Saint in New York Read Free

audience blithely on the
back and sprawled into an armchair with a swing of lean athletic
limbs.
    “You took a big chance, Simon,”
said the older man, look ing down at him; and Simon Templar laughed
softly.
    “And I had breakfast this morning,” he said. He flipped
a cigarette into his mouth, lighted it, and
extinguished the match with a gesture
of his hand that was an integral part of
the smile. “My dear Bill, I’ve given up recording either of those earth-shaking events in my diary. They’re
things that we take for granted in
this life of sin.”
    The other shook his head.
    “You needn’t have made it more
dangerous.”
    “By sending that note?” The Saint
grinned. “Bill, that was an act of devotion. A tribute to some
great old days. If I hadn’t sent it, I’d have been cheating my reputation.
I’d have been letting myself down.”
    The Saint let a streak of smoke drift through
his lips and gazed through the window at a square of blue sky.
    “It goes back to some grand times—of
which you’ve heard,” he said quietly. “The Saint was a law of his own
in those days, and that little drawing stood for battle and sudden death and all manner of mayhem. Some
of us lived for it—worked for it—fought for
it. One of us died for it. … There was a time when any man who received
a note like I sent to Irboll, with that
signature, knew that there was nothing more he could do. And since we’re out on this picnic, I’d like things to be the same—even if it’s only for a little
while.”
    He laughed again, a gentle lilt of a laugh
that floated through the room like sunshine with a flicker of steel.
    “Hence the bravado,” said the Saint. “Of course
that note made it more difficult—but that just gave us a chance to demonstrate our surpassing brilliance. And it was
so easy. I had the gun under that
outfit, and I caught him as he came out.
Just once… . Then I let out a thrilling scream and rushed towards him. I was urging him to repent and
confess his sins while they were looking for me. There was quite a crowd
around, and I think nearly all of them were arrested.”
    He slipped an automatic from his pocket and removed the magazine. His long arm reached out for the
cleaning materials on a side table
which he had been using before he went out. He slipped a rectangle of flannelette through the loop of a weighted cord and pulled it through the barrel,
humming musically to himself.
    The white-haired man paced over to the
window and stood there with his hands clasped behind his back.
    “Kestry and Bonacci were here
today,” he said.
    The Saint’s humming continued for a couple of
bars. He moistened his cleaning rag with three measured drops of oil.
    “Too bad I missed them,” he
murmured.   “I’ve always wanted to
observe a brace of your hard-boiled New York cops being tactful with an
innocent suspect.”
    “You may get your chance soon
enough,” said the other grimly, and Simon chuckled.
    As a matter of fact, it was not surprising
that Inspector John Fernack’s team had failed to locate the Saint.
    Kestry and Bonacci had had an interesting
time. Passing dutifully from one hostelry to another, they had trampled under their large and useful feet a collection of expensive carpets
that would have realized enough for the pair of them to retire on in great
comfort. They had scanned registers until their eyes ached, discovering some
highly informative traces of a remarkable family of John Smiths who
appeared to spend their time leaping from one hotel to another with the
agility of influenza germs, but finding no record of the transit of a certain
Simon Templar. Before their official eyes, aggravating the aforesaid ache, had
passed a procession of smooth and immaculate young gentlemen technically
described as clerks but obviously ambassadors in disguise, who had condescendingly
surveyed the photograph of their quarry and pityingly disclaimed
recognition of any character of such low habits amongst