Angelworth. Even the name was too good to be true, just like its charitable possessor. Simon had tended to assume until now that the Supremo was a secluded figure, personally remote from publicity, working through front men. But the Supremo could just as well be a man known in public life, a man whose popular image was in sharp contrast to the secret sources of his power... a man like Hyram Angelworth.
Man... Of course he was consciously, even forcibly, confining his speculations to the conventional gender. Beautiful young girls didn’t lead secret double lives as the rulers of criminal empires, except in the. most extravagant kinds of fiction.
A likelier possibility flickered across the screen of the Saint’s imagination: Richard Hamlin, as Angelworth’s confidential secretary or whatever he was, would be in a unique position to exploit and manipulate Angelworth’s financial power and political influence. This might be a case of a power behind the throne... unknown even to the occupant of the throne? And Hamlin already had a criminal record. A lot of writers would go for that.
And just as many would trail him round as a red herring.
Certainly Hamlin wouldn’t be blinded by any romantic infatuation like Carole’s. Could he have some complicated idea of trading on that infatuation to ingratiate himself? That would also be one for the books; but people sometimes had strange weaknesses.
All right — what purely practical motive could the Supremo have had for letting the Saint go?
The only explanation that Simon could come up with along that line was that the Supremo, overruling The Pear Tree quorum, had decided that West Coast Kelly’s supposed proposition should at least be given a hearing, and without the prejudicial factor of a maltreated ambassador. Which meant that West Coast Kelly had not yet disowned the Saint — or that the accreditation would take longer to obtain. Meanwhile the situation would be left in the suspended animation of “don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you.”
With a corollary that the Saint, unlike the Supremo, could only be the loser in that kind of waiting game.
But even the fascination of those mental jigsaw puzzles could not keep him from sleep much longer.
Chapter 9
When Simon Templar got out of bed a little later that morning, he had added one more theory to his entanglement of teasers. It was almost as bizarre as the others, and yet he found it the hardest to eliminate.
What his conscious mind had not been able to accept the night before, his subconscious had relentlessly and impersonally crystallised while he slept. His surface thinking had been blurred and distorted by what he wished to be true. It had trodden gingerly, picking its way like a mountain climber crossing a snowfield. But in the relaxed transition back to wakefulness he had felt the white glaze give way beneath his feet, and he had plunged into the crevasse.
It was a little before ten o’clock when he walked into Lieutenant Stacey’s office, after reaching one of the toughest decisions he had ever had to make, and his expression darkly reflected his feelings. He could easily have put a cheerful mask on his face, but candour served his purposes at this point.
Stacey reacted to the Saint’s appearance with something as close to alarm as his cool, almost scholarly face could manage. The freckles stood out more vividly in contrast to his pale skin. Some people have a problem with blushing; Lieutenant Stacey was embarrassed by the fact that he turned extremely white under pressure.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“What’s wrong?” Simon said emotionally, and sat down. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I almost got killed last night.”
Without waiting for any more questions, he told the story of his visit to The Pear Tree, his captivity, and his release.
Stacey blinked.
“I’d say you were very lucky,” he managed. “I was afraid something like that would happen. What could one man do against a bunch like that? The only thing that beats me is that they let you go.”
“It wasn’t exactly what I’d expected either,” the Saint rejoined. “How do you explain it?”
Stacey held a freshly sharpened yellow pencil upright between his thumb and forefinger and stared at it.
“I don’t,” he admitted after a moment, and let the pencil fall over on to his desk top. “That organisation can swallow men up like quicksand. One foot in, and that’s the last you hear of them. How do you explain the special treatment?”
“My innocent boyish charm?” Simon suggested. “Or maybe they’d run out of bullets and couldn’t find a knife at that hour of the night. Whatever it is, I’m not giving them a second chance, I‘m out.”
He stood up abruptly. Stacey, in surprise, automatically rose from his own chair.
“I don’t get you,” he said. “What are you doing next?”
“Minding my own business,” said the Saint. “And staying alive if possible. If anybody asks about me, say I’m in Tahiti.”
“Is that what you want me to tell Brad Ryner?” Stacey asked. There was the faintest trace of accusation in his tone.
“You can tell Brad the truth,” Simon said. “Tell him I just can’t go on, now that I’ve got a good idea what I’m up against.”
And like a failure in battle who did not want to face his comrades, the Saint turned round and stalked out of the office.
He went straight back to the New Sylvania and began to pack. With that done, he would be able to leave immediately after lunch, and the last thing he wanted was to hang round under that roof. But having nothing else to hurry for before noon, his suitcase was still half empty on the bed when his telephone rang.
“This is Brad Ryner,” the voice on the line said. “Stacey told me what happened. I’ve gotta see you.”
“Is it really necessary? Didn’t you hear? I chickened out.”
The detective summed up in one elegant syllable what he thought of that.
“Yeah, it’s necessary,” he went on. “You can at least talk to me for five minutes can’t you?”
“If you say so. I’ll come over to the hospital—”
“I’ll come to your place,” Ryner interrupted. “I’m not at the hospital. I just snuck out the back way and I’m in a phone booth. I’ll be over there in a couple minutes.”
He did not give Simon a chance to protest. He had also conveniently underestimated the time it would take him to get to the hotel, no doubt to be sure Simon had no excuse for leaving. It was twenty minutes later when he knocked at the door.
When Simon turned the knob he was confronted by a mummy in a raincoat. Most of Brad Ryner’s face was still swathed in bandages. In one hand he carried a briefcase and with the other hand he supported himself against the doorjamb. Simon helped him into the room.
“Watch my ribs,” Ryner groaned. “I’ve got more fractures than San Francisco after the earthquake.”
“And you crawled out of that hospital bed and dragged yourself over here? You must have more cracks in your skull than you do in your ribs.”
“Never mind about me,” Ryner said as soon as he had been carefully deposited on one of the sofas. “What about you? What’s all this stuff about you being scared? You’ve never been scared in your life!”
“Everybody gets smart sometime,” Simon said grimly. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“You can say more than that,” Ryner growled with painful effort. “You are not scared. I know that! You are not scared, and so there’s some other reason why you’re backing out. What is it?”
“The fortunetelling machine’s downstairs on the sidewalk,” Simon said. “I don’t answer questions when you put a penny in.”