“Wait here,” said the Saint.
He left her standing by the car as he hurried across the street, had the glass doors opened for him by their red-clad attendant, and went straight to the desk. He hoped that if the boxes were to be picked up by someone living in the building he would be in time to watch the transaction. His eyes flickered towards the two elevators as the clerk came to speak to him. By watching the floor indicators above the elevator doors, he could possibly gain some idea where the boxes would be taken. The elevator for general use, its indicator dial bearing the numbers one through seven, was idle. The second, labeled PENTHOUSE ONLY, was descending.
“Good evening, sir,” said the clerk. “May I help you?”
“I’m not sure I have the right building. I’m looking for a Mr Steinberger.”
“No, sir. Not here. I’m sorry.”
“It might be Bergstein.”
“I’m afraid not.” The clerk, who was a waxen-looking little figure anyway, like something off a wedding cake, was becoming perceptibly more rigid all the time.
“Just plain Stein?” the Saint offered plaintively.
“No,” said the clerk.
The doors of the penthouse elevator slid open and Simon instantly turned his head and moved towards the street exit. The man he glimpsed was the lighter haired of the two who had killed Perry Loudon. But the man had not recognized him and was intent only on taking the boxes from the clerk. As Simon went out through the glass doors, he was debating the relative advantages of subterfuge and immediate open attack. The pleasure of flattening one murderer’s nose was not worth the possible loss of a whole nest of related rodents, and the Saint did not think for a moment that the man who had come from the elevator played more than a subordinate role in the plot which had already taken at least two lives. Some preparations would be necessary before the denouement.
Besides, Simon had seen something in a lighted niche of the private elevator which told him more even than he really needed to know about the occupant of the penthouse. In the niche was a statue of a porpoise, black, carved in obsidian.
8
As he drove back towards Chelsea, Simon explained the significance of the black porpoise to the girl at his side.
“The last time I saw it,” he said, “was on a yacht off the coast of Grand Bahama Island. It was a kind of emblem or trademark of the man who owned the boat, and it was painted on the hull. He also had it on a flag which was flying over a resort he was building at that end of the island.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
Simon smiled grimly.
“No. I was fouling up some large-scale blackmail plans of his, and he did his best to have me hunted down and killed. Naturally I not only fouled up his plans, but I also refused to be killed, and ended up sailing away in his yacht.”
“Who is he?” Cassie asked.
“Kuros Timonaides is his name. A Greek. He’s one of the most vicious crooks on earth — more so because he uses every trick in the book to stay out of trouble with the law. He’s downright respectable as far as most people know. Always getting his grinning mug in the papers with some celebrity or other he’s entertaining. But underneath it all he’s one of the most rotten pillars any society ever had to put up with. I thought of him the instant I realized what that van was doing near the gambling club. Who else but the man who made blackmail and extortion an industry with profits running in the millions would have gone to those lengths?”
Cassie suddenly gave a sigh of relief.
“Well,” she said, “now that we know, we can call the police, and they can arrest him, and we can...”
“We can do nothing of the kind,” the Saint said. “We’ve no concrete evidence. Claud Eustace Teal wouldn’t arrest a kid for stealing hub-caps just on my say-so. I’m going to arrange a very special kind of party at Timonaides’ penthouse, and dear old Claud is going to be the guest of honor.”
They were still a number of blocks from Cassie’s flat when a police car darted out from a corner behind them, light flashing.
“Or maybe old Claud is arranging a party for me,” said the Saint, unperturbed.
He pulled over to the curb and stopped. A uniformed police officer climbed out of the official car, walked up to Simon’s window, and regarded him with a certain amount of reverence.
“Chief Inspector Teal issued an all-cars order to watch for you, Mr Templar,” he said.
“That’s nice,” murmured the Saint. “He’s so awfully fond of me that he just can’t bear to have me out of his sight for more than an hour. Or am I under arrest?”
“Oh, not at all,” the officer said hurriedly. “But it’s urgent that you meet Inspector Teal at...”
“The Coningsby Warehouse in Battersea?” Simon concluded for him.
The policeman gawked.
“That’s it,” he said, consulting a note pad in order to be sure. “How did you know?”
“I understand the workings of pathetically logical little minds. Shall we be on our way? I presume you’ll be our escort.”
“We’ll follow,” said the officer, tactfully.
Teal was waiting excitedly in front of the concrete walls of the warehouse like some weird parody of the Biblical father - anticipating the arrival of the prodigal son. He was chewing gum double-time and occasionally rubbing his hands together. His plump face gleamed with perspiration as Simon walked up to him with Cassie close behind.
“Nice place you have here, Claud,” Simon said. “I always wondered where you hung up your hat after a hard day’s work. Which crate do you sleep in?”
“This way,” said Teal, refusing to let his elation be spoiled.
Near the center of the great high-ceilinged room stood the sculpture which Simon had arranged for his old acquaintance Bert to remove from Perry Loudon’s studio. Beside it stood a man in shirtsleeves, with goggles on his forehead, holding an unlighted cutting torch. Bert the mover was chatting with him; when Bert saw Simon he hurried over.
“I’m sorry, Mr Templar,” he said. “It was nothing we done wrong. They called me in after we finished up and went home. And I don’t even know why.”
“It’s okay,” said Simon. “No problem.”
Teal turned on him exuberantly.
“No problem?” he crowed. “No problem? We’ll see about that. Go ahead, boys.”
His last words were addressed to the men around the metal sculpture. Valves were turned, a match struck, and the cutting torch spat into life. The Saint looked at Teal sadly.
“Poor old Claud Eustace,” he said. “What paranoiac fantasy of yours is this all about?”
“I had another phone call,” Teal said.
“You are getting popular,” congratulated the Saint. “Think of that— Anonymous again?”
Teal nodded.
“The information about your having the statue moved was very interesting,” he said, “but this time I knew it was accurate, because the man I had staked out at Loudon’s place had already reported the same thing. We’ve got you this time, Templar, and there’s no way out!”
The torch had been turned on the sculpture and was following the seams left by Simon’s use of a torch earlier in the evening. Teal perspired with anticipation, and Cassie took Simon’s hand and squeezed it as the point of flame ate into the metal. When at last the cutting was finished the workman looked to Teal for approval and then inserted a crowbar into one of the cuts. With a heave he pried out the whole loosened segment of metal and sent it clattering loudly to the concrete floor.
All those who had been watching and waiting leaned forward eagerly.