Vendetta for the Saint. Read Free Page B

more attempt to stint on quality than a man with his quarry’s evident tastes would have done.
To him it was only another
investment, like the solvent which
had opened the doorman’s impermanently sealed
lips.
    He took the case and the same attitude to the Sale e Tabacchi a few doors farther on. On some other
occasion it might have amused him to engage the tobacconist in a long and profound
debate over the selection
of a package of salt, which for reasons which may remain eternally obscure to
non-Ital ians is a
monopoly of the same government- licensed
stores. But that morning he was driven by too much impatience to waste time on
anything but the purchase of
two of the very best cigars, and the shopkeeper who sold them at the inflated
official price never
knew what torment he had been spared.
    Simon put the cigars in the case and kept the case in his hand as he entered the ornate
lobby of the Excelsior,
and located the desk of the con cierge.
    “I believe this belongs to one of your
guests,” he said.
“Would you see that he gets it?”
    The attendant examined the case which Simon had laid on the counter, with the olympian
detach ment befitting
his office, which is believed by all concierges to be only slightly inferior to that of the managing director.
    “Do you know which one?” he
inquired, with a subtle suggestion that his
responsibility covered not merely thousands
but tens of thousands, and that
anyone who did not realize it was probably a peasant.
    Simon shook his
head.
    “I’m afraid I don’t. I just happened to see him getting into a cab, and heard him tell the driver
to come here, and then I saw the
case on the ground. I picked it up
and yelled at him, but the cab was driving
off and he didn’t hear.”
    “What
did he look like?”
    “Heavy set—about sixty—a little gray
hair, but mostly
bald—wearing a very fancy gray silk suit— diamond pin in his tie—star sapphire
cuff-links—a gold ring with a
huge emerald …”
    The functionary, who like all his brethren
of that unique European
order could be counted on to know
everyone who had a room in the cara vanserai
during his tenure, and almost as much about
their activities as God, listened with a concentration that progressed from the
condescend ingly labored to the
tentatively perspicacious to the final
flash of connection.
    “Ah
yes! I think you mean Signore Destamio.”
    The
Saint’s pause was imperceptible.
    “Not—Carlo
Destamio?”
    “No. The name is Alessandro
Destamio.” The case
disappeared under the counter. “I will take care of it for him.”
    “Now, just a minute,” Simon said
amiably. “Why not
call his room and ask if he did lose a cigar case? I didn’t actually see him
drop it, you know. It might
have been lying there all the time.”
    “I cannot ask him at once, sir. He left
yesterday afternoon.”
    “Oh, did he?” Simon did not bat an
eyelid. “That’s
too bad. It was yesterday when I picked it up, of course, but I’ve been too busy to
come by before this. Where did he go?”
    “He
did not tell me, sir.”
    It was apparent that the concierge did not
warm to that type of
interrogation, from the darkening of his face which was quickly masked with a sneer.
    “I will ask him when he comes back, sir.
He is not a
tourist—he keeps his suite here all the time. If you would like to leave your name and
address, I will send you
back the case if it does not belong to him.”
    And, the impeccable manner implied, if
there’s any question
of a reward, don’t worry, I’ll see that you get it; you probably need it.
    “Don’t bother,” said the Saint
airily. “If it turns out not to be his, you keep it. Just be careful how you light the cigars, in case some practical
joker planted the whole thing.”
    It was not, he felt, an entirely
discreditable exit; and it
left interesting vistas for future speculation.
    Besides which, the visit had produced all
that he had any right
to expect, if not more: a name.
    Alessandro