Charteris, Leslie by The Saint Steps In

Author:The Saint Steps In
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-09-30T22:49:55.826000+00:00

"All I'd like to know," Simon said patiently, "is what you propose to do about it."

"Do?" brayed Imberline.

He seemed to have a defensive repugnance to the suggestion that it was up to him to do something.

"Yes." Simon left one swallow in his glass, and stood up also. He kept the stout satrap spitted on a gaze of coldly challenging sapphire. "Don't forget that you could be made to look rather funny yourself on

the basis I mentioned a little while ago."

Imberline's eyes narrowed down into beady stubbornness.

"I shall verify your statements, naturally. As a Public Servant, I am obliged to do that. If they have any truth in them— and I still haven't discarded the idea that the whole thing may be a fabrication of your

own—there will of course be a thorough investigation. But I'm quite sure that there is some perfectly

simple explanation."

"I'm quite sure there is," said the Saint. "Only you haven't seen it yet."

"Now will you get the hell out of here again? I have an engagement in a few minutes."

Simon nodded, and glanced at his watch. He emptied his glass and set it down.

"So have I, brother. So just remember what I'm going to do."

"Next time, you can make a proper appointment for it."

"I'm going to make an appointment," said the Saint. "With the FBI. Tomorrow. In the course of which I shall mention your name in connection with that Madeline Gray business, and your dropping of Calvin

Gray on Hobart Quennel's say-so. So if you haven't taken some steps by that time, the Proper Authorities

will want to know why." He dragged the last value out of his cigarette and crushed it out in the nearest ashtray. "I hope you will all have a bouncing reunion."

He closed the door very silently behind him; and as the elevator took him down he was cheered by the

thought that he had been able to insert at least one lively bluebottle in the balm of the Ungodly. Frank

Imberline might be the nearest thing to a well-schooled moron; he might fume and boom and cling

dogmatically to all his platitudes; but a seed had been planted in his approximation of a mind, and if it

ever got a root in there it would be as immovable as all his bigotries. The fatuous honesty, or honest

fatuousness, which had made him such a perfect tool might boomerang in a most diverting way.

Simon Templar rolled the rare bouquet of the idea through his mind. He had certainly hoped to have

something sensational out of Hamilton's reports to confront Imberline with; but this might be even

better.

It was nearly eight o'clock, and he was hurried and preoccupied enough to stride past a couple of men

who were entering the lobby without recognising one of them until his step was taking him past them. He

almost stopped, and then went straight on out of the street, without looking round or being quite sure

whether he had been recognised himself. But the monkey-wrench he had flipped into the machinery

clattered more musically in his ears as he hailed a taxi.

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