”

He had the distinct feeling, as he watched Wyler babble enthusiastically about his deadly inventiveness, that he was in the presence not merely of a neurotic, but of a mind that was dangerously unbalanced. Wyler was reacting to the whole thing as an immodest author might react to fondling a copy of his first published book. That, more than any display of shock and sorrow could have, dispelled any thoughts the Saint might have had about Wyler’s responsibility for the killing. It was highly unlikely that a murderer would choose a mood so grotesquely akin to enthralled delight for the purpose of covering his guilt. More bizarre dramatics had been tried, but in Wyler’s case the abnormal reaction seemed genuine.

Within three minutes the first policeman arrived, with the ancient watchman panting at his heels. Dr Manders, who after a long period of silence had managed to recover control of his breath and quavering lips, chose that moment to address the Saint.

“I wouldn’t be so ready to accuse Wyler, if I were you,” he said hoarsely. “You were the only one here when... when Bast was killed.”

Simon had to wait for a predictable but none the less flattering response on the part of the policeman, who recognized him immediately, came to a sudden halt, and seemed ready to back out of the laboratory and run for reinforcements.

“Simon Templar,” the officer said, as if he had to hear it himself to believe it.

“And the top of the evening to you,” said the seraphically innocent cause of his discomposure, with a slightly exaggerated bow. “How are the wife and kiddies?”

“Quite well, thank you How’d you know about them?”

“You just have the look of a nice family man.”

The policeman swallowed and tried to recover a stern and authoritative air.

“Inspector Teal is on his way.”

To one unacquainted — if there are any such still squandering their impoverished lives in the backwaters of this planet — with the history of the relationship of Simon Templar with the upper echelons of Scotland Yard, the officer’s latter statement might have seemed irrelevant, even eccentric or inexplicable. But to the more enlightened multitudes of the earth it will be perfectly apparent that the cognomen of his chieftain — Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal, always bested and even more often outwitted by the Saint — was in spite of its connotations of defeat and frustration the nearest thing to a protective amulet or holy name which he could draw upon in these trying circumstances. He would let the gods and Titans fight their own battles. As for him, he would merely issue the customary warning against illicit departures from the scene of the crime and busy himself with writing down the names and addresses of those present in his official notebook.

Simon turned his attention back to Dr Manders.

“I believe you were accusing me of the murder when this efficient guardian of peace and tranquillity arrived on the scene.”

Much stronger men than Manders had quailed before the sharp blue penetration of the Saint’s eyes.

“No,” he said feebly, at the same time trying to insert a measure of defiance into his tone. “I merely stated that you were the only one with Bast when he was killed. Therefore if I were in your place I wouldn’t go around insinuating...”

“Dr Manders,” said the Saint coldly, “I am not in the habit of shooting people with telephones. And I defy anybody on earth — even Inspector Teal — to come up with an even remotely plausible reason why I should want to do away with a man I met only two hours ago and don’t know the first thing about.”

That last phrase, while slightly mendacious, might at least forestall any suspicions on Manders’ part that Bast had revealed his apprehensions before he was permanently silenced. It was no more than a hope, but there was no harm in trying.

Manders opened his mouth and thought better of it. He went over to one of the larger chairs at the end of one of the tables, sat down, and supported his elbow on the surface, morosely resting his cheek on his hand.

Wyler, having completed his inspection of the death scene and given his statement, turned superciliously back to the constable, who had begun to question one of the other students.

“I see no reason for our staying here,” he said. “The crime was done by remote control. Mr Templar couldn’t have done it, if he was here in this room when the shot went off, and the rest of us just happened to be the first to arrive after we got word about the explosion. You’ve got no more reason to suspect us than those people hanging around in the hall outside.”

“Nobody is allowed to leave,” said the policeman, as if quoting from some rule book, and he went back to writing his notes.

“We have to fly to the Bahamas tomorrow,” Wyler persisted, moving close to him, tilting back his head a little so he could look down his nose at a man approximately his own height. “We can’t stay up here all night when there’s no reason for it.”

“Nobody leaves,” said the constable grimly, taking a renewed stranglehold on his stub of a pencil.

“Surely we won’t be going,” Jenny said, finding her first words since she had entered the laboratory.

She looked questioningly at Dr Manders, but he had already made a slight but definite jerking movement of his head, as if her sentence carried a minor electrical charge.

“Of course you will,” he said. “We can’t let... this interfere with everything.”

Jenny glanced in the direction of Bast’s corpse and shuddered, looking quickly away again.

“I... I’m not sure I could. I mean, I don’t really feel like much of a...”

Simon’s mind had been working with a speed and efficiency that would have dazzled the computer at the end of the room and possibly made it blink its little rows of glowing red eyes with envy. His theories and plans were not fully formulated yet, but certain broad shapes were already emerging. He was enough ahead of the game to know that if Jenny pressed her point certain things he had in mind for the immediate future might be endangered.

“Dr Manders is right,” he said gently, but with a subtle undercurrent of pressure which he hoped the girl wouldn’t try to resist. “It’s all planned, and a trip is just what you could probably use right now.”

Manders looked approving, surprised, and vaguely suspicious. The Saint turned to him, still giving the impression that he was speaking to Jenny.

“And other people might be inconvenienced if you changed your plans. That wouldn’t be fair to them, would it?”

By the end of his words he had definitely focused his attention on Manders, who uncomfortably nodded agreement.

At that moment there was a bustling in the hall clearly attendant on the arrival of some important personage. An instant later the door was thrown open by a uniformed constable, and a plump pink-cheeked man in a belted overcoat marched ponderously in, his jaw working mercilessly on a wad of chewing gum entrapped somewhere in the vicinity of his left upper and lower second molars. When he saw the Saint — as he did almost immediately — the gum received a moment’s reprieve, for the man’s jaw promptly ceased its labors and fell slackly open. The massive self-confidence seeped out of him like water out of a muslin sack.

Simon affected a second or two of puzzlement, and then of delighted recollection. He rushed forward, his hands fraternally extended, his voice throbbing with emotion.

“Why, as I live and breathe, it’s Claud Eustace Teal! Claud, I thought you were dead.”

Claud did not look nearly as happy about the meeting as his enthusiastic friend. The pink of his cheeks coagulated into blotches of a deeper crimson.

“I’m not,” he said unoriginally.

“Then why do you look so bloated? It must be your diet. Are you still stuffing yourself with spaghetti and suet puddings? You don’t need to, really. When they want to put you in a museum, they’ll have a taxidermist do a professional job.”

Chief Inspector Teal conquered a wincing grimace with a steely new set to his facial muscles.

“What are you doing here?” he barked.

“Claud, you have the most delightful way of coming right to the point.”

“Yes. And what are you doing here?”

“You said that before.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I meant asked. Of course. Yes. Well, I happened to be wandering by outside when I ran into an elephant. It wasn’t one of those pink ones, either — it was green. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ it said, very politely, ‘but could you help me?’ This was in Hindi, of course, because it was an Indian elephant. I asked what the trouble was, and it said: ‘This is very embarrassing, but you know the saying that elephants never forget? Well, I just can’t remember who said it.’ I said I didn’t know either, but why didn’t he go into the University and look it up in the library? And he said ‘I was going to do that, but I can’t get through the door.’ So being a kind-hearted bloke—”

“That’s enough,” Teal said.

Simon looked hurt.

“Don’t you believe me? Didn’t you see an elephant waiting outside?”

The detective turned away and went to the body. He peered at the shattered telephone.

“Now,” he said stubbornly, hooking his thumbs in the belt of his coat. “Let’s hear all about this.”

The Saint knew when it was time to be serious.

“I was here when it happened,” he said. “But before I tell you, let me introduce my friends to the finest officially approved ferreter of misdeeds this side of Mayfair — Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal of Scotland Yard. This is Dr Manders, professor of psychology, Grey Wyler, student, and Jenny Turner, another student.”

Teal nodded and grunted the required number of times, brightening a little when it came Jenny’s turn.

“I’ll have to question you all,” he said.

“But it’s late,” Wyler protested. “And we weren’t involved.”

“I’ll make it as fast as possible. In the meantime...”

“Claud,” said the Saint, taking an urgent grip on the fat detective’s arm, “if you’d question me first I’d very much appreciate it.”

Teal also recognized when the Saint had stopped fooling, and having benefited before from Simon’s misappropriation of his duties, he had sense enough to give in without an argument.

“I’ll talk to you first down here,” he said.

He led the way to the far end of the room and planted himself at a workbench, in the center of which was a complex open-topped maze of the type used for the confusion and intellectual testing of mice. Simon relaxed gracefully into the place beside him.

“Now,” Teal said, “let’s hear the real story.”

The Saint was very sober now. He began, without elaboration, at the point of Jenny’s mimicked phone call and quickly brought the detective up to the time at which Bast had asked Simon to leave the prize-giving party so that the two of them could talk.

At that stage of the narrative, a little Saintly selectivity seemed advisable. A plan had already evolved in Simon’s mind, and if Teal learned too much too soon his unimaginative and congenitally uncooperative nature would surely lead him to become a hindrance. Simon wanted Manders out of the way until he could get his own plans moving, but he was not yet prepared to present Teal with the complete possible background of Manders’ misdeeds. Fortunately, the letter Bast had given him, while incriminating, was quite vague in most respects, and did not even mention the Death Game.

“If this Wyler invented that telephone-tuning fork trick,” Teal said, pocketing his gum chipmunk-fashion in one bulging cheek, “and you think he’s some kind of nut anyway, then...”

Simon shook his head patiently and inserted a long finger into the entrance of the maze, whence it began to move quickly along the convoluted paths, occasionally hesitating, avoiding a dead end, then hurrying on again with greater certainty.

“No,” he said, “it’s Manders. I feel completely sure of that.”

Teal watched with fascination the progress of the Saint’s finger through the maze.

“Can you prove it?”

“I think so. Aren’t you going to ask what Bast told me when we left the party?”

“Of course. I was just trying to think...”

“No need to overtax yourself, Claud. I have evidence.”

Simon’s forefinger slid victoriously around the last corners of the maze and emerged from the exit gate, ignoring the bit of dried cheese which waited there as a reward. Then it reached, in combination with his thumb, into his shirt pocket and pulled out the letter, which Teal eagerly read.

Almost before he finished the last line, the chief inspector was starting to gather his legs under him to stand up, but the Saint restrained him with a firm hand and a cautionary look.

“Don’t jump the gun, dear old bloodhound. One bit of advice first.”

“What?” Teal asked impatiently, partly settling back again.

“Since Manders seems to be tied in with other people in some nefarious scheme, get rid of the other witnesses first, then take him off quietly, and keep him under lock and key and away from any telephones, telegraph offices, or outside contacts for as long as you can. Don’t tell the newspapers about him. We don’t know what Manders was involved in, but it would seem wise to avoid changing the plans of anybody connected with him.”

“What kind of plans?” Teal asked.

He was eyeing the maze, its challenge distracting his thoughts from more important business. His right forefinger made a tentative move toward the entrance and then hopped back to his paunch like a cautious bird.

“Any kind of plans,” Simon answered impatiently. “You don’t want to tip off Manders’ buddies that he’s been pinched; otherwise they may just fold their tents and silently steal away before you can sweat their names and addresses out of him.”

“Bast didn’t tell you anything about thus ‘T’ who signed the letter, or what it was all about?”

“Sorry. He didn’t have a chance.”

“It could stand for Templar,” Teal said, with chronic dubiety.

“Or Teal?” responded the Saint goodhumoredly. “Shall we call it a stand-off?”

Teal did not answer immediately. He had just succumbed to temptation. His pudgy finger, a good inch shorter than the Saint’s, lunged at the entrance of the maze and barged down the first aisle.

“You may have the right idea,” he said grudgingly, running immediately afoul of a triple-pronged, interconnecting cul-de-sac which must have brought frustration to many a hungry mouse.

“I do,” said the Saint. “And isn’t it nice that the fun of investigation will be all yours — because for once I don’t know a thing about what’s going on.”

Teal’s finger had backtracked and was once more near the entrance. After a moment of desperate study it rushed off again in another direction, and rapidly reached another deadend. With a grunt of exasperation he snatched his hand away and hid it beneath the table.

“I just hope for once you’re telling the truth and will stay out of this,” he growled.

“Don’t feel bad about being beaten by a tricky little puzzle like that,” the Saint said sympathetically. “I’ll bet lots of mice never made it even half as far as you did.”

6

Teal’s simmering expression said that if he had had the power he would cheerfully have produced a razor-edged scimitar and with one careless flick disengaged the Saint’s impudent head from his body. But he was practical enough to know that the Saint’s position was logically irrefutable, galling as it was to have to concede it.

“Is there anything else you have to tell me?” he asked.

“No,” said the Saint with genuine sincerity, “except I wish you all the luck in the world with this case, and I’ll be looking forward to reading about it in the papers.”

He stood up, and the detective regarded him with lingering regret and habitual distrust.

“Saint — don’t think for a minute I believe you’ll stay out of this if you thought there was something in it for you.”

“But what could be in it for me? After you’ve done the spadework I may step in and reap the harvest, but for the time being I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how to proceed.”

Teal glowered and called for Grey Wyler, who came sauntering over with a bored expression that plainly stated his feelings about having to waste his time talking to anyone with the low intellectual equipment of a policeman. Dr Manders had picked up some scientific bulletin and was pretending to show his detachment by reading it, but the drumming fingers of his other hand betrayed his nervousness.

Simon stopped beside Jenny on his way to the door and murmured in her ear.

“Don’t change any plans. Don’t speculate out loud about what’s going on.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Before Teal changes his mind about letting me go. Do you know Manders’ address?”

“Not offhand, but he’s in the phone book.”

“What’s the first name or initials?”

“G.F.... But listen, won’t I be seeing you again?”

“You seem to know my number,” he smiled, and went out to his car.

He drove off in the general direction of Tottenham Court Road, but came upon a street-corner phone booth before he got there, and quickly found the address he wanted in the directory. It turned out to be in Bloomsbury, right on the fringe of the University area, and he took the shortest way to it as automatically as if it had been his own home, calling on a knowledge of the complex streets of London that had once been as complete as that of any taxi driver although he had mastered it for less legitimate purposes. And in this case his most urgent purpose was to get there before Teal or some of his deputies got there with similar quests in mind.

Whenever they got around to it, they would be armed with proper search warrants. Simon Templar was perfectly happy to dispense with such luxuries, but his project might be complicated somewhat if the professor turned out to have a family snoozing at home while he was being questioned by Inspector Teal at two-thirty in the morning. Even a wife and possibly a tribe of juvenile Manderses would not, however, present insurmountable difficulties to an adept second-story man like the Saint. Besides, he did not think he had to worry; Bast, in telling about his visit to Manders’ place, had not mentioned the presence of any relatives, and Manders showed no signs in face or jewelry of the bonds of married life.

As he had expected, then, the Saint found Manders’ dwelling dark and to all appearances deserted. It was a very small house of dingy exterior, wedged between larger but even dingier former mansions which had probably been divided into flats or had decayed into student rooming houses. There were no traces of wakefulness in them either. Simon’s only potential problem, then, would be the possible untimely arrival of Dr Manders himself if Teal failed for some reason to detain him. But even a thorough questioning would take a while — and a while, even a short while, was all that Simon needed to carry out what amounted to a routine search for additional evidence.

The lock of Manders’ door offered no more resistance to the Saint’s skill than a stick of butter to a hot knife. Within a few seconds he was inside, carefully replacing the door in its original position, and in fact locking it behind him. Even Manders, if he did return, would not have to know he had a guest.

Simon’s eyes were already accustomed to darkness, and he did not need to add his pen flashlight to the general luminosity of the night in order to find his way through the house. The dining room and the kitchen held no interest for him, nor did the living room at the front of the house. A scholarly type such as Manders would surely possess a room devoted to books, files, records, and the other paraphernalia of his profession, even if the University furnished him with office space at the place of his work.

And if Manders, in addition to being a scholar, also was involved in dishonest or even questionable dealings, he would not be likely to leave incriminating documents lying around the college buildings for any charwoman or prying student to stumble on. The most logical spot for the beginning of a search, then, was his private study, and within two minutes of entering the house the Saint had found it.

It was not a large room, and its lack of space was exaggerated by the quantity of bookshelves and cabinets which lined the walls. Near the single window was a desk and chair. The Saint began his search in the unlocked drawers of the desk and soon decided he was on the wrong track. Even a man quite sure of the safety of his home from prying eyes would not leave damaging papers lying about in the most obvious and easily accessible places — particularly if he had murder on his mind. On the other hand, common sense indicated that Manders was no professional criminal, and it was unlikely that he would go to the extreme of having even minor alterations made in the architecture of his home, the solidity of his chair legs, or the stuffings of his mattress for the purpose of hiding things.

What would such a man do, then, with materials he didn’t wish to share with anybody? He would probably just lock them up in something — assuming he did not burn them — and indulge in the usual naive relaxation of people who think that any run-of-the-mill lock can cause more than three minutes’ discomfiture to a really dedicated searcher.

So Simon quite simply went around the study until he came to the first locked cabinet — a wooden one — and forced it with a letter opener from the top of the desk.

There he found a number of photographs which would ordinarily have held no interest except to a student of a rather specialized type of pornography. The nature of the pictures, however, implied that Dr Manders might be particularly susceptible to blackmail. Such peripheral facts were pleasantly enlightening, but not of much concrete use to the Saint. He was delighted to find, beneath the pictures, some other materials.

The most immediately striking was a letter, typed except for the nourished initial “T” at the bottom, whose text ran as follows:

Manders:

An additional payment of 5000 for each recruit at Bahama meeting. Meeting to be held as scheduled.

Further delay in disposal of B. will result in the most serious consequences for you.

Simon appreciatively noted the second mention of five thousand pounds in two letters, which seemed to imply a handsome private income for Dr Manders beyond his legitimate earnings as a certified enlightener of the nation’s youth. He wished that the professor had been thoughtful enough to leave whatever part of the earlier sum that remained after the purchase of airplane tickets and such, lying about in the cabinet with his dirty pictures, but unfortunately he had not, and the other treasures that the cabinet yielded had a less immediately obvious value than would a nice stiff stack of ten-pound notes. Besides another letter from Manders’ sponsor — the first one seen and mentioned by Bill Bast — there were two stapled typewritten manuscripts of nine or ten pages each.

A closer inspection with the thin beam of his pocket light showed Simon that they were some sort of statistical reports. Had they been lying among other reports and papers in plain view it is probable that he would never have noticed them unless in the last painstaking minutes of a thorough search. But since they were so carefully hidden, he carefully noted their titles.

The first was called VARIETIES OF EMOTIONAL RESPONSE IN PLAYERS OF THE DEATH GAME. The second: DISTRIBUTION OF HOMICIDAL OBSESSION IN AGE GROUPS 18 TO 25, WESTERN EUROPE AND NORTH AMERICA.

It was not exactly the ideal moment to take up those psychological studies, so the Saint folded the reports and stowed them in his pocket along with the letters. By taking them into custody he would at least have an opportunity to study, them before the police did, and if it seemed best that they be discovered eventually in Dr Manders’ house, that could be arranged, too — perhaps with another brief visit like tonight’s.

Satisfied that he had found as much as he could hope for without completely ransacking the house, Simon closed the cabinet, shut off his small light, and left as he had come. By now he was expecting that Teal would have Manders safely tucked away for the night; there was not a soul in the foggy streets, and he had every reason to think his expedition had gone completely unobserved.

So it was more than a small surprise to him when he opened his car door and saw Jenny Turner huddled down in the corner of the passenger seat. “Hullo, Simon.”

The Saint, with considerable restraint, continued his interrupted movement of getting in, but not without first assuring himself that no one else was hiding down in the space behind the front seats.

“Either there’s more than one of you or you sure get around a lot,” he said quietly.

“I followed you. Or I should say I thought you might come here, so I came myself. I left my car around the corner when .. I saw yours.”

“You’re quite the little private eye.” He started the engine and let in the clutch. “The next corner on the right,” Jenny said, pointing. “I suppose,” the Saint said as he drove slowly in the indicated direction, “my intentions were a bit obvious when I asked about Manders’ address. But what made you come after me?”

Jenny shrugged, slipping her arm through his. “I wanted to be quite sure I wouldn’t be left out of whatever you’re going to do next. It isn’t every night a girl has the chance to play a real death game with the Saint.”

Simon drove up behind the red MG and stopped again. They were far enough beyond the turning to be out of the ordinary purview of any police posse that might belatedly arrive at Manders’ house.

“We’re not playing any more,” he told her firmly. “This thing has stopped being a game, and I think the sooner you get home and curl up with a good textbook the better off you’ll be. But first can you tell me what happened to Manders?”

“After that fat detective questioned me he sent us all away except Manders. I drove off around the block and came back where I could watch. An ambulance arrived, and another car with men in plain clothes. One of them was lugging a lot of gear...”

“The police photographer, no doubt.”

“Then one of the plain-clothes men came out with one of the bobbies and they were holding Dr Manders between them, it looked as if he was handcuffed, and they put him in the car and drove away. When I realized they must have arrested him I almost dropped my teeth, but I thought if you really did think he did it you’d probably have come straight here.”

“And are you sure Inspector Teal didn’t enlist you as his own personal little spy?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me little,” Jenny said indignantly. “I’m not a child. I’m over twenty-one!”

“Well?”

“Of course he didn’t. I told you...”

“Well,” the Saint mused, “maybe I’ll never know, but if dear old Claud did hand you some kind of a line and ask you to report back anything interesting I might do, he’s come up a bit on the evolutionary scale. Those bumbling bipeds he usually employs to follow me around could lose track of an egg in a teacup.”

“He really didn’t.”

Simon touched her lips with one finger.

“Never mind. No point forcing you to betray any confidences or tell any fibs. All I want to be sure of is that you’re not a deep-dyed member of the Other Side. And I think I’m convinced of that.”

“Other side?” she repeated.

He had leaned very near her — which did not take much leaning.

“Yes,” he said, and then he kissed her, very lightly. “Other side. There’s always an other side, and you and I are going to the Bahamas tomorrow to meet them. What do you think of that?”

She just stared at him, so he kissed her again.

“Now, off to bed with you. We’re going to have a long trip ahead of ,us, and there’s a lot of packing to do.”

“Are you really going to the Bahamas?” she asked a little desperately, suddenly getting her voice back.

“Don’t you recall that Sebastian Tombs, part-time lecturer in Egyptology, won the Death Game fourth prize and was moved up to take Bill Bast’s place?”

“Oh,” Jenny said, with no easily definable nuance of expression.

“Of course, Claud Eustace isn’t supposed to know that, or he might try to stop me. I don’t think he’ll find out till it’s too late, if you don’t tell him. And just so that Grey Wyler can’t spill it, don’t say anything to him either. Later I’m counting on you to help persuade him to go along with the scheme wheeze.”

He got out, and opened the door on her side and walked her to the MG. He leaned in the window for a farewell warning.

“Aside from helping me to crash the party, I hope you’ll just play dumb about everything. I can’t protect you every minute, and I’d like to see you live to blossom into the fullness of womanhood — if it’s humanly possible to blossom any further than you already have.”

“But Simon!” she wailed, as if the realization had only just dawned on her. “You still haven’t told me what you were looking for at Dr Manders’ house, or if you found anything!”

He kissed her once more, lightly, and said: “I’m not sure yet. Sleep tight, Jenny. I’ll see you at the airport.”

7

There was one important detail which the Saint had neglected to specify: the airport at which he expected to see her was not London, as she assumed, but Freeport, Grand Bahama Island.

To Simon Templar, the subterfuge was only a normal avoidance of unnecessary risks. Just in case Teal should have second thoughts — or even if Jenny’s allegiance was not as complete as it seemed — they would naturally expect the Saint to travel on the same plane as the Death Game party, leaving late the next afternoon. Whereas he intended to be well on his way before they even missed him.

The fog was lifting, he was glad to observe as he drove back to Upper Berkeley Mews, so there should be no disorganization of plane departures. A quick search through the international air timetables which were one of the most vital sections of his library showed him the best connections to aim for, and a phone call to BOAC secured him a seat on the 11 A.M. VC-10 to New York and a promise to work on his onward reservations.

Simon packed a single capacious suitcase, and still had time for three hours refreshing sleep before he showered and shaved and set off for the airport. He noted that no Teal — sent bloodhounds had made their conspicuously inconspicuous appearance in the vicinity of his portals, and took it as a good omen, which presently vindicated either his good luck or his craftiness when he was able to board his flight without any complications.

With the additional unpremeditated good fortune of drawing a seat neighbor of the true bulldog breed, who buried himself sarcophagally in The Times and made it pointedly plain that he never opened conversations with strangers unless a wing fell off, and perhaps not even then, the Saint was finally able to settle down to an unhurried perusal of the statistical reports which he had removed from Manders’ cabinet, while he sipped on the first of the airline’s bountifully proffered Martinis.

The unspectacular conclusions of Distribution of Homicidal Obsession in Age Groups 18 to 25 were not so interesting as the mere fact that Manders had chosen such a subject for his private collection, and also — judging from his underlinings — that he was especially concerned with the section on characteristics of murder-obsessed young people who had gone beyond obsession to actual killing.

The second report, Varieties of Emotional Response in Players of the Death Game, included a few pages of general information which apparently had been furnished Manders by an outside source, since it covered a number of different colleges. In addition to the general section, however, were several more pages almost certainly written by Manders himself; they discussed in detail, and by name, students who had reacted in various ways to taking part in the game.

Jenny Turner, for instance, was considered “clever but frivolously casual, taking the whole thing as a joke.” The report predicted that she would probably outdo most competitors but would be “of no real use.”

Simon, while he begged to differ with that pessimistic conclusion, went on to read a much more enthusiastic evaluation of Grey Wyler. Not only was he “ingenious” and “highly intelligent” but his attitudes toward “society” and “wealth” gave him “additional motivation.” He also showed happy signs of “those characteristics typical of individuals who lack any strongly developed moral sense or appreciation of the feelings of others, and may under certain circumstances almost casually perform highly anti-social acts.”

As Simon sat back to digest that slab of jargon, he felt the pleasant sensation that comes with clearly discerning a pattern in an apparent confusion of events. The word “recruit” in what must have been Timonaides’ most recent letter was a fairly solid tipoff, but the statistical reports confirmed the reality of a fantastic idea.

Kuros Timonaides, the master of legal illegality, was harnessing a student craze — whose beginnings he had probably himself encouraged — as a means of discovering and testing potential recruits for his criminal organization. He obtained the cooperation of men such as Manders with well-practiced techniques of blackmail and bribery — and if that cooperation showed signs of flagging, a more passive and permanent form could be ensured by convenient suicides or accidents — a method Timonaides’ agents had been suspected of using in the past.

And now Simon Templar was flying right into the final heat of the Greek impresario’s giant talent contest. He had one particular advantage over the rest of the contestants, however: he knew that a contest was going on. If he played the stacked deck right, he might even end up a winner.

It was only 1:30 P.M. in New York when the plane landed at Kennedy airport, and a BOAC representative met him with confirmed seating on a National flight to West Palm Beach, and after the customs and immigration formalities he was able to make the transfer very comfortably, without leaving the airport.

The plane to West Palm Beach got in time for him to catch one of the evening excursion flights to Freeport that had lately been inaugurated to ferry Florida tourists across to the gambling facilities of the emancipated British island. There was still enough daylight to enjoy the 50-minute flight out over the smooth sea at what seemed a barely drifting speed in comparison with the jets of the earlier parts of the trip. The incredibly dark blue waters of the Gulf Stream were below for a while, and then the eastern boundary of the flow was delineated by an abrupt shift to translucent green. The ocean bottom was in many places as clearly visible as if there had been no water covering it at all, and Simon wished the plane flew low enough to allow a detailed view of the colorful coral reefs and the gliding forms of their finny inhabitants.

He checked in at the Lucayan Beach Hotel, had dinner, played away a handful of chips at the Casino, and went to bed to catch up on the five-hour time change with a full night’s tranquil slumber, secure in the knowledge that he was at last out of range of Scotland Yard’s interference, at least for a while. His timetable studies had told him that the direct plane from England via Bermuda to Nassau which was bringing the Death Game prizewinners from Europe would get there too late for them to catch a plane to Freeport that night, and they would have to come on the first flight the next day.

When he woke up it was a beautiful warm sunny morning, an almost unbelievable transition from the dank gray chill that he had looked out on when he last got out of bed, and only a swim in the balmy turquoise sea before breakfast could pay it the tribute it deserved. When he went back to the airport to meet the Nassau plane, now wearing only a gay sport shirt and featherweight slacks, he felt like a new man, with all the exhilaration that only summery climes could give him.

His last lingering fragment of anxiety evaporated when he saw Jenny’s blonde head and Grey’s brown coming down the boarding stairs. But he preferred not to cause a noisy and attention-attracting reunion, so he waited until they had come through the arrival barrier before he stepped forward and greeted his London friends as they started across the lobby.

Both were absorbed in interpreting the meaning of some message they had apparently received at the information desk, which absorption did not contribute to their composure when they suddenly saw the Saint materialize, like an exceptionally tall and healthy ghost, smiling down on them.

Grey just came to a complete halt and stared. Jenny gave a little cry of surprise, then exhaled and almost laughed with relief.

“Oh, Simon, I thought you weren’t coming. You couldn’t believe how worried I was. How on earth did you get here?”

She had extended both hands, which he accepted, and then he kissed her on the cheek.

“You must not have noticed me,” he said. “I was right there on the plane with you.”

Jenny gave him a bemused stare.

“No, you weren’t. You couldn’t have...”

Wyler interrupted, with condescending boredom in his tone.

“He means his alias was supposedly with us,” he explained.

Jenny flushed.

“Simon, I wouldn’t have told him anything you said to me, but after we were on the plane I told him you’d said you were coming.”

“It’s perfectly okay,” Simon assured her. “I was afraid the Ungodly might get curious about what I’d do next, and I didn’t want to take the chance of being held up by some obstruction or other — including Inspector Teal. And this way our hosts here wouldn’t have time to object to any changes in the guest list. So I came a more roundabout but faster way.” He looked Wyler in the eye. “Since we’re all in on this thing, I assume there’s no reason you won’t cooperate.”

“I’m a lone wolf,” Wyler said. “I don’t believe in involving myself in other people’s affairs. If you want to play a ridiculous game of cops and robbers, go right ahead. Just don’t expect me to do more than keep quiet — particularly since no one’s troubled himself to tell me what kind of paranoiac fantasies have been built up around this thing.”

The Saint’s brows arched slightly.

“Paranoiac? I suppose Bill Bast just imagines he’s been killed?”

Wyler shrugged and looked as if he’d prefer to end the dull discussion and get on with the journey.

“I don’t see any reason to look beyond Manders. I could have told you six months ago he was on the way to leaving the rails. It didn’t take gossip about his personal oddities to point that up. There were obvious signs of deterioration: nervousness, forgetfulness, bad temper, feelings of persecution.”

“So one day he just flipped his lid completely and killed somebody?” Simon asked.

“It seems that way. Apparently you think otherwise.”

“Yes,” Simon said flatly. “I won’t give you the arguments for it now, but I wouldn’t have come here if I’d just been taken with a sudden notion to go travelling.” He glanced at Jenny. “In spite of the charming company available. But unless you have a positive interest in not seeing justice done, there’s nothing to stop you going ahead and enjoying your holiday and pretending you’re not well acquainted with me at all.”

“And shall we say Bast was confined with a headache?” asked Wyler sarcastically.

“There’s no point in lying. The news might get here at any time. Tell the truth, maybe with a little emphasis on that theory of yours about Manders’ mental instability. Now, where to?”

Jenny glanced at the message she had been reading when the Saint’s sudden appearance had interrupted.

“It says there’s a car waiting for us outside,” she said nodding toward one of the exits.

Just beyond the door was a parked limousine — gigantic, shiny, and black — and its idly standing driver, though not quite so gigantic, had a face and bare arms of approximately the same color and sheen. On his head was an impressive item of haberdashery which resembled an Ethiopian field marshal’s cap done in maroon. His shirt was a kind of iridescent pink, his trousers yellow, his feet sockless, and his shoes two-toned in oxblood and white.

Jenny looked appropriately awed by this specimen of native exotica; Grey, as usual, refused to look anything but superiorly bored.

“Mistah Bast?” called the Negro vaguely, at the emerging passengers, referring to a bit of paper in the pink palm of his hand. “Mistah Willy and Miss Tuhnah?”

“That’s us,” the Saint said to him, explaining that Sebastian Tombs was substituting for Mr Bast.

A minute later they and their bags were in the limousine, and soon they were raising dust on a northeast course. The driver set a speed he apparently felt commensurate with his vehicle’s grandeur, but fortunately the limitations of Bahamian highway construction — which is not adapted to wide or swift machines — put a limit on his ambitions, and his passengers were able to relax on upholstering which would have been worthy of the bed of a rajah. Even the frequent trumpetings of the horn were muffled by the heavy construction of the car and the hiss of the air conditioner.

Wyler looked impressed in spite of himself, and stole admiring glances at the luxurious shiny chrome fittings of the interior, and ran his fingers over the velvety surface of the arm rests. Jenny showed herself to be more sophisticated and devoted most of her attention to the Saint, who had had a feeling almost from the beginning that Jenny had the easy assurance of a solidly entrenched member of the moneyed classes, while Wyler showed signs of the bitter pride and bellicosity of insecure brilliance on the make.

“What’ll we do when we get there?” Jenny asked.

“Go swimming?” suggested the Saint.

At the same time he made an almost imperceptible negative motion of his head, which he was pleased to see that Jenny was sharp enough to pick up. The glass partition between driver and passengers was open, but even if it had been closed — as Simon could have requested — he did not have much faith that any back seat conversations would remain private. There were too many other possibilities for eavesdropping: a hidden tape recorder, for instance.

“Oh, doesn’t that sound like fun?” Jenny bubbled, putting on an act for the driver. “It’s fantastic to think that places like this exist all the time — while we’ve been creeping around in the fog.”

“What’s even more amazing,” Simon said, “is that anybody would care enough about us academic types to fly us across the ocean and drive us around in a fancy rig like this.”

His line, too, was for the driver’s benefit. Now he leaned forward and spoke directly to him.

“Does this car belong to our host, or do you hire out to anybody?”

“Belongs to Mistah Timonaides, sah,” answered the driver in the lilting accent of the islands.

“Didn’t you have anybody else to pick up — any other people going to the same party?”

The Negro looked around for an instant, his eyes invisible behind the giant blue shields of his sunglasses.

“What party you mean, sah?”

Simon refused to believe that the man could be quite that dense entirely on his own initiative.

“There are other people besides ourselves, aren’t there?”

“Oh yas.”

“Well, that’s the party I mean.”

“Oh yas. Other people come yesterday.”

Simon realized that twenty-five more questions would not produce any more results than had the first few. He had hoped the man would be eager enough to show off whatever he did know to let slip some bit of interesting information. With that possibility out of the way there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride.

And the ride was enjoyable. Not only did he have the very pleasant presence of Jenny on his left (she was between him and Wyler in the center of the seat) but he also had the shimmering sunglazed intensity of the sea on his right. The road eastward from Freeport ran along the southern coast of the island, away from the resort areas and real estate developments of the western end, whose once pristine beaches had been infected with spores drifting over from Miami and now glittered in places with the same disease, slightly adapted to new conditions.

Though Simon had never been to the eastern end of Grand Bahama, he knew it was still fairly untouched, and it struck him as curious that anybody — even such an unusual figure as Mr Timonaides, who had a reputation for curious activities — should be able to provide accommodations for the entertainment of two dozen or so visitors at such a distance from the established centers.

The limousine had passed the area of the American missile tracking station about twenty-five miles from Freeport when Simon leaned forward and spoke to the driver again.

“Where is the place we’re going?”

True to form, the fount of non-information uttered two words.

“Not far.”

“Not far” turned out to be another twenty miles or so along the same shore. Simon tried to keep in mind a picture of their progress. Seen on a map, the eastern end of Grand Bahama Island is like the head of a pick-ax running north-south, mounted on the thick east-west shaft of the main body of the island. The southern point of the pick, hooking southward into the ocean, disintegrates into many small islands, so the Saint knew that their journey would have to end about the time they reached that sharp southerly curve of coast, or else unless they were to transfer to a boat — the limousine would leave the shore it had been following and take a more northward route.

The first possibility turned out to be the fact. Before a change of direction became necessary, there appeared on the right an augmentation of the somewhat barren aspect of the island which obviously had been achieved and maintained at considerable effort and expense. Coconut palms, twisted pines, and coarse-leaved sea-grape bushes formed the basic ingredients of the plantation, which stretched about three hundred yards along the water and was about half that in depth.

Beside a shell-rock road which turned off toward the landscaped oasis was a white sign, its red lettering clearly legible to the occupants of any passing car:

EAST ISLAND VILLAS

OPENING SOON

POSEIDON ENTERPRISES

Above the letters was the black silhouette of a porpoise.

“Quite a little garden spot,” Simon commented as the limousine slowed to walking speed and crept along the narrow rutted drive into the shade of the trees and high shrubs.

“So it’s a resort that hasn’t opened yet,” Jenny said. “I wondered what kind of a place they were bringing us to.”

“I’m still wondering,” Simon said. “That’s one of the secrets of a long and happy life, my children: never stop wondering.”

They glimpsed a number of pastel-toned cottages scattered among the vegetation, and then they passed through a final dense grove of banana trees and emerged into a wide clearing directly on the water.

There was what seemed to be the central building of the complex, something like a plush American country club, with many windows, the typical low-pitched roof of hurricane resistant concrete slabs, with a little square, slatted tower in the center. Above the tower, moving with nervous response to the slightest changes in the direction of a gentle wind, was a weather vane in the form of the same black porpoise which had appeared on the entrance sign.

#Next to the white building was a large swimming pool, in or around which half a dozen young people were splashing or basking, and not far from that two tennis courts were still under construction. At the other end of the building was a protected marina with a large cruiser moored at its dock.

The driver parked the limousine at the main stairs of the building — which was wisely built high enough to prevent an abnormal tide from someday flooding the ground floor — and came around to open Simon’s side of the car.

“We take care of de bags. Step right inside here an’ de lady tell you all about everything.”

Simon doubted he would hear all about everything he wanted to know without considerably more effort than that, but he cheerfully complied with his guide’s instructions. Wyler and Jenny were beside him when they were met at the heavy glass doors by a gorgeous black-haired personage in shoulderless flowered dress and white sandals who surely could be none other than “the lady” mentioned by the chauffeur.

“I am Maria Corsina,” she said with the slightest trace of an accent, extending her slender hand to each of them in turn. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Her smile and cordiality were a little forced, as if she had been through the same routine so often that her muscles were tired, but nothing could mar the extraordinary beauty of her deeply tanned skin and the long obsidian flow of her hair.

As they returned her greeting, she ushered them into an air-conditioned lobby of red marble and gleaming burnished steel. Opposite the reception desk was the wide entrance to a big reading and game room with a full view of the sea on two sides. Several young people sat over cards or chess at various tables. Pleasantly bar-like sounds came from an unseen quarter.

“What a pretty place,” said Jenny.

“We hope it will be a success,” Maria Corsina replied. “All the villas will not be finished for several weeks.”

“In the meantime,” Simon put in, “I’m glad you found such a good use for it.”

“I am glad someone did,” she said a little mysteriously. “You will enjoy yourselves very much, I hope. Lunch will be served at one o’clock, and in the meantime, you can settle in and make yourselves at home. Dress is informal. I shall have one of the boys show you to your villas. Fortunately, there are only eighteen guests, so most of you will have a cabin to yourself. Now, Mr Bast... Which of you is Mr Bast and which Mr Wyler?”

Wyler out of naturally poor manners, and Simon deliberately, had not identified themselves. But now Wyler responded with more friendliness in his tone than Simon had ever heard him use before; apparently even be was not entirely impervious to such a triple concentrated dose of sexuality as that administered by the olive-tanned exterior of his hostess.

“I’m Grey Wyler,” he said with commendable honesty which Simon regretted he was not in a position to emulate.

“And I am not William Bast,” he said. “My name is Sebastian Tombs, and I’ve come as a substitute for Mr Bast.”

The lady’s disturbed surprise was obvious but quickly controlled.

“Substitute?”

Simon looked quite genuinely concerned and puzzled.

“Didn’t you know? I understood that a cable was sent...”

She shook her head.

“There was no cable... that I know of. Is Mr Bast ill?”

“Mr Bast is dead.”

This time Maria Corsina could afford to let her shock run its natural course.

“How terrible! I’m so sorry.”

Simon’s voice had a gloominess which suited his pseudonym.

“Yes. I think it would be better for everybody’s sake if we didn’t discuss it. Depressing, you know. Be a pity to put a cloud over people’s fun. These things happen — and what can we do now?”

“It’s true,” she sighed.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come in his place, though,” Mr Tombs said modestly. “I was only one point behind him in our contest, actually, so we thought it would be all right if I took his place on the team.”

Maria Corsina’s smile flickered back to life.

“Of course.”

She touched his hand reassuringly, and Jenny’s eyes seethed.

“You’re more than welcome, Mr Tombs. Please don’t think of yourself as a substitute. But since we did not know about you before, I shall look forward to finding out all about you.”

8

Simon had just half an hour before lunch to take a look at his personal villa — which was elegantly and amply designed for the accommodation of at least two people — and to unpack his bag, which had been left off there by the time he walked over from the clubhouse.

An appetite encouraged by excitement and ocean air brought him back to the main building promptly at one o’clock, in time for him to see the majority of his fellow guests emerging by twos and threes after him from the jungle which hid their cottages. On the whole they were a decent looking lot, mostly in their twenties or thirties, and though they spoke a variety of tongues any marked differences in national costume which might have existed when they arrived had disappeared in favor of shorts or slacks and sport shirts.

Jenny joined him as he was proceeding through the central lobby to the dining room’s entrance, which was next to the yet inoperative reception desk. The restaurant was a large rectangular space with windows on the ocean side tinted blue against the glare. The interior decoration and furnishings had not been completed. A half finished mural on the inner wall dealt with Greek heroes and the Trojan horse. In place of the conventional smaller tables which undoubtedly would fill the room when the resort was opened to the public, there were three long ones arranged in a U formation, with the settings arranged for four on either side of each table.

Maria Corsina, along with a grey-haired man and six younger people, was sitting at the bottom of the U. Wyler was sitting at one of the other two tables, and Simon felt that Was as good a reason as any to choose the remaining one. He and Jenny found places in the center of one side, the other seats were soon taken, and as red-jacketed Negro waiters began serving the soup a young American with a broad face and a crew cut, who was sitting opposite Jenny, initiated introductions.

“I’m Joe Halston,” he said, stretching his hand across the table to Simon. “I guess you folks are from London — last ones to get here.”

“Right,” said Simon. “I’m Sebastian Tombs. This is Jenny Turner.”

A dark, hirsute Frenchman on one side of Halston introduced himself politely, then lowered his beard to the immediate vicinity of his soup and spent the rest of the meal eating. A belligerent Egyptian of uncertain age on the other side of Halston told them his incomprehensible name and spent the rest of the meal talking. The slender, timid, almost frightened-looking middle-aged man on Simon’s left seemed pleased to fulfill his social obligations with no more than a tepid handshake and the words, “Professor Santori,” and to let the Egyptian take over with a lecture on the basic inferiority of Western civilization to the enlightened Middle East.

Simon managed to pacify himself for some time with excellent Bahamian boiled fish and a cool and delicious dry white wine which perfectly balanced the red-peppery broth. When he was at last at the point of making some unkind pro-colonial remarks, Maria Corsina stood up and asked for attention.

“This is the first time all of you prizewinners have been together as a group,” she began, “so I would like to take this opportunity, on behalf of the management of East Island Villas, to welcome you to this lovely island. We would like to do everything possible to make your stay a pleasant one.”

She continued speaking for several minutes on matters such as the availability of sports equipment, outboard motor boats, and laundry services. Then she turned to the grey-haired, sharp-faced man seated beside her.

“And now,” she said, “I would like to introduce you to a gentleman who is associated with the organization which contributed so much to bringing you here — the International Foundation for the Advancement of Psychology. He is a psychiatrist, and appropriately enough he is Viennese. He will say a few words. Dr Paul Edelhof.”

Dr Edelhof was a wiry little man wearing a short-sleeved shirt stenciled with what seemed to be representations of rainbow-hued squid suffocating in a morass of salad. The only thing about his person which could in any way compete with that shirt was his nose, whose magnificent convexity would have been worthy of the imperial eagle of his homeland.

After the usual pleasantries, spoken in a nervous but strong voice, almost without accent, he got down to business.

“Now I must warn you,” he said amiably, cocking his head and giving a sly smile as he raised one finger, “that you have not been given this fine trip entirely for nothing. You extraordinary people, having proven your competitive abilities, represent a kind of elite. The high selectivity of the Death Game brings together here a group more talented in certain ways than any other similar number of people in the world. Therefore, to those who interest themselves in human ability and psychology, you represent a valuable sample for observation. And that is all we ask of you — that you do not object, as you enjoy your happy holiday here, if I and a few of my colleagues watch from the sidelines, so to speak.”

Edelhof took a sip of water from his glass and touched his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Also, if you will permit it, we will from time to time ask a few questions or administer a very brief test.”

He introduced two men as his assistants. One was the Professor Santori seated next to the Saint, and the other, a Dr. Phillips, was strategically located at the third table. It was clear that the observation of the guests mentioned by Edelhof was already well under way.

“A final word,” Edelhof continued. “Often people with unusual abilities find that in spite of their talents they have difficulty gaining the respect and financial rewards which are due them. Perhaps this is due to circumstances, to unfairness on the part of superiors, to shyness or uncertainty, or to a simple lack of knowledge as to how to proceed.”

The psychiatrist’s manner was more intense now, and his bony fingers pressed hard onto the tablecloth as he leaned forward and seemed to fix the whole audience collectively with penetrating black eyes.

“If you are such a person, if you would like to seek counsel on means of putting your powers to profitable use, I cannot urge you too strongly to see me or one of my colleagues for a private interview. I feel sure we can give you helpful guidance which may make a great deal of difference to your future. And with that I thank you for putting up with a boring speech and wish you a most pleasant holiday.”

He sat down amid applause, and any quizzical expressions which had appeared on faces in his audience during the last of his remarks disappeared as baked Alaska was served by the waiters in their resplendent red jackets.

The Egyptian managed to suppress — until he had finished his own serving — his outrage at a civilization which, surrounded by starving victims of its imperialism, could produce warm browned meringue on solidly frozen ice cream. And by that time the Saint was already excusing himself from the table. Jenny, who showed more and more signs of devotedly dogging his every step, left her dessert half finished in order to come with him. She was not overjoyed when Maria Corsina, smiling pleasantly, stopped them at the door.

“I hope you enjoyed your lunch,” she said.

“Very nice,” Simon replied. “If you keep up to that standard I may never want to leave.”

“As I said — if there’s anything I can do to make you happier, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

“We won’t,” Jenny said, managing to sound both sweet and murderous at the same time.

She took Simon’s arm, but before she could apply any guiding pressure Maria Corsina went on speaking.

“I hate very much to interfere with your plans, but Dr. Edelhof would like to see you if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

The eagle-beaked psychiatrist was already coming toward him through the departing groups of diners.

“Ah, Mr Tombs,” he said, shaking hands. “And Miss Turner, isn’t it? How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Simon.

Edelhof’s face became tinged with respectful sadness.

“I am glad you are here, but sorry about the tragic circumstances.”

“Such things happen,” Simon responded, as Maria left to speak with the headwaiter.

“True,” Edelhof responded, brightening up. “Very true. We must not weep over spilled milk.” He became abruptly more businesslike. “There is just one thing. Since your coming was unexpected, we have no information at all about you. In order for our observations to be effective, and simply for the records of the Foundation, we require a certain amount of background. The dossiers of the other guests were all forwarded in advance by their faculty sponsors. We’re especially interested in the results of certain tests which I’m sure were administered to you at the university. Also a small amount of personal information.”

“Of course,” Simon said.

“I hope you won’t mind then if I ask you to take a pair of tests here, even though you have already done them.”

“Not at all. I’d be delighted to do something to repay you for your lavish hospitality.”

“Not mine,” Edelhof said modestly. “You must thank...”

He stopped as if something had derailed his thoughts in mid-sentence.

“Whom?” asked the Saint.

“The Foundation,” Edelhof replied lamely.

“It would be a little easier to thank an individual.”

Edelhof, over the hump, gave a relieved laugh.

“Then I accept for the Foundation.”

“Good. And I accept the challenge of the tests.” He looked around. “Would you like me to...”

“Please. We can get it out of the way immediately. If the young lady will excuse us...”

Simon turned to Jenny...

“After that long trip, a little siesta would do you good,” he said. “I’ll meet you on the beach later and we can go skin diving.”

“The tests won’t take more than an hour and a half,” offered the psychiatrist.

“Then I’ll see you by the equipment locker around four,” Simon said. “All right?”

“All right,” Jenny agreed reluctantly, and she went on into the lobby as Simon followed Edelhof past the blue-tinted windows to a door at the opposite end of the dining room.

“You enjoy the Death Game, Mr Tombs?”

“It fascinates me. In fact, I found it so intriguing that when I was involved in it I lost interest in everything else.”

Had Edelhof been a dog, his ears would have perked up a good inch.

“Is that so?” he asked, opening the door toward which he had led Simon. “It’s good to have enthusiasm.”

They entered a hallway lined with closed doors on either side.

“In fact,” Simon said in a lower voice, with a mixture of diffidence and great seriousness, “I’d like to speak with you about... the guidance you mentioned.”

“Ah,” said Edelhof, bringing down the volume of his voice to match the Saint’s. “That is fine. The world has places for men of exceptional abilities, if only the proper contacts are made.” He opened one of the doors on the left. “But before we discuss that, it’s best that you complete these little formalities.” He stood in the doorway before letting Simon in. “I might say, however, before giving you any help we must request complete discretion on your part. We can be of no service to you unless we feel assured that all that passes between us will be kept in strictest confidence. Any discussion, even with your closest friends, would necessitate an abrupt end... to our negotiations.”

“I understand,” the Saint said very solemnly.

Edelhof stood aside to let him go through the door.

“I hope so. Now. This will eventually be an office for resort personnel, but for the moment I have managed to confiscate it. Have a seat at the desk, please, and I shall give you the tests.”

The paneled room offered a sparkling view of the sea across the marina, where the white forty-five foot cruiser Simon had seen from the limousine still rode at its moorings, fishing outriggers swaying like long antennae across the chain of smaller islands which stretched away toward the southeastern horizon. The room itself was furnished only with a desk and chair, a mirror built into one wall, a filing cabinet which Edelhof unlocked and relocked in the process of taking out the test booklets, and a ship-to-shore radio on a small table beside the window.

“Beautiful boat,” Simon said, sitting down in the swivel chair as Edelhof had indicated. “Yours?”

“Oh,” said the doctor with a smile, turning up his eyes and making a deprecating gesture with his hand. “Oh, no. It belongs to the owner. Now, if you will just...”

“Is he here?”

Edelhof was putting the two booklets on the desk, along with a pen.

“Who?” he asked.

“The owner. I wondered if he lived here — or on the boat.”

“No. Now, If you will please answer all the questions, I’ll come back when you’ve finished. The first is a standard aptitude test. The second is more specialized.”

“Specialized?” Simon asked innocently.

“You have seen it before, I’m sure. It’s the one especially fitted to players of the Death Game.”

Simon opened the booklet and glanced at the first questions.

“I remember this one. Very interesting.”

“I’m glad you found it so.”

A moment later Edelhof was gone, and Simon devoted himself to answering multiple choice questions concerning the relative heat of his interest in art galleries and boxing matches, talking to girls and walking alone, going to parties and reading books. And while he was at it, would he prefer a book about love or a book about war? Did he feel embarrassed or pleased when people asked him for advice? Would it irritate him to have to give up plans of his own to help a friend whose car had broken down — none, a little, some, considerably, very much?

It did not take a great deal of thought to determine which answers to which questions would make the most favorable impression on Timonaides’ consulting psychologists. On the other hand, Simon had to take into account the devious nature of the minds of the test’s creators, who would try to introduce subtle safeguards against deliberate slanting. But it was not very difficult to detect those safeguards either, and when he had finished the first test, the Saint felt certain that any psychiatrist worth even half his fees would discern in Mr Sebastian Tombs clear signs of the incipient killer.

Turning to view the bright sea through the window for a minute before going on to the second test, Simon noticed the cruiser which had been moored to the dock heading southeast about two hundred yards from shore. He remembered then having heard, on the periphery of his consciousness, an engine cough into life just a few minutes before, while he was engrossed in the final questions of the test. Almost idly, he drew a mental line from his location through the boat, and projected it straight on to the first of the islands, about a mile away. He noted, not so idly, that the boat continued directly on course, as if his imaginary line held it magnetized.

Finally the craft was an indistinct dot on the white feather of its wake, and it still showed no signs of deviating to port or starboard. The phenomenon seemed worth remembering, and Simon fixed in his mind the location of the island which seemed to be the boat’s destination. Naturally, there might be no significance at all in what he had seen, but just in case the boat was not out for a pleasure ride or a fishing expedition, the observation might prove worthwhile.

As he went to work on the second booklet, the Saint realized that it was not so much a test as a questionnaire. There were a few initial queries about personal statistics, hobbies, and ambitions. But the “test” questions which followed were designed to draw forth indirectly information which would probably have been refused if requested outright. The written responses to imaginary situations described in the quiz, when interpreted by a skilled analyst, could give deep insight into the subject’s attachments, loyalties, hostility toward authority, greed, respect for law and truth, and so on and on.

It was simple for Simon to form a clear mental picture of the kind of individual Timonaides would wish to recruit, and then to answer the questions accordingly. He was most impressed with the gall it took to design and administer such a test when he reached the final question — which was no more than an overt version of several asked in different forms already.

Would you play the Death Game with actual murder as the objective for a) 500 b) 1000 c) 5000 d) 10,000 or more e) no amount of money or other reward, however great? (In answering this question, try to pretend that it is not hypothetical, and take careful stock of your true reactions before giving a reply.)

With no hesitation, Simon answered “10,000 or more,” circled “more,” and signed the name of Sebastian Tombs at the bottom of that final sheet.

Almost as if by magic — or more likely by virtue of a two-way mirror — Dr Edelhof knocked at the door and stepped smiling into the office.

“Finished?” He looked at his wrist watch. “Just as we calculated. You have plenty of time to meet your young lady friend before she becomes impatient.”

Simon stretched in the chair and then got up and went to the door. He nodded toward the completed tests, which Edelhof was returning to the filing cabinet.

“Let me know if I passed, will you?”

“It is not a question of passing or failing, of course, but we shall speak about this as soon as I have evaluated the answers — which will take longer than you took to write them. In the meantime, enjoy yourself.”

9

It was ten minutes until four. Simon hurried to his villa, changed into a bathing suit, and walked back down to the beach side of the clubhouse. Near the door of the equipment room Jenny was waiting, wearing a yellow bikini which left bare ample portions of her already pink-tinged anatomy.

“I hope dinner will be half as well cooked as you are,” Simon said cheerfully.

Jenny had been idly watching water skiers skimming the glassy sea behind one of the outboards mentioned by Maria Corsina in her speech at lunch, and she jumped with surprise at the sound of Simon’s voice.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said concernedly, after a deep breath. “What happened?”

“Nothing much. I took the tests.”

“What were they? I thought I’d die when he said he was sure you’d taken them before.” Simon described the tests to her. “Sound familiar?” he asked. “Yes. Both of those. I had a lot of fun with them.”

“What do you mean, fun?”

“I never take that brain-picking stuff seriously. I just make up some personality and answer for it.”

“I wondered what a nice girl like you was doing in a place like this. You probably made up one that was just what Manders was looking for.”

“I don’t even remember.”

“What about that question on committing murder for different amounts of money?” She shook her head.

“I said I wouldn’t do it for anything. After all, I couldn’t be too obvious or Dr Manders would have known I was spoofing and asked me to take the silly thing over again. Doesn’t that disprove your theory about why they brought us here? I mean, I said no.”

“I imagine very few people said yes, but that doesn’t mean people like Manders and Edelhof couldn’t detect an almost unconscious willingness to cooperate under the right circumstances.”

“How creepy can you get?” Jenny kicked petulantly at the sand with her bare toes. “We could have such a lovely time here if we didn’t have to worry about all this nasty business.” He slapped her on the bottom.

“Very well, Jenny, my dear, let’s start with that lovely time right now.”

She flashed him a grateful smile and a minute later they were on their way down to the water, hand in hand, with snorkels, flippers, and masks.

“I can’t get over the way they leave stuff lying around here,” she said. “Even the boats. You just take them. No checking out. Nobody’s even watching.”

“Don’t bet on that last,” he said, “but I doubt if they’re watching to see you don’t make off with any of their sports gear. All that generosity gives you a taste of la dolce vita you’ll enjoy if you go over to that Other Side I was talking about in London. Makes you more amenable to reason when the recruiting officer comes round for his private chat. Right?”

They were at the water’s edge, putting on the flippers and masks. Jenny looked at him reproachfully.

“I thought we weren’t going to think about that nasty stuff.”

“That’s all. Besides, where could anybody go with these bulky things? There doesn’t seem to be another human habitation for miles around. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

Simon was looking out toward the islands.

“I noticed that cruiser heading out there,” he said.

“Oh! I meant to tell you. I saw it leaving, and guess who was on it?”

“Zsa Zsa Gabor?”

“Lady Dracula — Maria Concertina or whatever her name is. All by herself with a big purse and a couple of black boys to run the boat.”

“All sorts of possibilities there, wouldn’t you agree?” Simon said thoughtfully. “I even flatter myself that she may have been carrying a report about me, complete with photographs probably.”

“Carrying a report where?”

“To the big boss — Timonaides himself, maybe.” Simon nodded without pointing. “See that largest island there? As far as I could tell, that’s where the boat went — which may be an indication of something, but I promised not to discuss these problems any more.”

Without warning, he grabbed her hand and towed her into the water. For the next hour they glided like the fish they observed through a medium that seemed clearer than air. It was only when the sun was low on the western horizon that Simon’s attention was brought back to his real reason for coming to this part of the world. He and Jenny, following a school of parrot fish, were at least a hundred yards down the beach from the clubhouse when they heard the rumble of an engine in the water and looked up to see the white cruiser returning to the marina. As soon as its stern was made fast by the crewman, Maria Corsina jumped lightly onto the dock, greeted some watching guests, and hurried to the building.

“The return of the Bride of Dracula,” Jenny said. “I wonder what she was doing?”

“Gathering conchs for our chowder? Or maybe oysters for the stuffing when she tries to cook my goose.”

“Simon,” Jenny asked fearfully, “what if they have found out who you really are?”

He shrugged as he led the way back toward the beach, his mask and snorkel in hand.

“A man like Timonaides would have contacts in London who could easily find out I was around when Bast was murdered and Manders was arrested. With an organization like that involved, Sebastian Tombs couldn’t expect to last long.”

Jenny shuddered and looked at him imploringly.

“Let’s run away. Please. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

He put a reassuring arm around her dripping shoulders as they trudged along the beach toward the clubhouse.

“I said Sebastian Tombs couldn’t expect to last long. Simon Templar expects to survive indefinitely.”

She nuzzled her face against his arm.

“He’d better,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. If there’s one thing I’d guarantee to give any man the will to live, it’s you in a bikini.”

When they were about halfway back to the area of the villas, Maria Corsina came out of the clubhouse, looked up and down the beach, spotted them, and waved an arm above her head.

“I think she wants me,” Simon said.

“Well, she’s not going to get you,” Jenny responded, with flattering determination.

“Mr Tombs,” the hostess called.

“We’re on our way.”

They made their way up the sand and a few moments later joined her near the pool, from which a last trio of swimmers emerged and walked through the twilight toward the cottages.

“It’s about dinner tonight, Mr Tombs.”

Maria Corsina paused and looked at Jenny, with the obvious implication that Jenny should politely excuse herself and leave. Jenny just looked back without moving, so the other woman continued.

“The owner of East Island Villas, Mr Timonaides, who very graciously donated the use of his. property for this group, would like to entertain the guests at his own home. He prefers small gatherings, so he plans to have three of you out each night. You happen to have been asked for tonight.” She looked at Jenny again. “Since there are not enough ladies to go around, there is not one invited every day.”

“I’m delighted to accept,” Simon said. “May I ask who else is going this time?”

“Your friend Mr Wyler and one of the Americans — Mr Halston.”

“Couldn’t you change it and let me go?” Jenny asked impulsively. “I’m sure Grey Wyler wouldn’t mind.”

“I am sorry, but once things are arranged, Mr Timonaides dislikes changes. I’m sure you’ll enjoy being with new people when your turn comes.”

“When does the car leave?” Simon asked with purposeful innocence.

There was always a possibility, he thought, that his real identity had not been confirmed, and the more unobservant and unconcerned he could seem, the better his chances of continuing the masquerade.

“You will go by boat,” Maria Corsina explained.

“Boat?”

“Mr. Timonaides lives on an island. The cruiser will leave at seven.”

“Fine. Thank you very much.”

He and Jenny started across the lawn, and Maria Corsina called after him.

“Oh, Mr Tombs, it might be good to wear a coat and tie. Mr Timonaides is a formal man.”

“He sounds interesting. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“I’m sure he’s looking forward to meeting you.”

When the Saint and Jenny entered the thick plantings around the villas she stopped and whispered to him.

“Simon, I think they know. It’s stupid to walk right into a trap.”

“Maybe it’s not a trap,” he said blandly. “Maybe they’re just impressed with Mr Tombs’ potential as a recruit. I’m sure Grey Wyler must have made that impression. Could be the first night’s guests of honor are the ones — or some of the ones — who answered ‘yes’ to that question about playing the Death Game for real.”

“But what if they do know?”

“If they do know, I can think of about a hundred ways they could arrange my demise without the trouble of hauling me out to Timonaides’ island. Or they could just think of some pretext to send me packing — like the suddenly discovered fact that uninvited substitutes are against the rules at Death Game conclaves.”

They walked toward Jenny’s cottage in the thickening darkness.

“But I can think of just as many reasons why they’d take you out there if they did plan to get rid of you,” Jenny said.

“Well don’t enumerate them, please. You’ll take the keen edge off my appetite. Besides, if it is a trap, it won’t be the first time some spider has invited me into his web expecting to eat me up, and ended up getting eaten himself.” They were at her door. Jenny sighed miserably... “I guess there’s nothing I can do, then.” Simon took her chin in the fingers of his right hand and kissed her softly on the lips.

“Just be a good girl,” he said, “and have a nice evening.”

“I won’t!” she said as he walked away. “And I won’t go to sleep until you’re back here safely.”

Although a night breeze was kicking the sea into a light chop by seven o’clock, the trip to the island was smooth and uneventful. The Negro captain set a course straight for the distant cluster of lights which were the only illumination in the darkness ahead, and his mate brought up a round of iced rum drinks from below. Simon and his fellow passengers settled into comfortable chairs on the after deck, and Halston said rather predictably, “This is the life, huh?”

“Sure is,” the Saint said, stretching his legs, swirling his drink in its glass, and taking a long swallow.

Wyler, also predictably, was silently contemptuous. He managed to look over the craft as if he would love to own it and at the same time hated it because it belonged to somebody else. Halston, looking thick-necked and uncomfortable in his suit and tie like an athlete dressed up to receive an award, was a more simple type. Almost everything impressed him and he was quick to admit it.

“Great drinks, too,” he said, blinking his small, close-set eyes. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to have an outfit like this.”

“Maybe you will someday,” the Saint said. “Maybe we all will.”

The comment was not made idly. Over the edge of his glass he watched the faces of his two companions and felt satisfied that their perceptible but suppressed reactions meant they had probably had individual heart-to-heart chats with Dr Edelhof about their futures. Just how much Edelhof would have told them was a matter of speculation, but he would have spoken to them more freely than he had to Simon because their identities would have been unquestionable and their past records on hand. But Edelhof also would have strongly cautioned each one — as he had Simon — not to tell anything to anybody. Halston looked inquiringly at the Saint and Wyler, licked his lips, and controlled his natural garrulousness with a big swallow of his drink.

A few minutes later the boat approached the island and circled to the eastern side, which, because of the proximity of smaller islands, undoubtedly offered the most shelter from rough seas. The inhabited island itself was more or less round, about a quarter of a mile in diameter, and seemed to be fenced and brightly lighted around its whole circumference.

The cruiser pulled slowly around a jetty and up to a dock protected by concrete supplements to a small natural indentation in the shore. A colored man who had been lounging outside the locked gate spoke into a metal box affixed to one of the light poles and then came to help dock the boat.

“Here dey come, gentlemens,” he said rather vaguely as the passengers stepped ashore.

A second later Simon saw that he was referring to a pair of electric golf carts which were being driven by Negroes down an asphalt-paved path to the other side of the gate. The watchman who had announced the arrival of the carts unlocked the gate and watched as the guests climbed on — Simon getting into one, Wyler and Halston sharing the other. Then the watchman locked the gate again, and the carts purred slowly in single file through a cultivated jungle even thicker and more fully developed than the recently planted one at East Island Villas.

After two minutes or so the path curved, revealing a large red brick house straight ahead. The carts maneuvered up to an open, flagstone terrace and stopped. Standing backlighted in the central doorway of the house was a man of moderate height and a silhouette which suggested a standoff between solid strength and corpulence.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a smooth low-pitched voice, stepping forward into the outdoor floodlights which made day of the area immediately surrounding the house. “Welcome to my home.”

The golf carts were driven quietly away around the building as Simon, Wyler, and Halston went to introduce themselves and shake hands with their host, who concluded the formalities with the simple statement. “And I, of course, am Timonaides.”

He spoke English with careful, almost overly precise pronunciation, explaining as he showed them into his huge living room that he spoke several languages but thought it best to make each evening’s entertainment monolingual if possible.

“You’ve got a point there,” Joe Halston said with hearty approval, taking in the room’s antique statuary, vases, and elegant furniture with the head-swivelling enthusiasm of a tourist just set loose on the Acropolis.

Simon was more interested for the moment in the appearance of Timonaides, whom he had seen only in photographs, usually in more glamorous company than a delegation of collegians. His face tended to heaviness, especially in the vicinity of his fleshy lips, but his dark eyes were alert and intelligent. Though he was at an age when most men have greying hair, the color was a healthy brown, and in spite of some thinning the oily waves were sufficient to give almost youthful coverage. Pink-cheeked, well-manicured, and wearing a dove-grey, perfectly tailored suit and blue silk tie, Kuros Timonaides exuded the aura of a wealthy man.

“Have seats,” he said, as a white-jacketed colored man came into the room. “Make yourselves comfortable and Charles will take your orders for drinks. I trust the trip over to my island was pleasant.”

“That’s a great boat you’ve got there,” Halston said. “Really great.”

That initial interchange set the tone for the early part of the evening. Nothing remotely like Death Game business was discussed during drinks or the meal which followed. For a while they talked about Timonaides’ island, problems of building in a remote area, and the difficulties of maintenance in a salty and humid atmosphere. Even Wyler proved that he could shed some of his arrogance when granted audience with a sufficiently eminent personage. He joined in the small talk, and when the group had moved into the adjacent dining room and were eating at the massive carved wooden table, he complimented Timonaides on the turtle pie.

Timonaides shook his head.

“I was about to apologize for this poor food. The fact that temporarily I am forced to depend on native help restricts the menu and lowers the quality. Ordinarily I could offer you much better. I have just come here, you see, and my chef is having his vacation before he flies to join me.”

“You don’t live here all the time?” Wyler asked.

“Oh, no. In general, I cruise around the Mediterranean in spring and summer, except for some time spent in places like London or Paris. In the hottest weather I move up into the Alps, and during the cold months I come here.”

That opened the way for a whole new line of admiring questions from both Wyler and Halston. Simon contributed a few comments and began to wonder if this was just a routine entertainment and inspection — the big man looking over the prospective employees in small groups until a final decision was made. Nothing happened to change the Saint’s impression until dessert and coffee were finished and the men had moved back into the living room for liqueur.

After a few more minutes of trivial conversation they were interrupted by the appearance of the Negro in the white jacket.

“All finish, sah,” he announced.

“Good, Charles. You may take everybody home then.”

Charles disappeared, and soon afterwards there was a sound of scuffing feet, chatter, and laughter receding down the asphalt walk in front of the house. Timonaides explained that in these islands it was customary for servants not to live in, but instead to be brought to work in the morning and delivered to their homes at night. For that purpose he provided an old fishing boat and had appointed Charles the captain.

The Saint knew Timonaides was telling the truth about island practices in the transportation of hired help. What put him on alert was the fact that the servants had left almost immediately after dinner — and it was not an island custom to leave dirty china lying around the kitchen overnight. But then maybe the Greek’s dishwashers were setting records for speed and efficiency: Simon could only wait and see whether or not Timonaides revealed some special reason for wanting privacy as soon as he could reasonably arrange it.

Simon did not have long to wait.

“Gentlemen,” Timonaides said quietly, settling back in his chair and bringing the tips of his fingers together. “I think you know, in a general way, why you are here. Dr Edelhof has assured me of your sincerity. If you have doubts — any of you — and if you do not wish to go any further in your cooperation with me, for the great rewards I can offer, then I must ask you to leave now and wait on the boat which brought you. When I have said what I have to say next, it will be too late for changes of heart.”

10

Timonaides’ abrupt statement seemed to catch Wyler and Halston by surprise. For a long moment no one spoke. Then Halston took a deep breath.

“I’m with you all the way.”

Wyler nodded agreement. Timonaides looked at Simon, who nodded also. The Greek got to his feet.

“Good,” he said briskly. “And now... to show my own sincerity...”

He reached beneath his jacket and drew out a thick packet of Bahamian currency.

“Mr Halston,” he said, handing over the money.

He drew out another packet.

“Mr Wyler.”

Wyler’s fingers trembled as he took the money, which the Saint estimated must amount to at least a thousand pounds.

“Mr Templar.”

At the sound of his real name, Simon could only settle back into his chair with an amused sigh and slight smile. Timonaides’ hand, on its third trip to his inner pocket, had produced not a wad of bills but a large automatic.

“Mr Halston,” Timonaides said quietly, “would you please hand these to Mr Templar?”

Halston, taking two photographs from Timonaides, looked at Simon with somewhat bovine confusion.

“Mr Templar?” he said.

“That is Mr Templar,” the Greek said impatiently, wiggling the nose of his pistol in the direction it was already pointing.

Simon calculated with a certain amount of satisfaction that Joe Halston’s stint with Poseidon Enterprises would be useful — for Poseidon Enterprises — but short-lived. He would be a good tool for work on simple problems, but on his first encounter with real complexities he would probably fail and be forced into early, absolute, and permanent retirement.

The Saint took the photographs, one of which was a copy of a passport photograph he had had taken three years before. The other was a Polaroid print of him sitting at Edelhof’s desk filling out one of the tests. He looked at the pictures admiringly.

“Fine looking chap,” he said. “Who is he?”

Admittedly, it was rather difficult for Timonaides to come back with a snappy answer to that, but he did as well as he could.

“It’s the former Sebastian Tombs,” he said. “Soon to be the former Simon Templar.”

“So it is,” the Saint said. He went on chattily. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have preferred getting money like the other fellows, but I do appreciate the pictures.” He was holding the photographs side by side for comparison. “Most people say I get handsomer every year, and I have to admit...”

Timonaides cut him off.

“If I were you, I would begin using the past tense, Mr Templar, because my new associates here are about to kill you.”

Wyler’s lips were compressed, his fingers tightly gripping the arms of his chair. Simon concluded that he had not been told of his assignment in advance, but that it came to him. as no tremendous surprise. Halston, on the other hand, was openly stunned.

“You mean... we really are?” he said.

“Yes, Mr Halston,” the Greek replied. “You are going to have a chance to prove your ability — in a real Death Game. Mr Templar here — possibly known to you as the Saint — is an imposter whose continued existence would present the greatest threat to my organization, which now includes you. First, search him.”

Halston’s search yielded nothing but a handkerchief and some pound notes. The Saint had foreseen possible complications in bringing a weapon to the Villas, and since he was using an assumed name he had left even his wallet, with all identifying cards and papers, in a locker at the Freeport air terminal.

“That’s all,” the student said, handing Timonaides the bills, which he inconspicuously pocketed.

“I’m curious. Kuros, to know where you got this,” Simon said, holding up the passport photograph.

“From my files,” the Greek answered with obvious satisfaction. “Originally, of course, from the passport photographer who took it. Can you think of a better source than passport photographers for clear pictures of almost everyone who counts — even those who shy from seeing themselves in newspapers and magazines? In this house I have such a quantity of photographs and other information that you would be amazed.”

“Nothing about you would amaze me,” the Saint said coolly. “Sicken me, yes, but not amaze me.”

Timonaides’ grip on his automatic tightened.

“That will be enough talk. Now. if Mr Wyler — who incidentally confirmed your real identity to Dr Edelhof late this afternoon as a sign of his good faith — and Mr Halston will...”

There was a buzz from an intercom box on a table beside the armchair where Timonaides had been sitting.

“The watchman at the gate,” he explained, keeping his automatic aimed at Simon as he spoke into the box. “I told you not to... Yes? Send her away immediately. Oh. Well. Very good, have the boys from the boat bring her up here then.”

Simon, whose instinct told him it would be best to display no interest in the watchman’s call, had already begun speaking to Wyler and Halston.

“Let me tell you about the man you’re working for — and especially about his extensive files. He got his start in Greece during the war, during the German occupation. Somehow he managed to be a member of the resistance and at the same time end up rich on Nazi money at the expense of a few dozen dead patriots. That must have been where he learned the saleable value of information — and that the potential victim might pay even more not to be turned in than the authorities would to get him. Then, after the war...”

“Shut up,” barked Timonaides.

“Ashamed of that part of your career?” Simon asked mildly. “I’ll admit that as much as I despise the kind of blackmail you’re engaging in now, I prefer it to...”

Timonaides’ first violent reaction had been controlled, and the natural pinkness, which for an instant had drained away, returned to his face.

“Do not talk any more, Mr Templar,” he said.

Simon sensed that until he was in a better position to defend himself he would be wise to obey the order. Timonaides turned to Wyler and Halston.

“Don’t worry yourselves about Mr Templar’s words. You will learn what you need to know of my operations. Rest assured that I am no common gangster, but a businessman. It is not my fault if the laws of the jungle still govern man’s competitive activities, no matter how much he tries to cover them up with pretty words. Only the stupid masses believe in such fairy tales... which suits the purposes of superior people very well.”

There were sounds of footsteps from the terrace, and Timonaides went to the door and opened it.

“Let her go,” he said to the men outside, not allowing them to see his gun, “and get back to the boat. You can sleep awhile if you like. We shall be doing a little hunting.”

Jenny Turner, her short yellow-flowered summer dress looking strangely inappropriate, stepped into the room.

“It suits my purposes,” Timonaides said precisely, in place of greeting her, “for the servants to know that I keep rabbits on the island in case I want a little sport. It explains the sounds of shots. This is the first time, however, that a rabbit has come to my island of its own free will.” He gestured with the gun. “If you will please go stand by your friend Mr Templar.” As Jenny moved; Timonaides looked at Simon. “She came to rescue you.”

“I had to come,” she said, “when I heard them saying they’d found out who you really were, and...”

“Heard who?” Simon asked, starting to stand up as she came over to his chair.

“Put up your hands, Mr Templar,” Timonaides said. “Maria Corsina and Edelhof were talking,” Jenny said. “They didn’t know I followed them down the hall toward their offices, and...”

“And so,” Timonaides took up the narrative, “your young friend here confiscated a boat and came to help you.”

“I never thought the whole island out here would have a fence around it,” she said. “I thought I could sneak in.”

Timonaides half smiled and shook his head. “And just what did you think you’d do when you got in?”

“I... I’m not sure. Lots of things. It depended on...”

“Well,” the Greek interrupted, “fortunately, you did not have to face that problem.” He turned to Simon again. “She tried to tell the watchman some ridiculous story about a message she was bringing. I communicate by radio with the shore, of course, and the watchman always knows about legitimate visitors in advance. So...” He shook his head again. “I’m afraid the sides in our Death Game are going to be equal. Two against two.”

Jenny, who had looked frightened already, turned pale. “Death Game?”

Timonaides nodded. “Mr Halston and Mr Wyler are going to be the hunters. You and Mr Templar will be the victims. The hunters will be armed and the victims will not. But for the sake of fairness, we will let our rabbits have a three minute head start.”

Halston licked his lips nervously. “A girl?” he asked.

“Girls die as easily as men,” Timonaides said. Jenny turned her stare on Wyler.

“Grey... you wouldn’t really...”

Wyler met her eyes for a minute, then nodded as he looked away.

“Easy there,” Simon said to her in a soothing voice. “I think it’s very sporting for Mr Timonaides to give us a start. Let’s save our breath for that.”

Timonaides pressed a button on his intercom set.

“I don’t want you getting hit by stray bullets,” he said into the box. “Be sure the gate is locked, and then go get in the boat with the other boys. All three of you stay below decks, and don’t come out until I personally come there and tell you to. Do you understand?”

A pause..

“And don’t get into the champagne. I hope you do understand. If you come out of the sleeping cabin before I tell you, you will be fired — and worse than that.”

Timonaides turned away from the intercom.

“That will take care of witnesses. Now, Mr Templar, you may go, and I suggest that you and your ally move as fast as you can while I am giving weapons to my friends here. I must admit I am anxious to see if they do as brilliantly in real life as they have done in games.”

“Let’s go, Jenny,” Simon said, taking her firmly by the hand and leading her toward the door.

“And Mr Templar,” Timonaides said, “if you have any ideas about climbing the fence, forget them. The upper strands are electrified.”

“Must take quite a generator to do that,” Simon said.

Timonaides smiled.

“It does — and you can forget any ideas you may have about that, too, because it is safely located in the cellar of this house. You can’t get at it from the outside.”

The Saint nodded.

“Thanks for saving us the trouble of looking for it.”

The Greek glanced at his watch.

“I’m afraid you will not have much time to look for anything. Half a minute is gone already.”

Simon sprinted across the terrace and along the asphalt path, with Jenny close behind him.

“What’ll we do?” she gasped.

I saw something like a tool shed along here on the way up. There. This way.”

They left the path, hurried around a clump of banana trees, and came on a small wooden shed. The door was held with only a sliding bolt. Simon yanked it open and began searching through the implements which were hung on the walls or were leaning in the corners. He handed out a two-pronged pitchfork with a long handle.

“Primitive, but a perfectly respectable weapon,” he said.

Within seconds he had tossed her a ball of strong twine and brought out a large metal tank with a hose attached.

“What’s that?” Jenny asked.

“Some kind of pressure-spray — for spraying trees. It feels good and full.”

Simon aimed the hose away from them and squeezed the lever on the nozzle. A concentrated blast of foul-smelling spray carried for a range of ten feet or more.

“They’ll be on their way now,” he said. “Follow me.”

Carrying the pitchfork and spray device, he led her quickly and quietly along a tiny, winding, unpaved path into the most densely overgrown area he could find in that part of the grounds. It was comfortably dark there; the bright lights of the fence line and the immediate vicinity of the house scarcely penetrated the tangle of shrubs, bamboo, fragrant-flowered oleander bushes, and larger trees. “Won’t they find us here?” Jenny asked hopelessly. “And we can’t just keep running.”

“I don’t intend to sit here and do nothing but wait,” the Saint said. “We’re going to take the initiative.”

“How?”

“By using the only advantage we have — aside from our superior brains and moral character: the fact that they don’t know where we are.”

He was already tying the free end of the twine to the base of a tree, about six inches off the ground.

“I can hear them on the main path,” Jenny whispered.

“When they leave it, they’ll probably split up. In any case, they’ll be following little narrow paths like the one that leads through this thicket. They’d be stupid to go crashing through the undergrowth in hopes of stumbling over us. They’ll be listening and looking, feeling confident because we’re supposedly unarmed and they’ve got means of blasting us out of the bushes without even getting their trousers wrinkled.”

Simon had finished stretching the twine across the path and tying the balled end to a second tree. Steps sounded on the asphalt path about fifty feet away, moving very slowly from the direction of the house toward the docks.

“That’s only one of them,” the Saint whispered. “Their first mistake. Shows what overconfidence can do.”

“They’ve a right to be overconfident,” Jenny murmured. “But I still just can’t believe they’d really kill us.”

“You’ll soon have a chance to find out I’ll go a little way up this path toward the paved one, then make some noise and run back like the devil. You stay here hiding on this side with the pitchfork. I’ll jump to the other side. If he falls over the string, we’ve got him. If he comes around either side, one of us will at least have a chance to get him.”

“What if he... shoots at you?”

“He will eventually anyhow. We may as well get it over with. His chances of hitting a running target in the dark are about one in a million.”

They listened. The hesitant footsteps on the asphalt were nearer.

“Now,” the Saint said, and he crept up the unpaved path, leaving Jenny behind.

When he had gone some twenty feet toward the asphalt path he rounded a curve and spoke in a very loud and theatrical whisper.

“Is that you, Jenny?”

In answer, he heard the blast of a gun, and a bullet sang through the twigs and leaves not far above his head. Whirling, he raced back down the small path as another shot barked out and footsteps pounded behind him. There was no tune even for him to pick up the spray apparatus. He was scarcely hidden opposite Jenny when Joe Halston, his bullish form easily identifiable, came thudding around the nearest turn.

Just when it seemed he would surely trip over the tightly stretched twine, he stopped, listening, aware that his prey was no longer fleeing ahead of him. Breathing hard, he pulled a flashlight from his trousers pocket and aimed it up the path.

“Did you see them?” called Wyler’s voice from far on the other side of that end of the grounds.

“One,” Halston shouted. “I think he’s hidden in here somewhere.”

The Saint’s muscles tensed as the flashlight beam swung toward his side of the path. But it stopped suddenly and moved to Halston’s feet. Obviously he had just discovered the string.

“Okay,” he said in a low voice. “I know you’re in there.”

And the beam moved back toward Simon’s hiding place.

The Saint’s impression of the next two or three seconds was confuse,. There was a sudden rushing sound, like wind in leaves, and the light dropped as Halston cried out and staggered back. Simon instinctively seized his opportunity, without waiting to ask what he owed it to. He dove from the bushes, catching his hunter behind the knees with the full weight and force of his movement. Halston sprawled on his face, but before the Saint could administer a conclusive karate chop to the back of the thick neck he heard a crack like a stick hitting a stone and looked up to see that Jenny had just caressed Halston’s skull with a downward sweep of her pitchfork handle. Wyler was getting closer, calling for Halston.

“I just couldn’t stick it in him,” Jenny whispered humbly.

“I think you’ve done enough,” Simon said, turning off the flashlight. “What was that first thing that happened?”

“I pulled back a branch while you were up the path — and when I saw he wasn’t going to fall over the string I let it go in his face.”

Wyler had come as far as the asphalt path now, calling fruitlessly.

“Hide,” Simon whispered to Jenny. “We’ll just wait here this time.” He was feeling among the leaves. “Where’s that gun he was carrying?”

“I can’t see,” Jenny whispered.

Simon pushed her quickly back into the bushes.

“I think he’s heard us,” he said, abandoning his search for Halston’s gun. He picked up the flashlight and moved into the undergrowth at the other side of the path.

As he went, he could hear Wyler approaching cautiously, following the same route Halston had taken. Simon threw the flashlight low along the path in the opposite direction so that it bounced and skidded and possibly sounded like someone taking flight.

Wyler, however, was not so impetuous as his fallen partner. His steps quickened, but he did not run headlong down the path. Knowing that his prey might be armed now, since Halston no longer answered his calls, he moved quietly and showed no light. Then he came around the turn which brought him into Simon’s and Jenny’s view, and after another few cautious steps saw the motionless body lying in the path ten feet ahead of him.

His first reaction was to crouch low and dart behind a tree at the side of the path. For a long time he stayed there, apparently listening.

Then, for some reason, Jenny moved slightly in her hiding place and caused a rustle of branches. Grey fired in that direction, waited, fired again. Getting no answering shot, he was bold enough to step back onto the path and come quickly forward.

That was when Simon pushed the lever of the spray tank hose and sent a whitish blast of spray directly into Wyler’s face. He cried out, stumbling, blinded, wincing and clawing at his eyes with one hand as the stream blasted him again. But the other hand still desperately held the gun, and he fired aimlessly into the ground or the tops of the trees.

The Saint heaved the spray tank, and it caught Wyler across the midsection, sending him sprawling backwards into the bushes. Simon was on him in a second, wrenching the pistol from his hand, and then with the greatest zest and satisfaction planting a fist several times in the center of his foam-drenched face. Wyler’s nose, undoubtedly, would be much less suitable for arrogant upturning in the future than it had been in the past, but for some time he would not be aware of that fact, nor of anything else.

“Jenny!” Simon called in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

“No,” came the weak reply.

She was sagging against a tree, holding one hand at her throat, and the Saint rushed to her.

“Did he hit you?” he asked, slipping his arms around her for support.

“No,” she whispered, clinging to him, “but I’m sure not all right. I just... don’t think I like this kind of game.”

Simon laughed, “Cheer up, girl. We made it. Now let’s go tell Timonaides how much fun we had and thank him for his hospitality,”

11

First they tied Wyler and Halston hand and foot. Both were still unconscious and had every appearance of intending to stay in that condition for a long while, but to be on the safe side the Saint carried Wyler — the less heavy of the two — about fifty feet along the way to Timonaides’ house and dumped him in the bushes where he and Halston could not conveniently collaborate in getting untied when they woke up.

“Do we have to go back to that house?” Jenny pled. “Couldn’t we just concentrate on getting out of this place?”

“Maybe you should stay here while I go to the house. It would be safer.”

“No,” she shivered, taking his arm as he walked on. “I’m too scared. What’ll we do? Just knock on the door and say ‘Too bad, Kuros old boy, you lose.’ ”

“Sounds like a pretty good plan,” Simon said. “And just about as specific as anything I’ve come up with.”

He took her stealthily along side paths toward the glaring lights of the house. When they were at the edge of the clearing, beyond which there was no more cover, they heard Timonaides’ voice.

“Wyler? Halston? Has anything happened?”

The Saint and Jenny could see him now, standing just outside the door, the room light behind him turned out. Simon got a firm grip on Wyler’s revolver, which he had reloaded with a clip taken from the previous user’s pocket, and then he moved boldly into the light, aiming the weapon at Timonaides.

At that range of fifty feet or more the pistol had little sure value except as a bluff, but Simon hoped that the Greek, taken by surprise, would crumble without too much thought about problems of ballistics.

“Put up your hands and come this way,” the Saint called, but as he had feared, Timonaides was not so easily intimidated.

With a crouching motion he was inside the door, and instantly the dull glint of a rifle barrel appeared.

“Drop the gun, Templar!” came Timonaides’ voice.

The Saint had prudently gone no more than two or three feet from the cover of trees and shrubs. He quickly sidestepped and heard the futile crack of the rifle as he dashed into the bushes.

“You might as well give up,” Timonaides called. “Well have you soon anyway.”

“Come out or well come after you,” the Saint replied with more taunting bravado than strict honesty.

“This place is a fortress,” Timonaides said. “You couldn’t get in with a cannon.”

With that, he slammed the door and there was no more sight or sound of him.

“What’ll we do now?” asked Jenny. “Make a battering ram?”

“I imagine he’s telling the truth,” Simon answered. “It would take more than a battering ram to get in there, and I’m sure that even our combined charm wouldn’t persuade him to come out voluntarily.”

“You mean we can go now?” she asked hopefully.

“We can try. Timonaides is probably on his radio to shore right now, telling Edelhof to send reinforcements. I have to admit I can visualize the general embarrassment with quite a bit of relish.”

They hurried through the trees, and then took the asphalt path down to the dock.

“Let’s hope the boys have obeyed orders and stayed below decks,” Simon said.

“I think they’d be frightened not to.”

“They seem to have been.”

There was no one in sight on the dock or the upper decks of the cruiser. Simon inspected the lock that held the gate.

“I think a shot or two should take care of that,” he said. “Now boys, just be good and keep your heads down, no matter how close that rabbit hunt comes.”

He pushed Jenny back, fired twice, and shoved the gate open. There was no response from the boat.

“Won’t he call them or something?” Jenny whispered as Simon moved out onto the dock.

“I don’t think he could, because there’s no reason why they should have the ship-to-shore on.” He paused as they reached the place where the boat was moored. “Now, you just stay out of the way, and when I’ve got things under control hop aboard and we’ll take off.”

Simon stepped quietly onto the deck and went to the open hatchway which led down to the sleeping quarters and galley. He detected the smell of strong tobacco smoke, the radio music of a steel band, and the murmur of voices — probably subdued by the proximity of gunfire.

The Saint deliberately made a sound with his foot.

“Mistah Timonaides?” said a voice in the cabin.

He stepped down another step.

“Mistah Timonaides? Dat you, sah?”

Simon stuck his head inside the cabin, and showed them a friendly smile and his pistol.

“No, it’s not Mr Timonaides, but I’ll do till he comes along. Just quietly put your hands on top of your heads, lock your fingers tightly, and don’t let go until I tell you to.”

Two of the men had been lounging on bunks, but were already sitting bolt upright when Simon gave his order. The third, the watchman, was on his feet. They obeyed, linking their hands on top of their heads and following him in single file as he backed onto the deck.

“We ain’ supposed to come up, sah. Mistah Timonaides, he say we...”

“I’m sure my pistol is just as worth paying attention to as Mr Timonaides, at least for the moment. Come on, now, and no fast moves.”

When they were neatly arranged in a row on the afterdeck, he called to Jenny.

“Look what I found: See-No-Evil, Hear-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil.”

Jenny did not seem responsive to humor, so he turned back to the three colored men.

“Now, gatekeeper, go sit on the stern facing the water. Hang your feet over the edge and keep your hands back where I can see them.”

The watchman did as he was told.

“You gone hurt us?” he inquired meekly.

“Not a bit if you do as I tell you. Just stay there. Now, mate, get ready to cast off. Captain, start the engines. I can keep my gun on all of you from here, so be quick and efficient about it.”

Within a few seconds the engine was rumbling and exhaust smoke was bubbling from the stern. The mate cast off the lines as Jenny jumped aboard.

“Good,” Simon called to the captain. “Take her out.” He turned toward the mate. “You — go sit by the watchman, and dangle your toes over just the way he is.”

By the time the mate was perched on the stern, the boat was clear of the jetty and heading slowly into open water.

“Now, captain, go join your friends.”

The boat held its course more or less, as the captain left the wheel and went to the stern.

“Now, Jenny,” the Saint said, “you go be the pilot for a minute.”

“How?”

“Just steer — like a car.”

Jenny ran to take the wheel.

“Where do I go?” she begged nervously.

“We’ll head south — to Nassau.”

“Which way is that?”

“Never mind. Just don’t run into anything till I take over.”

Simon went to the three men arrayed with their backs to him along the stern.

“You boys know bow to swim?” he asked sociably.

“Yassuh,” the watchman said cautiously.

“That’s good.”

The Saint placed his foot gently in the small of the watchman’s back and launched him smoothly into space. Almost before his splash had reached the ears of the captain and mate, they had joined him in quick succession. Simon could see them swimming back toward the island. Then he went to take the wheel from Jenny, who sank down into one of the comfortable chairs with which the pilothouse was furnished and flopped back her head in a near faint.

“Are we really going to Nassau?” she breathed.

“No, but we’ll head that way with all our lights on, and the boys we just left behind will tell Timonaides what we said. Whether he’ll believe it or not is another thing, but it won’t hurt for him to hear about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s watching us right now from some rooftop eyrie. When we’re disappearing towards Nassau I’ll cut all the lights and we’ll circle back toward Freeport.”

The engines were at full power now, and Simon beaded south by the compass. If any ocean-borne pursuit from East Island Villas had been organized it was too late to catch up, particularly since the only boats available were too light and small for open seas.

“Freeport?” Jenny asked.

She was obviously still in a daze.

“You remember Freeport,” Simon said with an amused smile. “Where your plane landed on Grand Bahama. We’ll take a plane out of their first thing in the morning. There’s not much we can do back at the Villas, especially since we wouldn’t have any idea who — if anybody — we could trust. And by this time Timonaides has certainly roused them by radio. I think we’ll enjoy the remainder of our holiday much more someplace else.”

“We’re not going back to the Villas at all?” she asked stupidly.

“If you think I’m going back there and capture a gang of about twenty people with the aid of one hand gun and a kinky girl, you’ve got a mistaken idea of my heroism. I’m brave, but not crazy.”

Jenny’s eyes popped wider open.

“But my clothes are all back there!”

The Saint groaned.

“You almost tempt me to make trite comments about the female mind. Give it a little thought, and you’ll agree that your life is worth more than a closet full of dresses. I’ll take you on a shopping spree as soon as we get to the states.”

Jenny looked at him with exasperation.

“They took my money,” she said.

“They took mine too,” said the Saint, “but Grey Wyler and Halston had quite a bit.”

He showed it to her. Suddenly she laughed, a little hysterically, then got to her feet and hugged him as he stood at the wheel.

“I like you,” she said.

“I like you too,” he answered, “but there’s not much I can do about it for the moment. Why don’t you go down to the galley and get us some of that champagne the hired hands weren’t supposed to get into?”

“What a super idea! I’ll be back in a jiffy,”

She returned with a bottle of Bollinger on ice and told him there was lots of food below.

“Fine. Fix us a midnight snack.”

By the time she brought a platter of caviar, pate, boned pheasant, crackers, and cheeses, the lights of Timonaides’ personal island were only a starlike glimmer in the distance astern.

“We’ve gone far enough on our diversionary course,” Simon said. “He’ll never know where we’ve gone from here.”

He cut off all the running lights, brought the boat about in a wide turn, and set the controls on automatic for a course which would bring them back to the coast of Grand Bahama Island fifteen or twenty miles west of their earlier departure point. With no further immediate need to hold the wheel, he opened the champagne and filled the glasses. The glow of the compass light and the depth indicator, along with the bright moonlight outside provided illumination enough after their eyes had adjusted to it.

“Nothing like not getting killed to give you an appetite, is there?” commented the Saint, munching a caviar-covered cracker which Jenny had popped into his mouth.

“It’s a wonderful feeling,” she said. “Just being alive. I’m just sorry that...”

“What?”

“That we didn’t get Timonaides.”

Simon grinned and finished his first glass of champagne.

“You sound like a real pro,” he said. “You’re sorry we didn’t shoot him, I suppose, and it is regrettable, but I think we’re best off not getting involved with executing people.”

He poured another round of the icy wine.

“We’ve pretty well fouled up his operation,” he said. “Exposing this Death Game business to the light is equivalent to ending its usefulness for him. And also for Wyler and Halston. They probably wouldn’t dare show their faces where we might see them, so Timonaides will most likely shunt them off to some obscure place, possibly try to get some mileage out of them for his money, and then get rid of them. They’d be potentially embarrassing relics of a scheme that failed — and he can’t afford those kinds of living liabilities.”

“But he won’t even go to jail for what he’s done,” Jenny said.

“He’d done a lot worse before we ever met him. A man like that has a positive knack for staying out of jail — or else he never stays out of jail long enough to become a man like that.” Simon had some pate, keeping an eye out for other boats. He saw none. “Not that I wouldn’t like to see a final solution to the Timonaides problem. I think, in fact, that I’ll keep that possibility in the front of my mind till something’s been done about it. In the meanwhile, he’ll stew enough. There’s Manders, who’ll implicate him in a murder. And one of the first things I’ll do when we get to the mainland is put in a call to Inspector Teal and let him know about this end of Timonaides’ operation. Remember, Timonaides isn’t the kind of man who can drop discreetly out of sight very easily. He’s guaranteed that by being so fond of life among the Jet Set. He’ll have to fight these things in the open.”

“Tough,” said Jenny.

They spent most of the ride back to the coast of Grand Bahama rehashing the events of the evening. When they came within a mile or so of the lights of Freeport, Simon took the wheel again and headed east, parallel to the shore, turning on the running lights.

“I’ll pull in till the depth indicator shows we can anchor. In a couple of hours we can go nearer Freeport and head this thing out to sea on automatic pilot in case Timonaides has reported a stolen boat to the police, while we go ashore in the dinghy. The early plane for Miami leaves at five-thirty. I think it’s safer for us to take that than wait around till full daylight.”

Jenny had collected the glasses and scraps of their snack on the tray. She stopped and looked at Simon.

“That still leaves us quite a lot of time out here, doesn’t it?”

The Saint grinned.

“You’re so fond of games — would you like to play cribbage?”

The power artist

[2]

1

“Taxi, sir?”

Simon Templar, who had just closed the door of his house in Upper Berkeley Mews, stopped flat-footed and stared at the driver. He had seen the cab as he came out and assumed that it must be parked there on business with some neighbor. Upper Berkeley Mews was not the sort of street where any enterprising London cabman would wait in the hope of picking up a fare. For one to go even further and obtrude himself with a direct solicitation was simply not even plausible. And although he had come out with every intention of taking a taxi, he had not survived all those years of important buccaneering by dint of such naiveties as taking cabs which tried so crudely to thrust themselves upon him.

Relaxed but hair-triggered as a watchful leopard, he treated the driver to a lifted eyebrow that came somewhere between wariness and weariness.

“Really, chum,” he protested. “Is my diaper showing? Whatever booby-trap you’ve got in that hack, you shouldn’t insult me by being so unsubtle about it.”

“You are Mr Templar, aren’t you?” said the driver. “The chap they call the Saint?”

The Saint saw no point in an empty denial.

“I have been called that.”

The driver climbed down from his seat and came towards him, holding a folded piece of paper in his hand. Simon watched him come without moving, except for shifting a little more weight invisibly on to his toes. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his bronzed pirate’s face which might have suggested that he was not only ready but almost hoping for the approach to turn into an attack.

“I have a message for you, sir,” the man said.

“My telephone is in order, and so is the national postal service, I think,” the Saint said pleasantly. “My friends are getting awfully snobbish if they won’t use either one.”

“It was a man what wouldn’t give his name,” said the driver, who was small and ugly and cheerful-looking. “Came up to me by Piccadilly and give me this.”

Simon unfolded the paper and saw typed there a name and an address.

Perry Loudon 54 Pinter Street Chelsea

“Never heard of him,” he said. “And it’s not much of a message, either.”

But in the faint electric chill which ran along his bones he knew that fate and his reputation as an outlaw who preyed on the lawless were trying to involve him again in one of those adventures which had made his life a legend.

“I was told to ask you to let me take you there, sir,” the driver said. “This bloke says it would be well worth your while — something you’d never want to miss — and the fare is all paid in advance, including wherever you’d like to go afterwards.” The driver grinned his ugly cheerful grin. “He was most generous with me. I told him I’d do me best.”

The Saint let his blue eyes dwell thoughtfully on the other’s face for a moment, and then he looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. He had no engagements for the evening, other than a cocktail party where he could show up at any time, or not at all. In such a convenient state of availability, Simon Templar could no more have passed up such a challenge than a prospector could have ignored a glittering vein of raw gold suddenly revealed by a cave-in.

“It’s still a pretty vague invitation,” he said. “But let’s give it a whirl.”

The cabby opened the door for him, and they were on their way.

“Who was this fellow who hired you?” the Saint asked.

The driver turned his head half way and spoke over his shoulder.

“Never saw him before. Kind of young and with light hair. Well dressed. But he said that’s not his name in the note.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“That’s it. I figured you might know something about it yourself, sir.”

Simon decided to ignore the implied question and sit back in his seat and enjoy the rest of the ride. One of the secrets of happy buccaneering was the ability to relax completely when not actually engaged in combat or the chase, and to waste no energy on futile speculation. As far as the state of his nerves was concerned, the Saint might have been off to a movie instead of a rendezvous with the unknown.

“Here we are, sir. I’ll wait.”

They were a block and a half up a turning off the King’s Road.

“Never mind,” Simon said. “You’ve spent enough time on this job.”

He stepped out on to the sidewalk, and the cab pulled away. The Saint stood for a moment to get the feel of the neighborhood. The long summer evening was still bright and the only distinct sign of the hour was the smell of cooking food, heavily dominated by garlic, which apparently is favored by artists throughout the civilized world. And this Chelsea district was definitely populated by artists of all kinds — mostly, Simon was afraid, by the kinds whose masterworks exist only in dreams.

A miniskirted girl hurried past him with an outsized portfolio clutched to her bosom. A longhaired creature of indeterminate gender strode across the little-traveled street with a pile of thin volumes in his, her, or its hands. A gaunt bearded type in blue jeans and sleeveless T-shirt trudged along the gutter with a bunch of bananas in one hand and a guitar under his arm; Simon wondered if the bananas were to eat or for smoking.

Number 54 Pinter Street was very much like the other numbers. It was a narrow, two-storied house with a sharply peaked roof, shoulder to shoulder with its neighbors on either side. Simon went up the shallow flight of steps which led to the front door and read the card tacked above the bell. On it, in a strong and ornate hand, was penned the name Perry Loudon.

The Saint, whose experience with the doorbells of possible enemies had not instilled in him any great trust, pressed the button with one end of his rolled newspaper. There was no sound, as far as he could hear, and when a second try brought no response he pushed open the door, which was already several inches ajar. From upstairs he could hear heavy thumping sounds. As he stepped into the hallway the thumping stopped and was replaced by a faint hissing noise.

“Hullo!” Simon called. “Anybody homer?”

“Come on up, whoever you are,” was the reply, in deep masculine tones which had no particular quality of friendliness.

The hissing continued as the Saint climbed the stairs. It originated in the room to the right of the landing.

Looking in, he at first had the impression that he had come on some monstrous junk yard. The entire space was cluttered with tangles of metal and glass — some of them taller than Simon’s head, a few no larger than a potato. A door, slightly ajar, led on to the flat kitchen roof at the rear of the house. A stool and straight chair were the only furniture besides a heavy table. In among the sculptures was a black-maned apparition in blue goggles and a leather apron. In his hairy strong hand was the source of the hissing sound — a welder’s torch spurting blue flame.

He looked up from his work, which consisted of fusing a new contortion of steel to one of the larger metal constructions, and turned his opaque goggles on the Saint. His stocky body seemed to undergo a shift from relaxed indifference to tense defensiveness. He shut off the welding torch.

“I told you never to come back here,” he snarled.

The Saint stood in the doorway for a moment, and then strolled casually into the forest of drooled and twisted metal.

“That’s odd,” he said. “I was under the impression I’d just been asked to call.”

The sculptor made an empty threatening gesture with his dead torch and then flung it on the floor.

“No playing games any more,” he said furiously. “Get out! Beat it! And take your bloody portrait with you!”

He turned to the nearest wall and yanked down a foot-square plaque. Then he came toward the Saint and threw it to him. There was something like a distorted human face faintly discernible in the tangle of dark steel.

“Am I supposed to recognize this?” Simon asked. “Or is this just your peculiar way of trying to make a sale?”

“It’s on the back — just so you don’t forget.”

The Saint turned over the plaque. There was lettering cut into the metal.

PORTRAIT OF A RAT

THE DOUBLE CROSSING

SIMON TEMPLAR

The sculptor had already gone back to his welding. Simon had reached the limit of his patience, and he took the metal plaque and threw it to the floor so close to the other man’s feet that only his excellent aim prevented a double amputation. The artist whirled angrily and shut off his torch again.

“That’s enough,” he said, crouching into a fighting stance. “You’re asking for it.”

Simon was ready for anything, though to an unastute observer he might have seemed as nonchalant as a bored spectator at a flower show.

“I’m asking for a little information,” he said. “Are you Perry Loudon?”

“Who the hell do you think I am — Michelangelo?”

“Not for a minute,” said the Saint candidly.

“Out!” yelled Loudon.

“I’ll be only too glad to leave,” Simon replied, “but I’d like to get a few things straight first.”

“They’re straight now. If you think you can run off with Janet and then wander back in here whenever you feel like it, you deserve the worst I can give you.”

Loudon picked up a heavy wooden mallet from a jumble of his tools.

“I’ve never heard of Janet,” Simon said, standing his ground. “And I’ve never heard of you either.”

The directness of those denials got through to Loudon and momentarily held him where he was.

“Are you telling me you aren’t Simon Templar?” he asked.

“I’m telling you I am Simon Templar, and that I’ve never seen you before in my life, unless somebody I used to know is hiding behind those goggles and a false name.”

Loudon clutched the mallet more tightly.

“You’re the only liar in this room, Templar. And the only cheat, too. You ran away with my girl two days ago, and now you’ve got the nerve to come back and joke about it. What kind of a fool do you think I am?”

He lunged at the Saint, who sidestepped and sent his attacker stumbling against one of the metal sculptures.

“A clumsy one,” Simon replied to the question.

As Loudon got ready to charge again, Simon looked for room to maneuver and put his back to the partly open door which led to the outside roof. When the sculptor came at him, the Saint broke the downward swing of the mallet with a karate chop to Loudon’s arm. The mallet flew through the air and bounced from the wall. Simon blended his defense into a whirling motion that caught Loudon off balance and brought his back up hard against the door jamb.

He was temporarily stunned, and the Saint used his advantage to jerk the goggles from the sculptor’s eyes.

“Before this goes any further,” he said, “take a good look.”

Loudon blinked and for a moment was so shaken by what he saw that he could not speak.

“You’re... not Simon Templar,” he finally said incredulously. “But you’re so much...”

Loudon’s expression changed. His words were choked off in a sudden constriction of his throat. His body arched and he dropped forward onto his knees. Then he sprawled heavily at Simon’s feet.

A long, slender chisel protruded from the center of his back.

The sculptor’s falling revealed two men on the flat roof just outside the door. They stepped toward the Saint, each pointing a pistol at him. They were large and solemn, and dressed in immaculate suits, like clerks at a men’s shop, or undertaker’s helpers. They both wore gloves. The only thing which really distinguished them from one another was the color of their hair: the head of the one on the left was light brown; the other was pitch black and wavy. The face of the black-haired one was oily and looked red in the setting sun.

“Not a sound,” he said. “Raise your hands.”

“Turn around,” said the other quietly.

The manner was professional. Neither man showed any trace of haste or nervousness, though they both kept wary eyes on possible points of danger — the roof behind them, the door from Perry Loudon’s studio to the hall and staircase.

Simon did not obey at once, not only because he was reluctant to expose his back to a couple of characters who had already demonstrated such a pronouncedly unpleasant way of treating that part of the human anatomy, but also because he wanted to memorize the faces as thoroughly as possible for future reference — if there was any future in store for him. He was defenseless against two guns in skilled hands, both held safely out of his reach.

“Turn around,” the brown-haired one repeated.

The Saint turned, facing into the studio, and the crimson-orange light that fell directly through the door over his shoulders made the metal statuary glow as if it were heated to the melting point.

He braced himself for the jolting stab just below his shoulder blades, which would mean that one man at least had come within reach, if he could still turn and get him. Then the glowing steel sculpture seemed to explode, the metal fracturing through the whole universe in a meteor shower of sparks which drifted down into total blackness.

But in that warped bit of time between the explosion and the darkness the Saint had time to know one thing; he had not been stabbed or shot; be had been struck on the head.

2

He woke up with a smell of blood in his nose and what felt like a painful throbbing split from the center of his forehead to the nape of his neck. The Saint had the invaluable gift of being able to adapt immediately to the most extreme circumstances, and in a situation which might leave another man groggy and confused for several minutes he would find his faculties operating at peak levels within a few seconds.

So Simon did not lie groaning uselessly, or wondering whether he was waking up in his own bed or not. With the first stirring of consciousness he recalled vividly what had happened at the roof doorway of Perry Loudon’s studio, and his first thought was to determine whether he had been tied up or not.

He was relieved to find that he was free, and that the tentative movement of his hands did not bring on a harsh warning from one of the men who had slugged him — or worse, another blow to his head. He was even more relieved to find, on gingerly examination, that his skull had not, in fact, been cracked down the center like a melon bounced onto the highway from the back of a truck, but that the sensation was illusory, and his cranium was as solid as ever.

His next move was to sit up and look around the studio. It was only then that he realized he was not lying where he had fallen, but that he had been moved directly alongside Perry Loudon, who now clutched in his fingers the mallet he had dropped earlier. The sculptor was definitely dead, but the blood which had stained the back of his shut was still wet and sticky. The chisel still jutted from a point near the junction of his ribs and his spine, expertly placed to penetrate the heart. There was no sign of the experts who had placed it there.

The Saint did not need to ponder at length to grasp the possible implications of what had happened. He had been brought here for some purpose, manifestly not by Perry Loudon, and manifestly not just so that somebody could enjoy the simple pleasure of bopping him in the head. It seemed to him that he was being treated to a close-up view of the biggest frame in London outside the Tate Gallery.

He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and carefully smeared any fingerprints which his assailants might have put on the chisel by wrapping his hand around it after he was knocked unconscious. Then he got to his feet, smoothed back his dark hair and brushed off his clothes, and went across the crowded studio — to one of the windows which looked out from the front of the house down on to the street.

Whether it was intuition or uncanny timing born of long experience, he somehow knew exactly what he would see when he looked out of the window. The accuracy of his prescience sent a brief chill down his spine. A police car was just pulling up in front of Loudon’s house.

The Saint turned quickly, checking to see that he had not inadvertently dropped anything, and hurried back across the room to the open door which led to the roof, from which the two mysterious attackers had come. It was at the back of the house, facing similar kitchen roofs across a narrow alleyway. To the left was the solid and unscalable brick wall of a taller building next door. To the right, however, the flat ground-floor roof adjoined with no more than a gutter break the identical roof of the house next door. A head-high picket fence had been constructed there to give a certain amount of privacy, since both Loudon and his neighbor — unlike the tenants of the houses across the alley — apparently used their kitchen roofs as sun decks. But the fence was not a real barrier, since it did not reach quite to the back of the roof. There was a space of several inches which would give a man easy footing as he swung around the end of the fence from one roof to the next. From there Simon imagined he could find some way to continue until he was far enough from the police to descend and walk inconspicuously away.

But he had to reckon with more thoroughness on the part of the Metropolitan Police than he had hoped they would think necessary. As he approached the fence and got a glimpse of the ground below, he saw the blue helmets of two constables bobbing up the alley toward the back door of Loudon’s house. There was no way to get around the fence to the next roof without moving into their field of view — and to be discovered making an acrobatic escape from the scene of the crime would have a prima facie implication of guilt.

Without a moment of hesitation, Simon dashed back into Loudon’s studio. He had noticed before that there was a trapdoor in the ceiling. It was one of those types which, when pulled down with a hanging cord, automatically lowers a kind of folding stairway — as the Saint verified to his relief when he tested it.

Down at the front of the house the police had begun knocking at the door — patiently, at first.

Simon quickly lifted the body from the floor and saw that the blood which had not been absorbed by the fabric of the shirt had pooled in the leather apron. He managed to clasp the apron tightly enough as he backed up the ladder carrying Loudon that not even one drop splattered down on the bare floor.

There was no time, though, for any further precautions, once he had pulled his burden up into the attic. The police had given up knocking, and he could hear their steps inside the house on the ground floor. He did not actually climb down the ladder. He slid from the stuffy heat of the attic down the handrails and sent the apparatus up through the ceiling again with a single strong shove. Then, as he heard steps ascending the stairs, he snatched Loudon’s goggles from the floor, sprinted to the welding machine, and ignited the torch with the flint and steel device lying on the fuel cylinders.

When the official visitors arrived, he was leaning intently over one of Loudon’s unfinished sculptures, sending dribbles of metal down one of the irregular twisted outcroppings. “Mr Loudon?”

Simon pretended not to hear the voice, and went on with his doodling.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Loudon.”

The Saint straightened up and turned his blue goggles toward the stout figure in the hall doorway.

“If you’re the plumber,” he said, “the stopped-up drain is in the...”

The tone of the voice which interrupted him was considerably less polite than it had been a moment before. “What’re you doing in that getup, Templar?” Simon raised the goggles from his eyes and peered at the abundant form of Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal of Scotland Yard.

The detective looked overheated and damp, but triumphant. This was one of the few occasions in the long history of his frustrating contacts with Simon Templar when he might reasonably have expected his appearance to come as a complete surprise. For that reason, if for no other, the Saint showed no surprise at all.

“Oh, hullo, Claud,” he said offhandedly. “I thought you were the plumber.”

Teal made an effort not to swell or change color. He had often dreamed of imitating the perfect self-possession of his legendary nemesis, but when the moment of truth came he always found himself wanting.

“Where is Perry Loudon?” he blared. The Saint looked around the room.

“He must have popped out. I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I hardly notice what’s happening around me.”

“When did he leave?” Teal persisted doggedly.

“Now, Claud, I just told you I didn’t notice. That’s why you’ve never been anything but a plodding gumshoe all your dreamy life. You don’t remember things people tell you.”

“Why didn’t I see him leave?” Simon laughed, almost incredulously. “Claud,” he said, “now you’re really asking for it.”

“If you were with Loudon here, you must have some idea where he went.”

“Probably to get some beer. He ran out, and I believe he said something about being thirsty a few minutes ago. This torch, and all this heat you know.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Dear, old skeptic, you can’t blame me for what goes on in that thing you call your train. Look around. You won’t find a single can of beer in this room.”

Teal did not look around the room for beer. Instead he turned to the door and called down the stairs. “Did you men find him?”

“No, sir.”

The fat detective, his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, which had developed capacious bulges to match his jowls because of months and possibly years of such mistreatment, devoted his attention to the Saint again.

“I have reason to believe that something has happened to Perry Loudon.”

“What reason?” asked Simon.

“A phone call.”

“Who from?”

“Uh... anonymous.”

The Saint shook his head.

“Really, Claud Eustace, for such an old bloodhound you certainly are easy to fool. I suppose tomorrow you’ll be out trying to find a left-handed screwdriver.”

“The caller claimed to be one of the neighbors. Said you and this sculptor were fighting, and they heard somebody scream.”

“Loudon has a lot of weirdo friends,” said Simon. “Probably one of them was just playing a joke.”

“And how do you explain the fact that you’re here?” the detective asked.

The Saint cocked his head thoughtfully as he considered the question.

“How do I explain the fact that I’m here,” he repeated. “Claud, you’re getting almost metaphysical in your declining years.”

Teal opened his mouth, but Simon waved him lightly into continued silence and sat back to rest his hip gracefully on top of one of Loudon’s more smoothly rounded creations.

“We could start with cogito ergo sum, I suppose. Or maybe ‘existence precedes essence’ if Sartre is more up your alley — although that’s a blind alley I’d rather stay out of. Get it, Claud? No Exit. Or does your taste run to modern drama?”

Inspector Teal was standing there stoically like a silent film comedian being showered with whipped cream.

“Why are you in Loudon’s house?” he asked.

“I’ve taken up sculpting. You know what a sedentary life I’ve always led. I figured a little creative activity might give me something to do between meals and solving crimes for you.”

“So you claim you’re taking lessons from Loudon?”

The Saint winked approvingly and raised a finger.

“Astute, Claud. You’re coming right along.”

“And you claim you weren’t fighting with him?”

Simon shook his head.

“Not a bit of it. If that was a neighbor who called, he probably heard this.”

The Saint picked up a hammer and began banging on one of the sculptures until Teal held his hands over his ears and backed toward the .door. A uniformed policeman appeared behind him and Simon stopped his noise in order to hear the report which was obviously about to be made.

“I spoke to an old lady across the street, sir,” the policeman said. “She’s been by her window all afternoon. She saw one fellow come in, but no one came out.”

Teal looked at the Saint.

“Well, Templar, how do you explain that?”

“Possibly he went out that door,” Simon answered, nodding toward the roof.

“Where does it go?”

“Claud, must you depend on me for all your information? I’m glad to help whenever, I can, but there are limits. I don’t know where that door goes to because I don’t live here. I only take lessons.”

Teal motioned to the constable to follow him. “Let’s have a look.”

Simon followed the two men out on the roof. If the old lady’s report was accurate, it aroused his curiosity as to where Loudon’s murderers had gone after leaving the studio. There seemed only one way — around the fence which divided the two roofs, and from there to points unknown.

Inspector Teal looked at the single route a man might plausibly take in leaving Loudon’s kitchen roof, and then he looked at the Saint.

“Are you seriously telling me a man going out for beer would climb around that fence?”

“Who can tell about artists? Maybe it’s a short cut to the nearest pub.”

Simon went to the fence and facing the end of it swung around on to the next roof. “See?” he said. “Nothing to it.”

Teal followed in the Saint’s steps, but failed to take into account the much greater expanse of his own belly. As he tried to ease himself after Simon, allowing as little as possible of his capacious anatomy to sag out over empty space, his paunch scooped against the fence and his jacket hung on some splinters. The pickets were quivering and swaying dangerously under that unaccustomed strain, and Simon on one side and the constable on the other each grasped one of the detective’s elbows and eased him to safety on the far side of the fence.

Teal did not make any comment, and Simon considered it tactful under the circumstances not to make any either.

“Wait for us,” Teal said to the policeman. “We’ll have a look over here.”

“Just what is it we’re looking for?” Simon asked.

“I don’t think I need to answer that,” Teal said gruffly.

“I don’t think you could,” Simon said. “I think you’re just scared to go back around that fence, again.”

He strolled across the roof, which was exactly like Loudon’s, except that it was furnished with a folding canvas lounge chair. The next roof was accessible beyond it.

The detective looked at him, his face scrunched into a purpling mask of exasperation, “Saint, I’ve had enough from you.”

“That’s good,” Simon drawled. “So now maybe you’ll stop picking on me.”

“I know you’re up to something,” Teal grumbled, “and this time I’ll see you get what you deserve.”

“A seat in the heavenly choir?” suggested the Saint seraphically.

Teal lumbered over to the half-open door which led from the roof to the inside of the house. The sun was just disappearing behind the chimneypots in the west, and the room — which corresponded in its position to Loudon’s studio — was so dim that it was impossible to see any details of what was inside.

Teal knocked on the door, which swung a little wider open under his knuckles.

“I doubt that he cut down through somebody else’s home even if he did come this way,” said the Saint. “He probably went on to the next roof. If you’d looked over the edge back there, you’d’ve seen a sort of iron ladder, probably meant for a fire escape, running down to the alley.”

Teal knocked again.

“The whole idea of people running around roofs looking for beer is idiotic. I’m going to see if anybody in here heard the noise of you fighting with Loudon.”

Simon gave a martyred sign and did not answer. Neither did the inhabitants — if there were any — of the house at whose back door the detective was knocking.

Teal stepped inside and the Saint followed him and looked around. The place was furnished with all the discomforts of a one-room flat: chairs, tables, washstand, hot plate, bookshelves, divan beds — jumbled together with easels, paints, piles of cotton wadding, and rolls of paper and plastic. The divan beds were opened and appeared to be occupied. No heads were visible, but the sheets were bulging.

Teal knocked on the wall and coughed loudly, but still there was no response. Simon thought he was going to leave then, but the fat detective’s eye fell on an arm which projected stiffly and entirely unnaturally from beneath the sheets on the other side of the first bed. He turned to look at the Saint and received a noncommittal shrug.

“Hullo, there,” Teal said, and now he could not keep a tremor of incipient triumph out of his voice.

It was obvious from the peculiar static quality of the human arm he was addressing that he would be very unlikely ever to receive any answer from its owner. Quickly he stepped forward and whipped away the sheet.

Lying on the bed was a lifesized male dummy dressed in a T-shirt and blue jeans — so realistic that in the very dim light it could easily have been mistaken momentarily for a real person.

“What kind of a game is this?” Teal muttered wrathfully.

He stepped around to the next bed and hauled the sheet off it in the same cavalier fashion.

There were only two important differences between the first figure and the next one he uncovered. The second one was a female. And it was alive.

3

The girl’s face was half covered by a black sleeping mask, and rubber plugs were visible in her ears. She was young and blonde, and she wore thin cotton pajamas, that clung with understandable affection to a distractingly pneumatic torso and what must have been the longest pair of legs in Chelsea.

When she had groped the mask away from her eyes she blinked at Teal in the semi-darkness and screamed.

The detective executed something like a comic dance routine as he stumbled backward to the door, holding both hands palm outward in front of his face as if he could both ward off her piercing squeal and hold it inside the room.

“I’m from Scotland Yard!” he babbled desperately. “There’s no need to be alarmed!”

His swift retreat and the fact that he stopped in the doorway with Simon instead of fleeing in a guilty manner across the rooftop, apparently reassured the girl. She looked more angry than frightened as she tore the plugs from her ears.

“Well?” she said. “What was it? The excuse?”

“I’m... I’m most terribly sorry,” stammered Teal. “Really I had no idea.”

“Is this the way you get your kicks — poking around people’s beds?”

“I’m a police officer. From Scotland Yard.” The girl tilted back her head.

“Ha!” she said derisively. “No wonder the country’s got problems.”

Simon laughed in the background. “And who are you?” she called at him. “Just one of the Inspector’s perennial suspects.” Teal extended his identification card to the girl, who looked at it with total disbelief.

“I’ve seen things like that for sale in joke shops,” she remarked. “So get lost.”

“He really is a police officer,” said the Saint. “Can’t you tell? Look at his feet.”

The girl obligingly leaned to the side of her bed, turned on a lamp, and inspected the inspector’s shoes.

“They’re the right size,” she agreed. “Now what do we all do — go and arrest somebody?”

“My name is Teal...”

“Chief Inspector Claud Eustace Teal,” Simon elaborated brightly. “The pride of Scotland Yard. And I am Simon Templar.”

Teal tried to silence him with a glare that would have stopped a herd of stampeding buffalo in their tracks.

“We’re investigating... that is I am investigating a complaint from one of the neighbors.”

“About what?” inquired the girl sweetly. “Men tramping around over the roofs?”

“About a fight. Have you heard or seen anything unusual in the past half hour or forty-five minutes?”

“Have I! Two men broke into my studio, stripped the bedclothes off me, trotted out the wackiest excuse, and...” The detective reddened. “Yes. Well... I’m very sorry, Miss...”

“Lane,” she said. “Cassie Lane. And that’s George.” She indicated the dummy in the other bed, and Teal was so flustered that he half-nodded to it before he caught himself. “That’s Caspar,” Cassie Lane continued.

She pointed to another dummy, a very lifelike one, propped in a sitting position in the corner beyond where she was lying. It was dressed in Bermuda shorts, a straw hat, and sandals. Simon moved in for a closer look.

“These are — er — friends of yours?” he asked.

“My best friends,” said Cassie Lane, looking fondly at Caspar. “In fact, my only real friends.”

Teal looked more disturbed than ever. He backed towards the roof.

“Well, Miss Lane, I appreciate your cooperation.”

The girl looked at Simon with an expression which showed that she found him much more potentially sympathetic than the detective.

“Don’t think I’m a complete nut,” she said. “I’m an artist. I make these dummies.”

“Must be fascinating work,” said the Saint. “Has Scotland Yard taken an option on all your output?”

“You’re nice,” she said. “Get rid of your fat friend, and I’ll tell you about it.”

“I might do that.”

“Come along, Templar,” snarled Teal from the doorway.

“You mean I don’t even get a parking ticket for sleeping in my own bed?” the girl said with feigned relief.

“You’re on your own property,” answered the Saint.

“Really? I thought it was becoming a public highway.”

She and Simon grinned at one another. Teal closed the door and led the way back across the roof toward Loudon’s house. There was still an orange glow in the western sky, but lights had been turned on in some of the houses whose backs were visible up and down the alley. Teal stripped the wrapper from a stick of chewing gum and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Constable!” the Saint called when they had come to the fence. “Time to moor the blimp.”

Teal, in seething eagerness to prove his agility, almost ended his long war against the Saint by dropping on to his head in the lane below. But once again Simon and the policeman combined their efforts to prolong his life. As he was about to topple backward from the end of the fence they caught his arms on either side and whipped him from the edge of disaster to a sitting position on the late Perry Loudon’s roof. He assumed the position with such force and lack of grace that the whole adjacent area of the building trembled, and Inspector Teal swallowed his chewing gum.

As he coughed and choked, Simon helpfully pounded his back until the breathing passages were unclogged again, and Teal jerked petulantly away and wiped his streaming tears with a handkerchief. The constable looked solemnly off at a cluster of television antennae in the middle distance.

“That was a narrow escape, Claud,” said the Saint with great concern. “Almost done in by a wedge of Spearmint. Maybe you really should take up something safe like plumbing. It pays better than this daredevil stuff, too, and when senility isn’t too far up the road a man has to think of practical considerations.”

“Clark!” Teal roared to the constable. “See what Perth has found out, if anything, and report back up here as fast as possible.”

As the policeman hurried off, Teal ignored his helpfully offered hand and laboriously clambered to his feet.

“Irrational loss of temper with subordinates,” clucked Simon. “Another sign of deterioration.”

Teal ignored that bit of analysis and strode into the sculptor’s studio. He turned on the light and looked around at the grotesque metal shapes.

“If you want to learn to make these things, you’re welcome to it,” he growled. “But I don’t believe a word you’ve said, and I particularly don’t think that Loudon went out for beer. He’d have been back long before this.”

“Claud, isn’t this getting a little bit silly? We’ve been squabbling here for at least half an hour over whether some artist went out for beer or not, while all over London citizens are getting robbed, murdered, and otherwise misused as a direct consequence of your neglect of your proper duties.”

The detective opened his mouth, but the Saint went on.

“It might occur to anybody with more brain than a policeman that an eccentric like Loudon can pop out for beer one minute, disappear, and show up three weeks later with a suntan and a performing troupe of African elephants.” Simon walked toward the door. “Now, as far as I’m concerned I’ve had enough of this nonsense, and I’d like to finish up my sculpting session so I can go to dinner.”

Teal’s pink jowls quivered with the strangulated earthquake that they were containing. He reached for another stick of chewing gum, thought better of it, and stepped heavily toward the door.

It was then that Simon saw a small drop of dark reddish liquid splatter against the metallic intricacies of one of Loudon’s sculptures. His eye darted up to confirm his suspicion of the source, and he saw another drop forming for the plunge at one corner of the trapdoor. Fortunately the open work in the interior of the sculpture, which resembled a large family of snakes in the midst of a festive reunion, had dispersed the blood which had already fallen and kept it from making a puddle on the floor.

There had never been a time in his life when the Saint was more anxious for Chief Inspector Teal to complete an exit.

“I’ll check back on this,” the latter said. “If anything has happened to this fellow Loudon you’ll hear from me.”

Another globule of blood gathered enough weight to fall from the corner of the trapdoor and splash into the tortured recesses of the sculpture. Simon interposed himself between Teal and that unpleasant sight and manufactured a story which he hoped would speed the detective’s departure. “I’m sure I’ll hear from you, Claud, and just to show how cooperative I am I’ll tell you I’ve just remembered a pub Loudon mentioned. The Crown, I think it was.”

“Where is that?”

“Now how many times have I reminded you that I can’t do everything for you?” Simon answered a little irritably. “I don’t know where this one is, but there must be dozens of them in London. You’ve only got to go through them methodically, starting in this neighborhood.”

Any gratitude that Teal might have wished to express for that information had to be contained while the constable he had sent away a few minutes before came trotting excitedly up the stairs.

“Found something there, sir,” he said. “Down on the front hall table among some bills and letters.”

Teal turned to the head of the stairs to take the small square of paper the constable handed him, and the Saint used the opportunity to join them outside the door of the studio.

Looking over Teal’s shoulder he had the sudden peculiar sensation that he was living in a dream, and that he would do best to wrench himself to full consciousness before things got any worse. For in the stout detective’s hand was a snapshot of Simon Templar and Perry Loudon on a river bank, looking in a holiday mood, with a gorgeous doll in a minimal bikini standing between them.

4

It was not a very good picture. Whoever had taken it had adjusted the lens slightly off focus — a common failing of shot-snappers, but in this case possibly done for good reason. Because Simon positively did not recognize the doll, much as he would have liked to, and he knew that he had never seen Perry Loudon before that afternoon; and yet there he appeared to be posing with what it would seem obvious — in one case at least — to call bosom friends. Therefore a certain fuzziness of focus might have been designed to make a passable facsimile of the Saint less easily detectable for the impersonation that it had to be.

Chief Inspector Teal, however, was not conditioned to pause to perceive such subtleties. He turned with such an expression of fiendish elation distorting his pudgy face that any sharp movie mogul would have signed him on the spot for a series of horror films, and thrust the photograph under Simon’s nose. The Saint removed it to a more suitable distance and simply stood there looking Teal in the eye.

“Well?” whopped the detective. “What do you call this?”

“That’s something called a photograph, Claud,” the Saint explained kindly. “I doubt that you could ever grasp the complexities of the process, but it basically consists of an image formed by light on a sensitive emulsion.”

“Do you still claim you’re just a student of Loudon’s?”

“Before I answer that, is it against the law to be more than a student of Loudon’s?”

“Just give me a straight answer,” Teal barked.

“No,” said the Saint blithely.

Teal’s momentary exultation began to ripen again into an apoplectic tint of carmine.

“What did you say?”

“I said no,” the Saint repeated. “Your hearing’s going too, Claud. No it is not against the law to be more than a student of Loudon’s.”

“You’ll cooperate or you’ll find yourself in serious trouble,” the detective said.

He apparently intended his words to carry weight and dignity, but they came out in the form of a loud squeak which caused the two plain-clothes men waiting in the ground floor hall to peer puzzledly up the stairs.

“Now, Claud,” the Saint said in a very low voice, “I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your minions.”

He extended a long forefinger and pushed it lightly into the center of Teal’s stomach.

“I’m not a cruel man,” he continued. “But I’m a just man, particularly where my own rights are concerned. The fact that I claim a few rights that the yahoos have gladly given up for their bread and circuses is to my own credit, I think, whether you like it or not. And one of the rights I claim is to be where I please when I please without some insufferable bureaucratic slob shuffling up and asking me a lot of impertinent questions.”

The steely finger jabbed more vehemently into Teal’s midriff and forced him to retreat a half step in order to maintain his balance. The Saint’s voice was a little louder, and had developed a razor edge.

“Of all the routine complaint calls you get every day,” he said, “you find it necessary to trot out half the strength of Scotland Yard on the one that mentions my name. Somebody drops a hammer in the building where I’m taking a lesson in the noble art of Phidias and Michelangelo, and suddenly it’s a riot. Some beatnik goes around the corner for a beer and suddenly he’s the biggest case since Dreyfus. You haven’t found a trace of a crime or a body or even a drop of blood, but you have the gall to threaten me with all kinds of sinister consequences if I don’t ‘cooperate’ — which I suppose means confessing to something I haven’t done.”

Now the Saint’s prods to Teal’s belly were more frequent and powerful, and they forced little puffs of air from between the detective’s lips.

“Do you know what that is, Claud Eustace? That’s harassment and persecution. And if you carry it any further I’m going to see that you’re kicked so far downstairs at Scotland Yard that you’ll need a rocket to get up to the basement.”

Teal struggled for several long seconds to muster some reply. He started to raise the photograph above waist level as some sort of banner under which to continue the battle, but he seemed to realize its uselessness. The solid ground on which he had thought he was standing had turned into a quicksand and he knew it.

He turned away from Simon and started quickly down the stairs, tucking the picture into his jacket pocket as he went. “That’s stealing, Claud,” the Saint reminded him politely. Teal, without a pause in his trudging descent, pulled the picture out of his pocket again and handed it over his shoulder to the constable who was following him. When they were at the bottom of the stairs the constable took the picture and put it on the table from which it had been taken.

“Bye-bye,” Simon called cheerily. “If I’m still here when Loudon comes home, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

Teal did not look around. He marched sullenly out of the house to the dark street, and the last of the three men to follow him shut the door quietly behind them.

The Saint hurried down the stairs, bolted the door on the inside, and took the steps two at a time on his return trip to Loudon’s studio. He closed the door to the roof but could not lock it because there was no key in sight. A glance through the front window showed the police car driving away.

Simon went to the cord which hung from the overhead trapdoor, and a moment later the ladder had descended to the floor. He was halfway up it when the door from the roof opened and a voice called. “Hold it!”

The fact that it was a female voice, and one that Simon recognized, kept him from doing anything more drastic than turning his head with bland unconcern. Cassie Lane was standing just inside the studio, no longer dressed in her pajamas but in jeans and a man’s white shirt, holding up her hand as if she could freeze the Saint with a gesture.

“I knew it!” she cried. “The moment I laid eyes on you! You’re ideal.”

“I agree,” said Simon, “but would you mind admiring me later? I’m busy.”

“Absolutely perfect. How could I leave?”

“Do you want something specific?” he asked her.

He was painfully aware that only her excitement had kept her from noticing the bloodstains on the trapdoor and the corner of its opening.

“I want you!” she announced dramatically.

“I’m flattered. Maybe I can return the compliment when I get through with my work here.”

Cassie Lane’s enthusiasm was apparently unquenchable.

“Lithe!” she declaimed. “Fantastically balanced! Coordination like a cat. Would you mind stripping to the waist?”

Simon took a step down the ladder and regarded her more interestedly.

“No,” he said. “Would you?”

When she tried to meet the blue eyes which gazed at her with just a trace of mockery from the impossibly handsome face, she faltered for the first time.

“I want you for a model,” she said earnestly.

He would have agreed to pose as Laocoon with a hungry boa constrictor to get rid of her at that moment.

“That could be arranged, I guess, but right now I’m terribly busy. I’ll come over when I’ve finished.”

“I’ll just watch. Go right ahead. I like to study my models in motion for hours before I hit on the right pose for them.”

Cassie came to him, looking up into his face and putting her hand on his shoe.

“Please,” she begged. “Couldn’t I just watch?”

Suddenly she looked vaguely puzzled and glanced down at her hand. Splotched on the white skin of its back was a drop of blood.

“Don’t scream,” said Simon.

He managed to drop from the ladder and get some fingers over her mouth before any loud sounds emerged.

“Promise not to scream?” he said. “I’ll explain this completely.”

She nodded and he tentatively freed her head, still holding her body close to his.

“Oh, dear,” she breathed. “Is that... blood?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’ve murdered somebody? You’ve murdered Perry. Is that it? No... don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’d rather not know anything.”

She put her hands over her ears, and Simon waited patiently until she was ready to listen again.

“I haven’t murdered anybody,” he said. “I...”

“Are you going to murder me?” she asked breathlessly, but with reasonable calm. “You can tell me that. I might as well know. I mean, that’s something that can’t get me involved.”

“It can get you pretty uninvolved, in fact,” said the Saint.

Cassie Lane pointed up the ladder toward the dark attic, from which another drop of blood had just fallen on to one of the rungs of the ladder.

“Somebody murdered somebody,” she said feebly. “Is that right?”

“Yes. Perry Loudon was murdered — this afternoon. I hope you weren’t...”

She shook her head.

“No. I hardly knew him. I hardly know anybody. I’m not going to feel sorry. I’m just going to...”

“Going to what?”

“Faint.”

He had loosened his grip, but his arms were still around her, so that it was no effort at all to ease her into a wooden chair nearby. She showed no signs of waking up immediately, so Simon used the welcome silence to put his thoughts in order.

Several things seemed obvious or at least highly probable. He was the victim of an elaborate effort to stick him with a murder charge. Only the fact that he had awakened so soon from the blow on his head had kept him from being discovered with his hand all but gripping the chisel which had killed Perry Loudon. Teal’s caller had mentioned the Saint’s name specifically. Even Loudon had been prepared for Simon’s visit, the apparent photograph seemed to affirm their acquaintanceship, and the bikini babe in the photo was probably the apex of a triangle which was supposed to provide the motive for murder.

The plot was almost insanely refined. The next obvious question was, who would want to do such a thing, and who would be capable of such a baroque way of doing it? Not many of the criminals on whom the Saint had preyed and from whose spoils he had built his fortune remained alive or free after their encounters with him, but a few did, and there could be others who would like to see him eliminated as a matter of simple prudence, in the same way that people get typhoid shots before they find they have actually contracted the disease. And the chances of a major felon meeting his doom at the hands of the Saint were considerably greater than his chances of dying of old age.

But there was no clue as yet to who was behind the scheme, and for the moment there were more pressing problems.

The mere fact that the frame-up had not resulted in Simon’s immediate arrest on suspicion of murder was hardly enough cause for uninhibited jubilation. His temporary freedom was due only to Scotland Yard’s failure to demonstrate that there actually had been a murder. Now, in addition to the perpetrators of the crime, who would be most willing to confirm Perry Loudon’s demise to the police, there was Cassie Lane, a direct witness to the corpus delicti.

The combination of circumstances meant that physical escape from the scene would be no more than a delaying action. Simon would have to do a lot more than that. He would have to keep the police mystified as long as possible simultaneously tracking down the real murderers. It was a challenge that only a man with the ice-cold nerves and resilient resourcefulness of the Saint could hope to meet.

There was a telephone half buried under some rubble in one corner of the room. Simon located it because of the numbers scrawled in pen, pencil, and crayon all over the wall in its vicinity. He brushed away the debris and dialed a number he had carried in his head for years — the home of an acquaintance who, in the old days of the Saint’s more piratical exploits, had always been available for the clandestine transportation of bulky objects, and purportedly still was.

“Bert,” he said to the gravel-crusher voice which answered. “This is Simon Templar. I hope your rates haven’t gone up too much, because I have a job for you.”

Bert, after expressing his pleasure at renewing an old friendship, wanted to reminisce, but Simon had to cut him off. “It’s a rush job,” he said. “Large, heavy metal statue to be moved to your warehouse right away. Yes, I’m aware that it’s dinner time, but I can’t wait. Can you get a couple of men over here right away — 54 Pinter Street?”

Bert said that it would be possible, but only at great effort and fantastic expense.

“Yes,” said Simon. “All right. I figured on that. Overtime. Naturally. Don’t bother to explain it all to me, just get over here double quick. If anybody wants to know what you’re doing, tell them it’s an order put in by Perry Loudon some time ago.”

Simon repeated the address and hung up. Cassie Lane’s eyelids had started to flutter during the last part of his conversation, and now she sat up in her chair and looked at him with dazed turquoise eyes.

“Good morning,” said the Saint.

The girl stood up, supporting herself dizzily with one hand on the chair.

“I’ll see you again some time,” she said.

“Probably not,” Simon replied. “The police will question you, you’ll tell them you saw me with Perry Loudon’s body, and they’ll take me away and hang me while the real murderers go free.”

She looked at him miserably.

“I wouldn’t tell,” she said. “Couldn’t we just... forget the whole thing?”

“You can, I suppose. Meanwhile I’ll be tracked down like a mad dog. While you’re hiding away over there in your nest staying uninvolved the forces of evil will triumph, and it’ll all be your fault.”

The corners of her pretty mouth turned down and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, no,” she wailed. “How can you say that? I haven’t done a thing!”

“You’ve seen,” said the Saint a little ominously. “You’re involved whether you like it or not. It’s just lucky for you that I’m not a killer, or I’d have to eliminate you and dispose of your poor crushed young body along with this one up here.”

He gestured toward the trapdoor.

“You really didn’t kill Perry, did you?” she asked.

She was wiping away her tears, apparently trying to resign herself to her fate.

“No,” Simon said, “I didn’t. But two men did kill him, while I was here. They hit me on the head and tried to make it seem I’d had a fight with Loudon that ended with my stabbing him in the back. The fact is, I’d never seen him before. That’s as much as I can tell you because I have to hurry.”

He was standing in front of her, and he took both her hands in his. She was like a small frightened animal, and he knew, without modesty, that there was a magnetism and restrained strength in his touch which would calm and reassure her more than any number of words.

“Now,” he said quietly. “Will you help me?”

She stared at him as if mesmerized.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good.”

He steered her toward the door to the roof.

“You want me to leave?” she asked.

“Just long enough to get your paints ready to use. And if you have some plaster of Paris, would you please mix some?”

“What for?” she asked weakly.

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

The Saint went to the head-high piece of sculpture on which Loudon had been working just before he was killed. Cassie Lane watched as he put on the goggles, lit the welding torch, and turned the thin javelin-point of blue flame onto the metal, cutting slowly through it.

“Oh!” said Cassie Lane, with sudden comprehension.

Then she ran off across the roof toward her own flat.

5

When Bert the mover (who had never been reputed to possess a surname) arrived with two husky cohorts, Simon was putting the finishing touches to the rewelded seams he had made in the side of Loudon’s last creation. It was fairly obvious that the giant metal beehive had been opened up and closed again, but one of the reasons for Bert’s long success at his vocation was his total lack of inquisitiveness. He was an iron-grey man with the neck of a rhinoceros and the handshake of a grappling hook.

“Good to see you,” he rumbled to Simon.

He looked at Cassie Lane, who was sitting benumbed on a stool, and pretended not to have noticed her.

“Is this it?” he asked, nodding toward the sculpture.

“Yes,” Simon answered. “And remember — it’s Perry Loudon who asked to have it moved.”

“Right.”

One of Bert’s men trundled in a dolly, the sculpture was heaved on to it, and within a minute it was on its way downstairs.

The Saint took a deep breath of satisfaction and stretched his arms. Cassie Lane burst into tears. “I could kill you,” she sobbed. “We’ve had enough of that here today.”

“You’ve ruined everything!” she went on. “My life — I had it so well worked out. Now I’m involved in your beastly affairs right up to my neck.”

“Well, you can’t expect to live your whole life in an airtight box with a couple of make-believe boy friends.”

“I could try! It was working very well until you came along.”

“Never mind. If we’re caught, I’ll ask my friend Inspector Teal to put you in a quiet private cell. Solitary confinement. Wouldn’t that be ducky?”

The thought failed to comfort her, so Simon stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders and found once more that physical contact had a much better effect than verbal persuasion. She stopped blubbering and was soon breathing with something not terribly unlike contentment.

“Just try to calm down,” he murmured. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

“You’re not going to leave me here?” the girl cried. Simon went over to the telephone and began scanning the numbers which Loudon had noted on the wall.

“It’s up to you. I’d enjoy your company if you’d like to come along with me.”

She got up and looked over his shoulder. He was scrutinizing one of the barely legible pencil scrawls. “Where are you going?” she asked. “I’m not sure yet. Look.”

He indicated the name and number he had been inspecting. “Simon,” it said. “BEL3344.”

“That’s you,” Cassie exclaimed.

“One of me,” said Simon. “I think I’ll take advantage of this rare opportunity to talk to myself while I’m in two different places.”

He took up the receiver and began dialing the number.

“You think somebody actually made Perry Loudon think he was you?” Cassie said.

“Exactly. There’s even a photograph downstairs with someone in it who looks remarkably like me.”

There was an answer at the other end of the line.

“Hullo?”

“Is Simon Templar there, please?” asked the Saint.

“Simon Templar speaking.”

“I’m a friend of a friend of yours, and I have an important message that has to be delivered in person. Could you meet me somewhere, or give me your address?”

There was a moment of hesitation.

“Who is this please?”

The voice resembled the Saint’s, but only roughly. No one who knew him well would have been fooled by it.

“I’ll explain when I see you,” Simon said.

It was more a feeling than anything else, but abruptly he knew that the man who had been speaking to him was no longer there; He waited a few seconds and there was only silence.

“Will you meet me, then?” he said.

The emptiness was finally broken by a single click as the receiver at the other end of the connection was put back into its cradle.

“Did he hang up?” Cassie asked.

“He did. Or somebody did.”

Simon was dialing again.

“Are you calling back?”

“No. Trying to get the address that goes with that number. You can’t get it from information, but I’ve got a friend in the right department.”

“Then are you going there?”

“Yes,” said Simon.

“May I come with you?”

“Getting brave?”

The girl shrugged.

“Just resigned, I guess.”

“That’s a sign of progress, anyway.”

When Simon had obtained the information he wanted, which turned out to be an address in Kensington, he led Cassie down the stairs and out on to the sidewalk, leaving Perry Loudon’s studio as nearly as possible as it had been before the murder.

“See over there?” said the Saint. “That dark blue car parked down the block? That’s one of Chief Inspector Teal’s sleuths.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s a special gift I have, from years of abstinence and yoga.”

“I don’t really understand what you are exactly,” Cassie said.

“A lot of people have that problem.”

“What’ll he think of me coming down from Perry’s place with you?”

“Does it matter? Come to think of it, it’s an advantage. You could easily account for what I’ve been doing up there all this time.” He gave her an appraising look. “Very easily.”

Suddenly, before she could reply, the girl realized that he was taking her directly over to the dark blue car that he had pointed out.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, clutching his hand.

“Having fun.”

The Saint sauntered up to the driver’s window and leaned down to look in. The single occupant of the car, a thirtyish man with black beetling brows, was sitting embarrassedly upright, looking straight ahead.

“Hullo there, Longbottom,” Simon hailed him cheerfully. “Going our way?”

Longbottom — which actually was the name of this particular specimen of Teal’s personnel — could no longer ignore the Saint’s proximity. He turned to look at the lean pirateer’s face with a kind of humiliated indignation.

“I don’t think I know you,” he said.

“Oh, come now, Longbottom, I never forget a face — particularly a funny one. How about giving the lady and me a lift? I don’t have my car along, and I’m sure we’re all headed for the same destination. This way you won’t run any risk of losing us in the traffic.”

Without waiting for a reply, Simon opened the back door and handed Cassie in, then slipped in beside her.

“Longbottom, this is Miss Lane, one of London’s outstanding artists. Miss Lane, Mr Longbottom of Scotland Yard.”

“How do you do?” said Cassie.

“Fine,” mumbled the plain-clothes man. “But honestly, I can’t—”

“Of course you can,” said the Saint, leaning back in his seat and crossing his long legs. “You’re assigned to follow me, and I’m making it as easy for you as possible. But neither I nor Miss Lane will tell on you. Isn’t that right?”

“Of course,” responded Cassie.

For the first time she not only did not look depressed, but actually showed signs of enjoying herself. Longbottom, on the other hand, showed distinct signs of not enjoying himself at all, but he had been thrown so off balance by the Saint’s gambit that he apparently could think of nothing better to do than go along with it. After all, it could not be disputed that he was faithfully carrying out his orders, albeit in a somewhat unorthodox manner. But the fact that he would arrive at the Saint’s next stop a couple of feet ahead of the Saint instead of half a block behind him seemed a small enough technicality to be overlooked for the time being.

“Forty-four Newkirk Road,” Simon said. “You can drop us around the nearest corner, if you don’t want to be too obviously with us.”

Longbottom did not say a word during the short drive, which took them through a northward zigzag to a small square somewhere behind Barker’s. He stopped there without parking or shutting off the engine of his car.

“Just around the next turning on the left,” he said, without looking around.

He seemed to be trying out a theory that not looking at his passengers would somehow nullify their presence.

Simon stepped out and helped Cassie to join him, folded his long frame down to speak to the glum driver.

“We’ll be back again shortly. Have a cigarette or something if you like, but don’t leave the car.”

Longbottom made no audible comment, and the Saint and Cassie strolled the few yards to Newkirk Road.

“Just what are you going to say to this man who’s been doubling for you?” asked the girl.

“It depends a bit on what he says to me. He’s probably no professional crook. If you wanted to find an imposter, where would you go?”

Cassie thought for a second.

“I’d look in the Actors’ Directory.”

“Right. If we...”

They had just rounded the corner, and Simon kept on walking, holding Cassie’s arm, but his voice was cut off by the inescapable premonition that leapt to his mind from what he saw ahead.

About halfway along the block a small crowd had gathered, and two policemen were holding open a path from the front of one of the apartment buildings — someone’s venerable town house converted to flats — to the open rear doors of an ambulance. The cause of the assembly lay on a stretcher beside the steps of the building, and one of the ambulance attendants was working over him with oxygen equipment.

The Saint made his way through the gawkers with Cassie Lane clinging to his hand. He arrived at the stretcher in time to see the ambulance attendant make a hopeless gesture and shut down his apparatus.

“What happened?” Simon asked one of the bystanders.

“Chap fell from a top window. Suicide, they reckon.”

Although the Saint was partially prepared for what he would see when the breathing mask was taken away from the dead man’s face, the sight still came as a shock. While the man was not his double, the likeness was good enough to pass at a casual glance — or to provide a snapshot that would be identifiable as Simon Templar with the help of a slightly out of focus camera.

Cassie gasped as she looked, and Simon turned to see Longbottom sharing her astonishment. The police car was parked at the corner, and the plain-clothes man had left it to come and join the spectators. A minute later the ambulance doors closed off the last view of the body, and the crowd began reluctantly to disperse.

“What do you make of that?” Longbottom asked. And without waiting for an answer he went on: “Is that the man you came here to see?”

“You’re getting warm, chum,” said the Saint. “Keep guessing.”

Longbottom, who was a short-legged man, bad to break into a semi-canter in order to keep up with the subject of his interrogation. Simon was striding easily toward the opposite end of the block from the one where they had arrived, and Cassie was skipping and jumping along at his side.

“You know this chap?” the detective asked. “Why were you coming here to see him?”

The intersecting street led to Kensington High Street, and traffic was plentiful. Simon, as he hailed an approaching cab, gave Longbottom a pitying look.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I give interviews only on Tuesdays and Fridays. But I am glad we came here together — you’ll be able to testify that my twin had already taken his dive when I got here, so I couldn’t have pushed him.”

Longbottom was still searching for an appropriate reply when Simon helped Cassie into the cab and started to follow her himself.

“You might tell Chief Inspector Teal,” he said, “that even though you lost sight of Miss Lane and me as we were hurrying off to our supper, your intuition tells you we’ll be available back at her flat after a while. If there’s any faith at all left in the world, that should eliminate the necessity of general alarms and roadblocks. Buckingham Palace,” he told the driver.

He slid into the taxi and locked the door behind him as Longbottom cast vainly about for another cab in which to follow and then sprinted frantically back toward his official car. Long before he could have reached it, Simon and Cassie had been swept away in the stream of traffic.

Cassie, with a doubtful glance at the glass partition between them and the driver, whispered in Simon’s ear.

“They killed that man so he couldn’t talk, didn’t they?”

The Saint nodded.

“That seems pretty likely. We’ll discuss that later. Right now, since I don’t think they’re really expecting me at the Palace we’d better think of some other place to have dinner. Do you eat, or do you subsist on the fumes of glue and paint?”

Cassie smiled.

“I eat. Ordinarily I don’t get up quite this early, and I have brunch around midnight, but since you and that policeman woke me up—”

Simon’s head tilted back a fraction as he looked at her with enthralled incredulity.

“Brunch around midnight?” he repeated. “Of course. I sleep all day and have my day at night while everybody else is sleeping. It’s lovely like that. No crowds, no traffic, no interruptions...”

“No nothing,” concluded Simon. “Just you and George and Caspar sailing away in a pea green dream-world.” This time her smile was positively dazzling. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Simon’s expression achieved a kind of determined tolerance.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s get you some breakfast, then.” He glanced down at her bare feet, at her jeans and wrinkled white shirt.

“Oh, don’t mind the way I’m dressed,” she said. “I know a perfect spot.”

Cassie’s perfect spot turned out to be the nearest member of one of those mass-production food chains which have lately riddled London like an invasion of termites in the beams of a noble house. Simon almost ended his relationship with Cassie at first sight of the steamy windows emblazoned with chartreuse and purple announcements of the day’s special treats. Within, at a vinyl-topped table lavishly arrayed with the smeared remnants of the previous diners’ stew, their every whim was as thoroughly ignored as possible by a continuously loping waitress whose genetic heritage appeared to have stemmed from some ill-starred mating of a snapping turtle and a mentally deficient hyena.

Surrounded by addicts of dog-food hamburgers, pasteboard beef, instant mashed potatoes, wallpaper-paste gravies, and artificial fruit drinks, the Saint managed to stab a few times at some greasily fried halibut before conceding defeat and trying to sustain himself on thoughts of the Epicurean supper he might order somewhere later on.

Cassie, now that she was wide awake and not in the immediate presence of any dead bodies, was showing a mannerism of jiggling up and down in her chair with nervous exuberance like a vibrating machine, even while she was eating.

“Great, isn’t it?” she chirped.

She was scraping up the last of some presumably canned beans. Simon made a despairing but bravely ambiguous sound, and Cassie glanced at his almost untouched plate.

“You don’t eat much, do you?” she said.

“Like a bird.”

“May I?”

Her fork was already across the table, so he slid the halibut to her and pulled some folded papers and a bank book from his pocket. For the first time he was starting to wonder if this evening and night would yield any enjoyable dividends at all.

“No checks,” sneered the waitress as she galloped by.

Simon mentally reduced her tip to a penny and started thumbing through the bank book. Cassie, bouncing up and down as energetically as ever, peered at him over a forkful of fish.

“Counting your money?” she asked.

“Counting Perry Loudon’s.”

Her eyes grew wider. The fish remained suspended.

“You stole that?”

“I confiscated it, as material vital to my investigation of this case. Does that satisfy your moral scruples?”

Cassie shrugged and popped the fish into her mouth.

“Oh, I don’t have any moral scruples.”

Simon glanced up at her with a quizzical glint in his eyes.

“We’ll test that out later.” He went on talking to her as he studied the bank book. “My personal theory is that you’re a phony.”

“A phony?” squealed Cassie.

“Yes. An escapist who’d run off and hide from any tough situation at the first chance she got.”

Simon stole a quick look to see whether his use of reverse psychology was having the intended effect. Cassie had stopped bouncing, and her mouth was compressed with outrage.

“Also,” the Saint said, “I imagine your sophomoric braggadocio about moral scruples is just that: you’d probably crumple up and start crying if I so much as nibbled your ear.”

“I... I’m still with you, aren’t I?” she demanded.

He gave her a charming smile.

“I haven’t nibbled your ear, yet.”

“Well, I could have run away a long time ago.”

“That’s true, and I’m proud of you. Keep it up, because the worst is yet to come.”

She pushed her plate away and watched him with worried, clouded-turquoise eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve found something interesting here.” He tapped the bank book. “And I don’t just mean the exorbitant prices people paid Loudon for those metal doodles of his.”

“Well, tell me,” said Cassie, starting to jiggle again.

“I will. In the meantime we’ll be on our way to pay a visit.”

“Where?”

“To a patron of the arts.”

6

Simon hailed a cab and directed it to Upper Berkeley Mews. He was not expecting that Longbottom or one of his confreres would be waiting to pick up his trail there, because that was exactly where they would not expect him to have the cool insolence to go. He anticipated a good deal of travelling that night, and he would prefer the facilities of his own car. Cassie wanted to see the inside of his house, but he had rarely felt the pressure of time more urgently. He only let her into the downstairs garage, and in a matter of seconds they were on their way again, in the white Volvo which was his latest acquisition.

As he turned out of the Mews, he gave her the bank book he had taken from Perry Loudon’s apartment and suggested that she look at it with a flashlight he always kept in the glove compartment.

Her first reaction, after a few seconds of scrutiny, was a low whistle.

“I had no idea he was so rich,” she said. “I knew he was supposed to be a genius, but so are half the people on the same block. Here’s seven hundred pounds. Five hundred pounds.” Her voice became more excited. “Two thousand pounds.”

“If you’ll notice,” said the Saint, “he’s written the names of 140 people against the checks he deposited, presumably for various chunks of that scrap metal of his. Those are the payments that are in the hundreds. But look at those large payments. There aren’t any names by them,” Cassie said. “They’re all shown as cash.”

“Yes. But do you notice that those big entries always seem to follow right after a certain purchaser’s name?” Cassie studied the book. “Yes,” she said. “Is it Finlay Thorpe-Jones?”

“He’s the one.”

“Here’s five thousand pounds. Another two thousand. Three thousand. What is it? Do you figure this Finlay Thorpe-Jones was paying him extra for some reason?”

“Possibly.”

“But why? And even if he did, nothing’s wrong with that, is there?”

“No,” Simon agreed. “But it’s odd, wouldn’t you agree? To pay somebody by check for art works, and then slip the really big money to him in cash. Of course if Loudon hadn’t been murdered it wouldn’t be any of my business how he got paid for what. But since I’m already suspected of having done something violent to him, I have an avid interest in all his affairs — particularly in the ones involving money, the ones that might motivate somebody to knock him off.”

They had made the one-way circuit of Berkeley Square, and were heading westward on Charles Street. “I have an idea,” Cassie said.

She turned excitedly to Simon, who had to admit to himself inwardly that he had little confidence in her inspirations. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Maybe Perry Loudon was a blackmailer. Maybe he had something on this Thorpe-Jones character and this was his way of collecting payments. You know — give the man a chunk of steel he doesn’t really want and charge him five thousand pounds for it?”

The Saint’s opinion of his companion went up a little. “Quite a nice theory,” he admitted. “I’d wonder, though, why he didn’t make it look more respectable by having the whole amount paid by check. Unless — it might have been a dodge to make most of the money look tax-exempt.” Cassie put away the bank book and the flashlight.

“How?”

“Like gambling winnings, for instance... But among the many things I’ve learned in a long and virtuous life is not to try to build bridges until you have enough spans. Why waste our time theorizing until we have more to go on? Especially when in just a few minutes I’ll be able to talk to Mr Finlay Thorpe-Jones in person.”

Cassie looked startled in the light of a street lamp they were passing.

“You know who he is? Are we going to his house? I didn’t know you’d looked up his address.”

“I don’t need to,” said Simon. “He has what you might call a business address. He owns a gambling club. One of the plushest in London.”

“You’ve been there?”

Simon smiled at the surprise in Cassie’s question.

“I have. I’ve been almost everywhere. That’s because I chose not to spend my life holed up in a garret as a plaster Saint.”

She chose to ignore the dig. With one leg tucked under her, she was starting to vibrate up and down with nervous enthusiasm.

“Is this Thorpe-Jones a crook?”

“Not that I know of,” Simon said. “No more than most people who’ve managed to grab a good share of what the world has to offer. A man with the house percentage of roulette wheels and blackjack tables in his favor doesn’t need to be a crook.”

The Saint stopped his car opposite one of several formerly private mansions just off the upper end of Park Lane.

“This is it,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

Cassie looked alarmed.

“Can’t I come?”

“I’m afraid you’re not dressed in quite the approved fashion.”

“You’re ashamed of me!”

She was pouting, glaring at the floor.

“No, I’m not. But they have certain rules in these places. You don’t have to sit in the car, but don’t go far away, please. I have enough to do without hunting you.”

He was standing by the car now, looking in at her. She softened slightly.

“You’d hunt for me?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She looked sullenly suspicious again.

“Why? Because I might go tell on you?”

Simon shook his head amiably.

“Not a bit. You couldn’t tell on me, because you’re an accomplice after the fact. Of course for turning in your partner — me — they might cut your sentence down a few years, especially considering your youth and good looks.”

She emitted a helpless, mare-like sound and furiously folded her arms.

“You wouldn’t hunt for me because you liked me,” she called after him. “You hate me. You’re ashamed of me!”

Simon resisted the impulse to put his hands over his ears as he walked away. He was beginning to wonder whether an isolated garret might not be an ideal spot for Cassie Lane after all.

The open doorway of Thorpe-Jones’ establishment was embellished in stone bas-relief and lighted by an ornate iron lamp on either side. A doorman recognized Simon immediately and ushered him into the thickly carpeted entrance hall. A number of ultra-modern metal and stone sculptures lined the area.

“I’d like to see Mr Thorpe-Jones, please,” the Saint said.

“One moment, Mr Templar. I’ll see if it’s possible.”

While he waited in the foyer, Simon glanced into the gambling rooms, where the dominant sounds were the click of chips and the occasional whir and clatter of the ball in a turning wheel. The players were pressed close around the tables, and suspense made them almost completely silent. Until Simon looked, he might have thought the building almost deserted.

The doorman came hurrying back past the sculptures, whose variety and number seemed to attest to the genuineness of Thorpe-Jones’ interest in that sort of art, and asked the Saint to follow him.

Thorpe-Jones’ private office was a superb room panelled in walnut decorated with more modern sculpture, and beautifully furnished in a somehow vaguely feminine way. Thorpe-Jones himself, who rose to greet the Saint cordially, was an erect, thin man of middle years, with long strands of brown hair from the still-flourishing area at the back of his head combed wetly forward in an effort to cover the bald spaces at the front. He wore a tuxedo, with lace showing at the cuffs of his shirt, and he was redolent of cologne. His smile was both aristocratic and ingratiating.

“Mr Templar,” he said, extending an elegant hand. “I hope you have no complaints, but it’s men with your standards who keep us up to the mark.”

Simon coolly returned the smile.

“No complaints at all. In fact, I only just came in. I came about something else.”

Thorpe-Jones nodded and waited, and Simon decided to let him wait. His keen blue eyes wandered over the sculptures, and he recognized in several the style of Perry Loudon.

“Impressive collection,” he said. “Which one is Perry Loudon’s latest masterpiece?”

“Behind you,” answered Thorpe-Jones.

The Saint turned to look at a very large and massive heap of metal which seemed to dominate the whole room. Interwoven with the metal was delicately twisted neon tubing which glowed with strange effect down in the cavernous recesses and passages of the sculptures.

“Unusual,” said the Saint.

“No one else has ever used the technique of combining neon and metal so effectively, as far as I know. Loudon’s an original mind. I think he has a great future.”

“I’m afraid he hasn’t.”

Thorpe-Jones bridled with aristocratic restraint and looked at Simon with slightly offended pale-grey eyes.

“Are you an art critic among your many other accomplishments?” he asked the Saint.

“Possibly; but that wasn’t my meaning. I intended that as a piece of information, assuming you didn’t know it already. Perry Loudon is dead. He was murdered this afternoon.”

Thorpe-Jones’ astonishment seemed real. Simon was expert at assessing such reactions, and neither did Thorpe-Jones go too far in the direction of tears and lamentations.

“Are you serious?” he asked in a shocked voice.

Simon nodded.

“Anyway, the police think so. But the motive is obscure.”

Thorpe-Jones frowned and paced the floor.

“These bohemian types, you know,” he said. “Jealousies and quarrels. Many of them take dope now. I suppose such things are bound to happen, but it’s a great loss.”

Simon went to the huge sculpture of neon and steel which towered over everything else in the office. He ran his fingers lightly over some of the surfaces.

“I suppose this will put up the price of your collection?”

Thorpe-Jones stopped abruptly and stared at him, “Are you suggesting that I...”

The Saint raised a reassuring hand.

“No, I wasn’t. But a dead sculptor is worth more than a live one to the people who own his works.”

“A few hundred pounds more, maybe,” said Thorpe-Jones. “Loudon is no big name. It would hardly have been worth my while to kill him for what I could make here in a night. Besides Mr Templar, I don’t kill people, and I resent the implication that I do.”

Simon gave a slight bow which might have been interpreted as politely apologetic.

“I’m sure you don’t, Mr Thorpe-Jones. You make enough killings with your wheels.”

Thorpe-Jones smiled thinly.

“If my clients wish to commit a highly enjoyable and more or less socially acceptable form of suicide, the least I can do is to oblige them.”

The Saint touched the large sculpture again.

“May I ask what this cost?”

Thorpe-Jones raised his eyebrows.

“Is that your standard of artistic value, Mr Templar?” he asked condescendingly. “Surely that can’t be all you came to see me about?”

“Believe it or not, it is. My business has to do with the price of the pieces you bought from Perry Loudon. Would I be far off if I guessed that this latest one cost in the neighborhood of two thousand pounds?”

“You would be far off,” the other replied stiffly. “Nothing I’ve bought from Loudon even came to a thousand.”

“Did he play the tables here and win a lot?”

“Anyone will tell you, Mr Templar, that this club has an inviolable rule never to discuss the accounts of its members.”

“Would you have made large payments to Loudon for any other reason?”

“I’d ask you to leave, Mr Templar, but I’m intrigued enough by your questions to want to know more. For what reason would I make payments of thousands of pounds to Perry Loudon?”

“Blackmail?” hazarded the Saint.

Thorpe-Jones gave a dignified snort.

“Blackmail?” he repeated starchily. “On what possible grounds?”

Simon shook his head innocently.

“I wouldn’t know, of course.”

His host, who no longer showed much semblance of the friendliness he had displayed when Simon had first come in, walked to the door.

“Your insinuations are quite out of line,” he said coldly. “I can give you only one answer. If I were a killer — if I had killed Perry Loudon, and you had accused me of it as you have tonight, you would not walk out of this room.”

He opened the door, and Simon passed into the foyer.

“You see?” said Thorpe-Jones. “You’re quite free to go, and the worst you’ll get from me, if you keep up this kind of talk in public, is a slander suit.”

“If you’re telling the truth,” the Saint said, “you’ll never have any reason to worry about trouble with me.”

“I’m so glad to know.”

“I thought you’d be pleased. Good night.”

“Goodnight, Mr Templar.”

When Simon had walked along the carpet and out of the building between the double lamps at the door, he saw Cassie Lane jumping up and down on the corner half a block away, waving violently to get his attention. She came running down the sidewalk to meet him.

She clutched his arm tugging him in the direction from which she had come. She was gasping so hard for breath that she could get out only one sentence.

“I heard you in there,” she said.

7

“You heard me?” the Saint asked. “In the gambling club?”

“Yes,” Cassie panted. “I heard you talking. Come on, hurry!”

She dragged him towards an alley, a short block from Thorpe-Jones’ building. It seemed to be a dead end. There was a van parked in it, its front facing the street. There was no one in the driver’s seat or anywhere near the truck.

“There!” Cassie announced, pointing at it.

Simon looked at the perfectly ordinary vehicle, whose sides advertised it as a carrier of imported Grecian table delicacies. He looked back at Cassie.

“I see the van, dear,” he said with elaborate patience. “Shall we go now?”

“No,” she whispered. “Listen. This is where I heard your voice.”

She pulled him to the side of the van. He stood quietly for a moment. Ghostly voices seemed to come to his ears from no discernible source. One of them sounded like Thorpe-Jones, and the other was unknown.

“Does the sum of two thousand pounds mean anything to you, in connection with Perry Loudon?” the voice of Thorpe-Jones was asking.

After a pause, the second voice answered. Though the sounds were weak, the words were distinct.

“Not a thing, guv’nor. You never paid that much money for these statues, did you?”

Simon moved stealthily around to the back of the truck and put his eye to a crack between the closed doors, from which came a thin line of light. Not only could he hear Thorpe-Jones more clearly, but he could see him too. The van was a mobile television monitoring station, and at the front end of the enclosed part, facing Simon’s vantage point, was a screen showing a large section of the office he had just left a few minutes before. With the owner of the gambling club was a hulk of a man with wavy blond hair and gigantic shoulders which must have required special tailoring even for undershirts. Simon, on previous visits to the club, had seen the man, who was called Bonnie and was Thorpe-Jones’ personal body guard.

“Well,” Thorpe-Jones was saying, “if there’s something in this that implicates me, I want to know about it.”

“Should I check it?” Bonnie asked.

“Not yet. The best way to invite suspicion would be to show too much interest. Let’s hold off overnight at least and see what develops.”

Bonnie left the room, and Thorpe-Jones went to his desk and began looking through some papers. Simon’s view of the interior of the van was so limited that he could see only straight down the center. A figure moved between him and the screen. He could not tell if there was more than one man in the listening station or not.

“What is it?” whispered Cassie.

“First, let’s get away from here,” he cautioned her.

He did not answer her question until they had walked a safe distance from the van.

“Somebody has managed to get a television camera into Thorpe-Jones’ office. From that van, they’re watching every move he makes, and probably recording it, too.”

“But why?”

“Blackmail, most probably. And maybe not just blackmail of Thorpe-Jones. He’s a friend of a lot of high-up people, and all sorts of interesting things may go on in that mansion of his.”

The Saint led the way to his car as he was speaking to Cassie. He helped her in, got in the driver’s seat, and drove a few yards in the direction of the side street where the van was parked. When he stopped he was in a position to see just the nose of the van.

“How could they get a television camera into his office?” Cassie asked.

“I’m sure it took a lot of ingenuity,” Simon said. “Can’t you guess?”

Cassie shook her head.

“It’s in one of Perry Loudon’s sculptures,” he told her. “I’ve just been in that room, and I know exactly where the camera would have to be placed in order to give that particular view. It’s in a big steel and neon monstrosity — the last thing Thorpe-Jones bought from Loudon.”

Cassie was stupefied. She was sitting bolt upright staring at him.

“Then Perry was in with crooks,” she said. “Is that it?”

“More or less. I think Thorpe-Jones was on the level when he told me he’d never paid Loudon as much as a thousand pounds for one of those heaps. Which means that those big payments in Loudon’s bank book must have come from the people who wanted microphones and television cameras incorporated into his creations.” Cassie flopped back in her seat.

“Nobody ever offered me two thousand pounds to incorporate anything into my creations.”

The Saint patted her knee sympathetically. “Well, cheer up. There’s a good side to it. You’re not dead, and Perry Loudon is.”

She thought about that for a while, and before she could make a comment Simon suddenly turned the ignition key and started the engine. A man had just appeared from around the van and was walking briskly, carrying a fat briefcase, towards a grey Mini parked a hundred feet or so in front of the Saint’s. The van stayed where it was as the Mini pulled away from the curb and headed towards North Audley Street.

“If you follow him,” said Cassie, “we’re liable to end up like Perry Loudon — dead!”

“If I don’t follow him,” the Saint retorted, “I’m very likely to end up in jail, which is a prospect I don’t fancy at all. I’ve got to catch Perry Loudon’s real killers within the next two or three hours, and you’re going to have the privilege of a front-row seat for the show.”

Cassie moaned, let her head fall back, and closed her eyes. “I wish I were at home with my dummies,” she whispered, as if in prayer.

The Mini went north at a moderate speed and crossed over Oxford Street, with Simon following only a few lengths behind it. Traffic was now sparse, and there were few turns. It was one of the easier jobs of tail-light dogging the Saint had ever attempted, and it was over before the driver of the automobile he was following had any reason to become suspicious. The end of the line was an elegant apartment building eight stories high, overlooking Regent’s Park in an even more obviously mink-poodle-RolIs Royce neighborhood than Finlay Thorpe-Jones’ gambling club had been, where even the sidewalks seemed to exude an air of staid and irreproachable status.

“Follow him in,” Simon said. “He might recognize me.” Before Cassie could protest, he had stopped his car, leaned across her to open the door on her side, and firmly propelled her out on to the street. “Hurry,” he said.

She obeyed, and probably was taken by the red-uniformed guardian of the apartment building’s thick glass doors as the errant daughter of some millionaire. The doorman undoubtedly knew, as do the proprietors of the most exclusive shops, that the sloppiest looking client may very well be the richest. Cassie was inside within fifteen seconds after the man from the cream-colored car had gone through the same doors. In less than half a minute the same man emerged again, and Cassie strolled out with apparent indifference as he drove away. Then she ran across the street to Simon’s window.

“I saw him give some boxes to the desk clerk,” she gasped, all out of breath.

“What kind of boxes?”

“Like cigarette boxes, only bigger.”

“Probably video or voice tapes from the van,” Simon said. “Did either of them say anything while he was making the delivery?”

“The man from the car just said ‘Usual routine’ and then turned around and walked away. The desk clerk used the telephone — I think to call one of the apartments, because he didn’t dial a regular number. He said something like, ‘The usual packages have arrived, sir.’ That was it.”

“Wait here,” said the Saint.

He left her standing by the car as he hurried across the street, had the glass doors opened for him by their red-clad attendant, and went straight to the desk. He hoped that if the boxes were to be picked up by someone living in the building he would be in time to watch the transaction. His eyes flickered towards the two elevators as the clerk came to speak to him. By watching the floor indicators above the elevator doors, he could possibly gain some idea where the boxes would be taken. The elevator for general use, its indicator dial bearing the numbers one through seven, was idle. The second, labeled PENTHOUSE ONLY, was descending.

“Good evening, sir,” said the clerk. “May I help you?”

“I’m not sure I have the right building. I’m looking for a Mr Steinberger.”

“No, sir. Not here. I’m sorry.”

“It might be Bergstein.”

“I’m afraid not.” The clerk, who was a waxen-looking little figure anyway, like something off a wedding cake, was becoming perceptibly more rigid all the time.

“Just plain Stein?” the Saint offered plaintively.

“No,” said the clerk.

The doors of the penthouse elevator slid open and Simon instantly turned his head and moved towards the street exit. The man he glimpsed was the lighter haired of the two who had killed Perry Loudon. But the man had not recognized him and was intent only on taking the boxes from the clerk. As Simon went out through the glass doors, he was debating the relative advantages of subterfuge and immediate open attack. The pleasure of flattening one murderer’s nose was not worth the possible loss of a whole nest of related rodents, and the Saint did not think for a moment that the man who had come from the elevator played more than a subordinate role in the plot which had already taken at least two lives. Some preparations would be necessary before the denouement.

Besides, Simon had seen something in a lighted niche of the private elevator which told him more even than he really needed to know about the occupant of the penthouse. In the niche was a statue of a porpoise, black, carved in obsidian.

8

As he drove back towards Chelsea, Simon explained the significance of the black porpoise to the girl at his side.

“The last time I saw it,” he said, “was on a yacht off the coast of Grand Bahama Island. It was a kind of emblem or trademark of the man who owned the boat, and it was painted on the hull. He also had it on a flag which was flying over a resort he was building at that end of the island.”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

Simon smiled grimly.

“No. I was fouling up some large-scale blackmail plans of his, and he did his best to have me hunted down and killed. Naturally I not only fouled up his plans, but I also refused to be killed, and ended up sailing away in his yacht.”

“Who is he?” Cassie asked.

“Kuros Timonaides is his name. A Greek. He’s one of the most vicious crooks on earth — more so because he uses every trick in the book to stay out of trouble with the law. He’s downright respectable as far as most people know. Always getting his grinning mug in the papers with some celebrity or other he’s entertaining. But underneath it all he’s one of the most rotten pillars any society ever had to put up with. I thought of him the instant I realized what that van was doing near the gambling club. Who else but the man who made blackmail and extortion an industry with profits running in the millions would have gone to those lengths?”

Cassie suddenly gave a sigh of relief.

“Well,” she said, “now that we know, we can call the police, and they can arrest him, and we can...”

“We can do nothing of the kind,” the Saint said. “We’ve no concrete evidence. Claud Eustace Teal wouldn’t arrest a kid for stealing hub-caps just on my say-so. I’m going to arrange a very special kind of party at Timonaides’ penthouse, and dear old Claud is going to be the guest of honor.”

They were still a number of blocks from Cassie’s flat when a police car darted out from a corner behind them, light flashing.

“Or maybe old Claud is arranging a party for me,” said the Saint, unperturbed.

He pulled over to the curb and stopped. A uniformed police officer climbed out of the official car, walked up to Simon’s window, and regarded him with a certain amount of reverence.

“Chief Inspector Teal issued an all-cars order to watch for you, Mr Templar,” he said.

“That’s nice,” murmured the Saint. “He’s so awfully fond of me that he just can’t bear to have me out of his sight for more than an hour. Or am I under arrest?”

“Oh, not at all,” the officer said hurriedly. “But it’s urgent that you meet Inspector Teal at...”

“The Coningsby Warehouse in Battersea?” Simon concluded for him.

The policeman gawked.

“That’s it,” he said, consulting a note pad in order to be sure. “How did you know?”

“I understand the workings of pathetically logical little minds. Shall we be on our way? I presume you’ll be our escort.”

“We’ll follow,” said the officer, tactfully.

Teal was waiting excitedly in front of the concrete walls of the warehouse like some weird parody of the Biblical father - anticipating the arrival of the prodigal son. He was chewing gum double-time and occasionally rubbing his hands together. His plump face gleamed with perspiration as Simon walked up to him with Cassie close behind.

“Nice place you have here, Claud,” Simon said. “I always wondered where you hung up your hat after a hard day’s work. Which crate do you sleep in?”

“This way,” said Teal, refusing to let his elation be spoiled.

Near the center of the great high-ceilinged room stood the sculpture which Simon had arranged for his old acquaintance Bert to remove from Perry Loudon’s studio. Beside it stood a man in shirtsleeves, with goggles on his forehead, holding an unlighted cutting torch. Bert the mover was chatting with him; when Bert saw Simon he hurried over.

“I’m sorry, Mr Templar,” he said. “It was nothing we done wrong. They called me in after we finished up and went home. And I don’t even know why.”

“It’s okay,” said Simon. “No problem.”

Teal turned on him exuberantly.

“No problem?” he crowed. “No problem? We’ll see about that. Go ahead, boys.”

His last words were addressed to the men around the metal sculpture. Valves were turned, a match struck, and the cutting torch spat into life. The Saint looked at Teal sadly.

“Poor old Claud Eustace,” he said. “What paranoiac fantasy of yours is this all about?”

“I had another phone call,” Teal said.

“You are getting popular,” congratulated the Saint. “Think of that— Anonymous again?”

Teal nodded.

“The information about your having the statue moved was very interesting,” he said, “but this time I knew it was accurate, because the man I had staked out at Loudon’s place had already reported the same thing. We’ve got you this time, Templar, and there’s no way out!”

The torch had been turned on the sculpture and was following the seams left by Simon’s use of a torch earlier in the evening. Teal perspired with anticipation, and Cassie took Simon’s hand and squeezed it as the point of flame ate into the metal. When at last the cutting was finished the workman looked to Teal for approval and then inserted a crowbar into one of the cuts. With a heave he pried out the whole loosened segment of metal and sent it clattering loudly to the concrete floor.

All those who had been watching and waiting leaned forward eagerly.

There was nothing inside.

Teal went unbelievingly over and put his head in the hollow space and looked up and looked down. He turned around and his chin began to tremble.

“I don’t know what that was supposed to prove,” said the Saint, “but if you can’t stick it back together again that’s six months of your precious salary gone up the spout.”

He took Cassie’s arm.

“Shall we go?” he said to her. “I think our party should be a lot more interesting than this.”

He turned back at the door and looked at Teal, whose eyes had taken a strange glaze and whose jaw was working soundlessly even though he was chewing no gum.

“If we seem unappreciative about the show, Claud, don’t feel bad. You can’t expect us laymen to comprehend all the deeper mysteries of police work.”

As soon as he and Cassie were in his car, the Saint became all seriousness.

“That penthouse is going to be no easy fortress to attack,” he said.

“What do we do?” Cassie asked. “Hire an army?”

“I had in mind something like that.”

They were on the road again, continuing their interrupted journey towards Cassie’s flat.

“As soon as we get to your place,” Simon said, “call all the weirdo people you can think of — you must know plenty — and invite them to a big party at Timonaides’ penthouse. Say he’s your rich uncle or something, and he’s giving away free booze by the gallon. Say you’re celebrating a sale he’s arranged for some of your dummies. You can also say that the doorman and clerk are terribly stuffy and suspicious of people they don’t know, so you should all meet on the sidewalk here and then go to the apartment house en masse so you’ll be given a pleasant reception. Right?”

“I guess so. But why?”

“To give me a cover, and for other reasons I’ll explain later. Can you do that? Can you find enough people?”

Cassie grinned.

“All I’d have to do on Pinter Street is whisper ‘free booze’ behind my hand and there’d be a riot.”

Pinter Street, whatever its riot potential, showed few signs even of life when the Saint parked his car in front of the house where Cassie lived. It was nearly midnight, and only a sprinkling of lighted windows up and down the block indicated that some of the creative inhabitants of the area were still awake smoking pot or — hopefully — doing their artistic bit for western culture.

Cassie hesitated at the front door of the house with her key in the lock.

“I don’t want to go up,” she said soberly.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“I’ll be right beside you,” he said. “Anybody who can live up there with those dummies can take anything.”

He took an encouraging grip on her arm, and she opened the door. A tiny bulb showed the way upstairs. Unlike Perry Loudon’s home next door, which had been a single unit, this house had been divided into small flats. Cassie stopped beside the door at the foot of the stairs and banged on it loudly. A moment later a shaggy dark head, with long beard, like an illustration from Robinson Crusoe, protruded blearily into the hall.

“Say, Sam,” said Cassie, with forced enthusiasm, “my rich uncle’s giving a party, with all the free booze you can drink. Everybody’s invited.”

It was impossible to determine visually what Sam’s reaction was, since there was no skin discernible under the hair, but his eyes seemed to glitter more wildly in the undergrowth, and with a sound undoubtedly connoting pleasure and gratitude he turned and vanished into his rooms.

“Do you think he’s coming or not?” Simon asked.

He and Cassie hurried up the stairs.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He’s just going to get some clothes on, I imagine. He generally never wears any.”

“With all that fur, he probably doesn’t need any, but I’m glad he’s going formal tonight.”

Cassie knocked on another door down the hall from her own and delivered her message, and then she and Simon went into her flat. They had scarcely entered and turned on the light when the neighbor just aroused by Cassie came running down the hall and through the door behind them. She was an attractive girl with long brown hair, and she wore a brilliantly flowered shift. Cassie introduced her to Simon as Annie.

“Is it all right if I call Ned?” she asked breathlessly.

“If he doesn’t bring his wolfhound,” Cassie answered.

“Oh, let him bring his wolfhound,” Simon interceded. “Wolfhounds don’t drink much, and your uncle can afford it.”

“He’ll have to have vodka,” giggled the girl. “He’s a Russian wolfhound.”

Suddenly she stared at the wall on the other side of the room, and Simon could sense the terrible tension which gripped Cassie’s body.

“Oh, you’ve made a new one!” the girl exclaimed. “Isn’t that groovy? It... it’s much more real looking than the others ever were.”

She was on her way to examine the object more closely when Cassie cut out the light with the switch beside the door.

“No time for that now,” she said. “My uncle might change his mind if we keep him waiting.”

Annie went back out into the dimly lit hall with a shrug and returned to her own flat. Cassie spoke with a voice calculated to carry.

“Oh, I forgot something!”

She and Simon went back into her flat, locked the door, and turned on the light. Cassie sagged against the wall and closed her eyes. Simon put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“Quick thinking,” he said.

“I don’t believe I can stand much more,” she moaned.

“You won’t have to. Soon you’ll be in the clear. But the last step is the hardest.”

He went over to the body of Perry Loudon, which sat propped against the wall like a brother of the dummy, Caspar. Loudon’s face was coated white with a smearing of plaster, and his features were painted in. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and there was a straw hat on his head.

Simon indicated an open box nearby.

“These are big sacks for wrapping your dummies, aren’t they?” he asked.

Cassie nodded weakly.

“Fine.” The Saint went to the box and pulled out a bag, holding it up to check the size.

“Do I... have to watch?” asked Cassie.

“No. You’re looking a little green. Some fresh air would do you good. While I’m taking care of this you can run across the roof to Loudon’s studio and bring me back a hook and a rope. You can’t miss them — they’re part of some kind of pulley he had rigged for lifting those sculptures of his.”

Cassie nodded and gratefully headed for the door to the roof.

“Shouldn’t you call some more people, too?” Simon inquired. “We need more than four or five.”

“Don’t worry,” said Cassie. “The word is already travelling. We’ll have more than enough. Believe me.”

As she disappeared into the darkness outside, the Saint wet a cloth at the washbasin and prepared to remove all traces of Cassie’s art from Perry Loudon’s corpse.

Ten minutes later Simon, with Cassie helping to ease a little of the burden, came out on to the sidewalk carrying a bulky bag on his back.

It was then that Simon discovered that Cassie’s assurance about having an adequate number of guests for her fictitious uncle’s party had been very well founded. The formerly quiet street in front of her house had been transformed into open air bedlam. At least two dozen males and females were laughing, shouting, arguing, playing guitars, dancing, or engaging in the early stages of lovemaking. Their costumes proclaimed their eccentricity, or poverty, or both. Sandals were the predominant footwear, and jeans were the most generally popular article of clothing, but the Saint was not unhappy to see that miniskirts had several adherents among the girls.

Naturally his appearance with Cassie set off a storm of shouted questions. The mob surged up around them.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Who’s your boy friend, Cassie?”

“How’re we going to get to this uncle’s pad?”

The last question, put by Robinson Crusoe, seemed the most relevant and practical.

“Somebody go in the house and call some taxis,” Simon suggested. “Cassie’s uncle is paying for everything.”

That precipitated a minor rush for Robinson Crusoe’s flat. A couple of the boys who had not been quite able to weed out every trace of a genteel bourgeois upbringing were polite enough to help Simon get his burden into the trunk of his car.

“Feels like a body,” joked one of them.

“One of Cassie’s dummies,” said the Saint. “A present for her uncle.”

A minute or so later the first cab arrived and was immediately engulfed in a sea of screaming bohemians.

“Hold it here,” Simon shouted to the driver over the babble and the guitar music. “Wait till we’re all ready, and I’ll lead the way.”

Soon another cab arrived, and then another. A bottle smashed in the gutter. All the party-goers were not waiting for the free liquor promised by Cassie’s uncle. A few had arrived staggering drunk in the first place. The uproar was becoming deafening, and several uninvited individuals, attracted by the noise, stumbled from their houses and piled into the fifth and final taxi.

Simon saw that all the drivers had the proper address, and then he started his car. Cassie was in the front seat with him. In back was a blank-faced girl and a pair of boys who were discussing Swedenborgianism. Then up the street, shouting for them to wait, came the possessor of the wolfhound who had been mentioned earlier. The owner in vaguely Edwardian costume, was at least seven feet tall, and the leashed wolfhound, had he been on his hind legs, would not have been much less. Both of them scrambled into the back of the Saint’s car, completely crushing out any lingering thoughts of Swedenborg. The entire ride became a grim battle for survival of the fittest — and there seemed no doubt that the wolfhound would ultimately prove the fittest.

Luckily, though, the drive was not long enough to bring the principles of natural selection into really fatal play, and when they pulled up in front of their destination — the apartment house in which Timonaides had his penthouse — the only dead body in the automobile was still that of Perry Loudon. The blank-faced girl seemed anesthetized against all experience, both pleasant and painful. The two Swedenborgians were only slightly damaged, and Simon had escaped with nothing worse than having his ear repeatedly rasped by the wolfhound’s tongue.

“We’re here,” Simon could say at last. “Everybody out.”

The taxis had kept close behind, and soon the sidewalk in front of the apartment building resembled an assembly point for war refugees. Some of them, curious to inspect the sumptuous lobby, started to move in without waiting for further leadership, and the influx began.

The doorman would certainly have stopped the flood if he could have, but he was almost smothered by two mini-skirted dolls who showed their admiration for his gold-braided scarlet uniform by trying to tear it off him.

Simon held Cassie back for a moment to remind her of her instructions.

“The penthouse elevator won’t come down unless somebody up there lets it go. When I release it you’ll be able to tell by the red indicator. Until then, keep stalling — say you don’t want to start up until you’re sure the whole gang is there, and double-talk any of the staff who want to know who you’ve come to see. I’m counting on you like the cavalry in those old movies.”

Simon opened the trunk of his car and took out Loudon’s burlap wrapped body, now wound and tied with the rope that Cassie had brought him from the studio, and carried it through the mob that was straggling into the building. Some of them were singing, with unwitting aptness, “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

The desk clerk’s first reaction was to fall back in panic like a weaponless hunter in front of a herd of charging elephants. Then, gathering courage, he ran around his desk and tried to plead with the throng, who could not hear a word he was saying. The uproar was augmented by the taxi drivers following some of the crowd in to demand their fares.

Using all his fantastic strength, the Saint contrived to swing his burden airily in one hand, so that no one could have imagined it to have the weight of anything like a body — it might as well have been some kind of standard lamp that he was bringing in. And with his Immaculately groomed good looks and unobtrusively expensive elegance of dress, and his air of easy aristocratic assurance, no one could possibly have associated him with the disheveled and hirsute rabble through which he passed — an impression which he took pains to underline by avoiding their proximity with the same kind of pained and shocked regard that any rightful occupant of such a building would have bestowed on them.

He headed straight for the general elevator, and started it up before anyone else could shove in after him. The clamor was quickly cut off as the elevator ascended, leaving only the hiss of its passage up the shaft.

Once more the Saint was on his own.

9

He stopped at the sixth floor and threw the switch which would lock the elevator doors in open position. In that way he not only advertised his presence on a floor where he would not remain, but he also delayed pursuit — probably until somebody could climb six flights of stairs and close the doors again.

The corridor was as beautifully carpeted and elegantly simple as the foyer on the ground floor. The Saint’s footsteps produced no sound as he passed swiftly along the hallway to the marked entrance to the fire-escape stairwell. He climbed the stone steps to the seventh floor, and there further ascent was blocked by a steel-faced door which was locked. No doubt it could be easily opened from the penthouse side, giving access to the escape from upstairs, but was intended to prevent unwelcome entrance from below. For Simon’s purposes, the set-up could not have been more ideal if he had designed it himself.

It took him literally only a few seconds to release the lock by a technique which it would not be in the public interest to describe in detail. He deposited Loudon’s body on the other side and removed the rope, leaving the sackcloth wrapping.

At the top of the last flight of stairs there was another door, this one with a wire-reinforced and frosted glass panel in it through which light came, but the possibility was too high that such a door would be protected by some kind of burglar alarm, and Simon regretfully decided not to chance it. After everything had panned out so miraculously well up to that point, it would be absurd to risk blowing the situation that had been so beautifully created.

He went out through the steel-faced door again, pulling the spring lock shut behind him, and leaving no trace of his visit except the sack-swathed corpse which any investigation would naturally conclude could only have been brought there from the penthouse itself.

He had previously noticed that there was a window for daytime illumination at each end of the carpeted landing corridor, and he walked quickly to the nearest one and opened it on to the cool night air. The lights of London were spread below him as he leaned out, but his interest was directed upwards.

As he had observed before driving away from the building earlier that night, the penthouse was set back several feet from the main profile of the building, so that it was surrounded by terraces with a railing of some kind around their edge.

The Saint uncoiled the rope he was carrying, folded his handkerchief diagonally and wrapped it around the steel hook, securing it with a knot at each end. He let the hook dangle out of the window and lowered it down the side of the building until enough length was available for the next step, which would be the most difficult of all: to swing the hook up through the air so that it would catch on the railing eight feet above. He started it swinging like a pendulum, and then using a strong jerk of his wrist he hurled it upward with a whiplash motion. The hook flew out of sight and clunked softly against metal overhead, the noise of its impact muffled by the handkerchief binding. It did not bounce away and fall down again towards the puddles of light on the street far below, and when he tested the rope, drawing in all the slack, it seemed securely held. As long as the railing itself did not give way, he had it made. If it did, of course, it would provide a crucial test of his ability to bounce off a pavement from a height of about 100 feet...

There was no time or reason for more testing or delay. Grasping the rope tightly, he climbed to a sitting position on the window sill and then let his body swing out into space. With the trained, perfectly conditioned muscles of an acrobat he drew himself up, hand over hand, until he had reached the edge of the balcony. Then he transferred his grip to the wrought iron fence on which his hook had caught, and with two powerful heaves of his arms and a lithe upswing of his hips and legs he sailed over the rail and landed like a cat on to the gratifyingly firm paving of the roof garden.

He was on a terrace about ten feet wide at that point, just outside a pair of closed sliding glass doors which led into one room of the penthouse. Because of the lack of light inside, he could see only enough through the doors to judge that it seemed to be some kind of den or library. Around the nearest corner, the terrace was much wider, with planter boxes and porch chairs arranged about it and there were lights in some of the windows farther along that side — apparently the Timonaides menage was not yet all in bed. But on the side where the Saint had arrived, all was quiet and dark. Simon detached the hook from the railings, retrieved and coiled the rope, and went back to the dark sliding doors. They slid easily at his touch. Whatever precautions might have been taken to prevent unexpected guests from arriving by conventional routes, it had apparently never occurred to those inside that anything more worrisome than a bird could arrive by way of the terrace. Then he moved stealthily into the study, or whatever it was.

It proved to be precisely that. The beam of his pocket flashlight showed him banks of built-in bookshelves, filing cabinets, a sound-and-television console, overstaffed masculine leather armchairs, and an open brick fireplace, also a massive semicircular desk with three telephones of different colors and banks of push-buttons, from which a man ensconced in the central swivel chair behind it might feel that he had the controls of an empire at his finger-tips — as indeed, in a way, Kuros Timonaides probably did have.

The desk was locked but had no keyholes in the drawers. The Saint recognized the style, and within a few seconds he had determined that a pair of immovable silver inkwells built into the top of the desk were the means by which it was opened. A little experimentation was necessary, but shortly he had tried turning both inkwells in a clockwise direction simultaneously, and all the drawers in the desk suddenly slid open two inches.

Inside one of the largest and deepest drawers were neatly stacked rows of boxes such as Cassie had described seeing the courier from the van leave with the clerk below. Several of them, as Simon could see with the beam of his flashlight, were labelled THORPE-JONES. Others bore various labels, many of them names which appeared frequently in headlines or on the society pages of newspapers, and all were carefully indexed in some complicated numerical and alphabetical system. These boxes of film and tape were obviously some of the material of Kuros Timonaides’ latest blackmail organization. He did not need to investigate any further before he studied the telephone and pushbutton system and selected the combination most likely to give him an outside line. He dialed the special number of Teal’s department at Scotland Yard.

“This is a message for Chief Inspector Teal,” he said in the lowest possible voice that the instrument would transmit. “You must get it to him at once, wherever he is, even if he’s asleep. It’s about the Saint. Tell him that it isn’t another of those anonymous messages he’s been getting lately. This is Simon Templar himself speaking. Tell him that I’ve discovered that Perry Loudon really was murdered, and I know all about it He must come here at once and see the evidence. This is the address...”

He gave the location twice, making certain that it was correctly taken down, and then hung up, refusing to answer any questions.

There were two doors in the study. Simon went to the first one his eye chose, opened it silently, and looked out into what seemed to be the central hallway of the penthouse. It was bright with ingenious panel lighting, and although there were no windows there were many doors, including one with a different trim and pattern which singled it out as obviously belonging to the private elevator, beside which a small square waist-high panel glowed discreetly pink. Simon crossed to it and touched the button beside it, and the panel turned delicately green. He was satisfied that he had released the exclusive elevator, and that it would now be available to Cassie’s crowd below whenever they got around to using it He went back to the study and surveyed it again. On top of the audio-video console, there were a couple of tape boxes, unlabelled, which could reasonably be assumed to be that night’s delivery from the Thorpe-Jones monitoring operation. At any rate, there could be little harm in subtracting them from Teal’s possible confusions, which he proceeded to do by opening them in the fireplace and igniting some loosened ends of tape with his pocket lighter. Hopefully, that might expunge the record of his earlier visit to the Mayfair gambler’s establishment. He added a few more spools from the desk drawer for luck, to preclude suspicion that he might have been searching for any particular reel, and also to help the blaze. He added his helpful rope with the hook still attached to it to the bonfire: the hook at least would survive, and if any policeman were so thorough as to sift through the ashes it would be an additional relict for Timonaides to have to explain.

Then he turned his attention to the filing cabinets, which also proved to be locked. But his time was running out, as he had known all along that it would; and the noise he was making and which he had become increasingly careless of, combined with the spit and crackle of highly combustible materials in the fireplace, finally brought an interruption to his activities.

The second door was abruptly flung open, and the flickering reflections of flame on walls and ceiling, which had already enabled him to dispense with the aid of his flashlight, were suddenly wiped out in a blaze of overhead light as a main switch was snapped on.

The lighter haired of the two men whom he had met in Loudon’s studio stood in the entrance, a pistol with a silencer in his hand at hip level, and just behind him was Timonaides, in a rich wine-colored brocade dressing-gown with unbuttoned white shirt and regular trousers showing above and below, obviously disturbed only partly on his way to bed. The room behind them, from the lighted slice of it which could be seen past them, seemed to be the formal living room of the suite.

“Come on in,” said the Saint genially. “Make yourselves at home. After all, it is your home, isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?” Timonaides croaked. He was not a tall man, but he was massive, and despite his in-between costume he was able to retain an aura of vastly founded power and menace. Simon, who had seen him before in the full suavity of total command, had to admit that he stood up to potential catastrophe with an evil distinction which, after all, could only have been essential to cresting the ambiguous heights which his career had achieved.

“I thought we might celebrate Thermopylae together, Kuros, old chum,” said the Saint. “We should have some good reminiscences to swap, of battles long ago. How did you get out of that last bind in the Bahamas?”

“Fortunately, I have influential friends there.”

“Whom you know how to influence in your own way?” Timonaides’ dark eyes were flat and humorless. “Everyone has a skeleton in his closet, and Bahamians are no exception. I make it a rule to find the skeleton in an important closet in any place where I am active, so that I can be sure that I have power to use if I should need it.”

“You do have some ingenious skeleton-hunting methods,” Simon conceded. “Like bribing Perry Loudon to bug the bits of sculpture he sold to Finlay Thorpe-Jones, even to the extent of building in a television eye.”

“You detected that, did you? Your reputation has not been exaggerated.” Timonaides compressed his fleshy lips in a momentary grimace of annoyance. “That makes it very necessary to ensure that you don’t have any opportunity to warn him about my devices. He is quite an exceptional man, and what he thinks are his private conversations are often invaluable. But like everyone else he has a chink in his armor — in his case, his passion for modern sculpture.”

“I’m surprised that you were so ready to get rid of such a useful fellow as Loudon.”

“It is a mistake to keep repeating a successful trick. Besides, Loudon was developing Inflated ideas of his own usefulness. And he knew too much already.”

“So by staging his murder so that I would take the rap, you could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

“Exactly.”

The Greek had been regaining his assurance with every passing word and second, as if behind the screen of dialogue his keen intelligence had been sizing up the situation at full depth and considering the logical moves which could be based on it.

“And now that your clever little scheme has fizzled?”

“I must be grateful that you weren’t content just to escape from the frame-up, somehow, but your foolish attempt to retaliate has delivered you back into my hands.” Timonaides walked to the fireplace and gazed expressionlessly at the dying embers for a moment. “You have caused me great inconvenience for a second time, and probably destroyed some priceless evidence which it may be difficult to replace. I shall not waste time trying to get rid of you with any more elaborate plots.” He turned to his light-haired henchman. “Since Mr Templar has broken into my apartment and attacked me, you may shoot him. It will be quite legal.”

“Here?” said the blond man.

Timonaides shrugged.

“I don’t want a mess on the carpet. Take him out in the kitchen. If there is any blood, it will be easier to clean off the floor.”

The blond man made a beckoning sign with his gun.

“Come,” he said.

And at that instant the elevator doors slid open, disgorging about eight humans and a Russian wolfhound. They scattered and staggered about the hallway, opening doors and crying out for liquor and music; some of them found the living room from which Timonaides and his lieutenant had burst in on the Saint, and turned more lights on, while others came towards the study.

The invasion was so utterly unexpected, except by the Saint, that even such a professional as the light-haired thug was thrown off guard, and Simon took advantage of his stupefaction to numb his wrist with a karate chop and then to numb his brain with a follow-up of knuckles to the jaw, before anyone got hurt. The blond went down in a corner, still feebly grasping his pistol: but Timonaides made no move to try to retrieve it. Simon suspected that the Greek was a purely cerebral type, a masterful planner and giver of orders, but one who would always leave the physical dirty work to others. In any case, like his gunman, he was temporarily too utterly dumbfounded to make a coordinated movement.

Cassie spotted the Saint, and ran to throw her arms around him.

“You’re all right?” she cried. “Is everything all right?”

“You couldn’t have timed it better,” said the Saint.

The noise in the living room had risen in pitch. Someone had found a hi-fi stereo installation and turned it on full blast. The wolfhound was barking. A guitar started to twang in opposition, and found some vocal support. Then there were shouts of triumph as a source of liquid refreshment was discovered. There were sounds of popping corks, clinking glass, and some breakage.

The darker of Timonaides’ two messenger goons came stumbling blearily out of a door at the end of the hall, clad in horribly striped pajamas and clutching a revolver, obviously still half befogged with the slumber from which the uproar must have aroused him. But before he could make his arrival tell more offensively, the lift doors opened again and the second carload of hilarious heathens swarmed out. Somewhere among them was a policeman, holding desperately on to his helmet. The desk clerk had also been somehow swept up in this wave, and now crept closely behind the constable, like infantry advancing behind a tank.

Timonaides had been standing all this time as if paralyzed, his main sign of animation being the purpling of his face, which made him look as if he was building up to burst, or to have a stroke, as perhaps he was. For what may well have been the first time in his life, he had been flabbergasted by something so unpredictably and catastrophically beyond his comprehension that he had been robbed even of his lesser reactions and reduced to something like the level of a concussed beetroot But at the sight of the police uniform, the dam broke, and he found his voice at last — even though it was not, perhaps, the commanding kind of voice that would have been desirable.

“This is the man you want!” he screeched, pointing to the Saint.

The wolfhound jumped up on its hind legs and tried to lick his face. Timonaides pushed the dog away and shook both hands towards the Saint in a thoroughly Mediterranean gesture.

“This is the man!” he shrieked. “Not just a housebreaker, but a murderer! Arrest him!”

Simon, assuming a relaxed and graceful stance, let his head move just slightly to one side.

“Did you ever hear that oldie about the pot and the kettle, Kuros?” he asked quietly.

“I have nothing to say to you,” yelled the Greek. “I want you out — all of you out, and under arrest.”

The policeman looked around helplessly. When he spoke his voice was hoarse.

“There’s nothing I can do alone,” he gulped. “They can’t even hear me. I’ve put in a call for help.”

The elevator doors opened yet again, but not to bring help. It was to emit another and even denser contingent of Cassie’s celebrants, who lost no time in adding their assorted forms of din to the pandemonium. Faced with what must have seemed like a combination of earthquake, cyclone, and global insanity, even Timonaides’ surviving arms-bearer was at a loss, for to start shooting in such a mob and before so many witnesses would have been merely lunatic. And Timonaides, to whom he looked for guidance, had lost all capability of giving him a lead.

“It’s a good thing you’re here,” Simon said to the policeman. “If you weren’t, this creep would be having all the rest of us mowed down by his bully boys. He’s had plenty of people killed before.”

“That’s libel, Templar!” Timonaides shouted. “You’re not only going to jail, but you’re getting sued, too!”

He looked around for his men, one of whom was still far from alertly responsive.

“Don’t let him out of here!” he bellowed, pointing to the Saint. “Call Scotland Yard!”

“I have a feeling you’ve been calling poor Inspector Teal off and on all day,” Simon said. “Why don’t you give the switchboard a rest. I’ve already called him anyway.”

The elevator doors opened yet again, and two more policemen emerged and stood appalled for a moment. The clerk managed to get to them and scream a general idea of what was going on.

The uniformed men began moving against the crowd, quietly but firmly. Slowly the storm subsided. Dancers were separated. The record player was unplugged. Unruly beatniks were isolated in various parts of the room. Some of the merry-makers, realizing that the tide had turned, simply sat down on the floor and waited to see what would happen next. A few had fallen asleep, clutching one another, or embracing half-emptied whiskey bottles.

When Chief Inspector Claud Teal arrived, the scene was fairly calm.

“Now then,” he said, “what’s going on here?”

He spoke the words as he stepped from the elevator and swaggered into the living room, bearing a transitory resemblance to Charles Laughton in his celebrated role of Captain Bligh. The policemen respectfully straightened their spines, while Timonaides and his staff glared from one side of the room, and Simon and the party-goers watched from the other.

The clerk began his version of the tale.

“These people broke in, forced their way into the elevators...”

“And they’ve done serious damage to my furniture,” Timonaides interrupted. “I thought England was a civilized country, where a man could go to bed at night without fear of being attacked by screaming savages.”

“There’s going to be damage done to a lot more than your furniture before this is over,” the Saint said quietly.

“You see!” bawled Timonaides. “He threatens me, even now! Please take him away!”

Teal glowered at Simon and raised his hand to gesture for one of the officers. The Saint stepped back and relaxed against the wall.

“You’d like to catch the man who murdered Perry Loudon, wouldn’t you, Claud?”

“I thought you denied he was ever killed?” the detective said.

“I’m not sure I ever said that, but anyway, it turns out now that he has been. He was killed on the orders of Mr. Timonaides, here, who happens to be the man who’s been calling you anonymously. The actual stabbing was done by one of those men over there.”

“Lies!” Timonaides howled. “He is telling all lies! Trying to save his own skin...”

Simon reached into his pocket and produced a box of video tape which he had taken from Timonaides’ desk. He gave it to Teal.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a tape made by a television camera which Timonaides managed to get into the private office of a man named Thorpe-Jones. You’ve probably heard of him.”

“Of course,” said Teal.

The Saint continued.

“The whole thing is a blackmail scheme — Mr Timonaides’ specialty.

“Timonaides bribed Perry Loudon to incorporate cameras and microphones into certain pieces of his sculpture. Then, when Loudon began to ask for too much money, or because he knew too much, Timonaides had him killed. There was also a man who looked rather like me, who was thrown out of a window in Newkirk Street, as your man Longbottom must have told you—”

The Greek managed to control his voice and adopt some semblance of scornful calm.

“Insane,” he said, shaking his head. “There is absolutely no basis for this story. If you will investigate you will probably find that this man Templar had some personal quarrel with this Loudon and killed him himself. Now he’s merely trying to drag in innocent parties in order to throw suspicion off himself.”

“You’ll find at least one television camera in Thorpe-Jones’ club right now,” Simon said. “There’s also a monitoring van involved. I can give you its description and license. I’m sure it shouldn’t be hard for a great detective like you to trace good concrete evidence of that kind to the man who paid for it. And in the desk in the study here, there are video tapes which came from that set-up.”

Teal knew better than to take such detailed and direct accusations lightly when Simon Templar made them. They had proved correct too often in the past. The detective looked at Timonaides, who snorted.

“This is ridiculous,” said the Greek.

“It’s not ridiculous to me,” the Saint said.

His voice had lost any trace of banter and he looked at Timonaides with piercing eyes the color of clear arctic skies.

“As you know, Claud, I’ve been in this snake’s way before,” he continued. “To get revenge, he arranged for someone to impersonate me and steal Loudon’s girl. Possibly he even arranged for the girl to work her way into Loudon’s life to begin with. Then, when Loudon was killed, you were supposed to believe that his old pal Simon Templar murdered him while they were fighting over a woman.”

“This man is insane,” Timonaides said, turning up his palms.

Teal looked at the Saint.

“If Loudon is dead, where’s his body?”

“Somewhere in this apartment, I believe,” said Simon.

Timonaides looked incredulous, faintly worried, and then tremendously relieved. He opened his mouth — threw back his head, and guffawed.

“Where?” Teal asked the Saint.

“Claud,” Simon said reproachfully. “What did I tell you about asking me to do all your work? I don’t know where, but I don’t think they’ve had time yet to get rid of it.”

Teal turned to Timonaides.

“It would be simple to check this,” he said. “Would you mind?”

Timonaides shook his head.

“Not in the least! Please.” He spread his arms. “Search. Look everywhere.”

Teal nodded to the uniformed men, who began dutifully trooping through the penthouse looking into and under things. Simon enjoyed the brief wait. This was one of those mountain-peak moments which belonged just to him, and for which he lived.

“A nice bluff,” Simon said to Timonaides, “pretending not to care if they looked. Too bad it didn’t work.”

“It’s a lie,” the Greek said, hut an awful and uncanny presentiment, born of the Saint’s astounding confidence, seemed to begin to shake him. “If you do find a body, he brought it here. I know nothing about it.”

“If Templar is lying, you have nothing to fear,” Teal said stolidly. “We’ll begin checking on the rest of his story right away.”

There were several more minutes of what to Simon Templar was delicious suspense, before he heard a muffled far-off shout from the direction of the kitchen, and soon after that the first constable came hurrying back, red-faced and almost incoherent with his news.

10

The Saint drove Cassie hack to her flat, and went upstairs with her. She fell on her knees beside Caspar and George, the dummies.

“Oh, my poor boys!” she cried. “Were you worried about Cassie? Well, don’t feel bad. It’s all over now.”

“No, it isn’t,” Simon said.

He pulled her to her feet.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He took her in his arms, and she stared up at him, wide-eyed.

“I mean you’re not going to creep back into that little shell of yours and shut the door,” he said. “Can George or Caspar do this?”

And he kissed her gently on the lips.

She pondered his face for a minute, then slipped her arms around his neck.

Without moving away from him, she reached behind her with one foot and shoved Caspar from his sitting position so that he slumped face down on to the floor.

“Close your eyes, boys,” she said. “You’ve just been replaced.”

Примечания

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Adapted by Fleming Lee

Original story by John Kruse

Teleplay by Harry Junkin

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Adapted by Fleming Lee

Teleplay by Harry Junkin

Content

Leslie Charteris
The Saint on TV

Foreword

The death game

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The power artist

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Примечания