Raddon's phone call to Scotland Yard had given him nothing to worry about. If he knew anything of Patricia she would be through with Beatrice Avery long before the padded shoulders of the law could darken the portals of Parkside Court.
His eyes had served him on the second phone call. Lying along the overhead beam, he had looked straight down upon the telephone… He chuckled as he thought of Raddon's precautions. Raddon would never have used the instrument at all for his second call if it had been one of the old-fashioned non-dialling type. He couldn't have given his number to the exchange without giving it to Welmont and Tyler at the same time. Dialling was different: he had only to obtrude his body between his companions and the telephone, and they couldn't possibly know what number he had called.
But the Saint, with a perfect bird's-eye view, had watched every movement of Raddon's fingers on the dial; his supersensitive ears had listened to every click of the returning disc; he had memorized the number and tucked it securely away in a corner of his retentive brain. Raddon's finger had first jabbed into the PRS hole, then into the ABC, then into the PRS again. This could only mean one exchange — PAR, otherwise PARliament. The numbers were easy, Raddon had called PARliament 5577.
The Z-Man's telephone number! Or, at least, a number he was in the practice of using.
There were ways and means of discovering to whom that number had been allocated. Searching through the London Telephone Directory was one of them, but the Saint had never been able to rave about that particularly tedious occupation. There were easier methods. One of them he tried at once. He dialled PARIiament 5577 himself and blew smoke rings at the mouthpiece while he waited. His connection came quickly, and a thick voice said:
"Vell?"
"The same to you, comrade," said the Saint fraternally. "Kindly put me through to Mr Thistlethwaite—"
"Vot? Der iss nobody named that," said the thick voice.
"You'll pardon me, but there's a very large somebody named that," said the Saint firmly. "Senior partner of the firm of Thistlethwaite and Abernethy—"
"This iss not the firm you say."
"No? Then who is it?" asked the Saint obstinately. "What's the idea of using Thistlethwaite and Abernethy's telephone number? Aren't you Parliament 5577?"
"Yes."
"Then don't be silly. You're Thistlethwaite. Or are you Abernethy?"
"Ve are not dose names," shouted the thick voice.
The line became dead, but Simon Templar was not discouraged. He had not expected to click at the first attempt. He dialled the number a second time and waited.
"Vell?"
"Oh, it's you again, is it?" said the Saint cheerfully. "Vell — I mean, well, that proves that you must be Thistlethwaite. Or else you're Abernethy. I damn well know I dialled the right number."
"Ve are not Thistle-vot-you-say und somebody," roared the thick voice, its owner clearly under the impression that he was dealing with a genial half-wit. "You got the wrong number again, you fool!"
"If you're Parliament 5577 you're Thistlethwaite and Abernethy," insisted the Saint. "Think I don't know?"
"Ve are Zeidelmann und Co.," bellowed the angry voice, "und ve know nothing of the peoples you say."
"Well I'm damned!" said Simon in surprise. "Then am I the bloke who's been making the mistake? A thousand apologies, dear old frankfurter. And the same to Co."
He hung up, and with his cigarette slanting dangerously out of the corner of his mouth he turned over the last few pages of Vol. II of the London Telephone Directory, which lay on a shelf. There was only one Zeidelmann & Co.; and the address was Bryerby House, Victoria.
The Saint paused for a moment to remove the potato from the taxicab's exhaust pipe, and as he strode silently down a long narrow yard with high walls on either side he reflected on the absurdity of a mere humble potato rendering impotent one of man's greatest mechanical wonders. And at the same time he reflected on his own remarkable good fortune. Beyond any shadow of doubt, his guardian angel was having a busy day…
VI
He was somewhere in the Cricklewood district, and he found his great cream-and-red Hirondel parked where he had left it. His opportune arrival in the garage cellar a little earlier had been no coincidence. He had allowed Patricia Holm to go to Parkside Court alone, but he had hovered cautiously in the offing himself, and it had been a simple matter to follow the taxi which had started off with such suspicious abruptness.
"The Z-Man — Zeidelmann & Co.," he said to himself as he drove swiftly towards Victoria. "Significant — and yet rather too easy. There's a catch in it somewhere."
Bryerby House stood in a quiet road off Victoria Street. Simon parked his car near by and walked to the office building. He had formulated no plan of action, but doubtless something would occur to him when it was necessary. Direct action, the straightforward and devastatingly simple approach which had always appealed to him, continued to offer tempting possibilities. It looked as if Zeidelmann & Co. had something to do with the Z-Man. Therefore he wanted to feast his eyes on Zeidelmann & Co. The logic of the proposition seemed incontrovertible; and as for its consequences, Simon was cheerfully prepared to let the Lord provide.
There was a wicked glimmer of anticipation in his eyes as he inspected the grubby board in the hall on which was painted a list of the occupants and their various callings. Zeidelmann & Co. apparently did nothing for a living, for beyond stating that their office was situated on the ground floor the board was completely dumb. The Saint wandered down a shabby bare-boarded passage, scanning the names on the doors as he passed them. He met nobody, for Bryerby House was one of those janitor-less office buildings in which one could wander unhindered and unchallenged at any hour of the day; and although the evening was quite young it was still old enough for most businessmen to have paddled off to the discomfort of their suburban homes. The passage took a turn at the end, and Simon Templar found himself facing a glass-topped door. There was a light within, and painted on the glass were the illuminating words:
ZEIDELMANN & CO.
Curios
Simon cocked his hat at the sign.
"And indeed they are," he drawled and knocked on the door.
"Vell?" came a familiar thick voice.
"So our old pal Mr Veil is here," murmured the Saint, turning the door handle and entering. "Good evening, Z-Man," he added affably as he closed the door and lounged elegantly against it. "This is the Saint calling. And how's the trade in old pots and pans?"
One hand rested carelessly in his pocket, and the other flicked a cigarette into his mouth and then snapped a match head into flame. His languidly mocking eyes had missed nothing in the first quick survey of the room. The office was small and barren. It contained nothing but a shabby flat-topped desk, a couple of chairs, a table lamp and a telephone. At the desk sat a big shadowy man — the Saint could only see him indistinctly, for the lampshade was tilted over so that, the light shone towards the door and left the man at the desk in semigloom. It seemed to be a popular lighting system among the clan.
"Himmel! You are the crazy fool who telephoned, yes?"
"Well, I did telephone," Simon admitted. "But I don't know if I'd answer to the rest of it." His gaze swept coolly over the room again. "You must do a thriving business here," he drawled. "I see your stock's pretty well sold out. Or do you mostly keep it in old cellars?"
"Vot you vant mit me?" demanded the other. "Vot iss tiss 'Saint' nonsense? I am Mr Otto Zeidelmann, und you I do not know."