He dropped his gun into a side pocket, grasped the lapels of the man's coat, and hauled it back over the man's shoulders to the level of his elbows. In a few lightning movements he emptied the man's pockets. He got a short-barreled revolver from one hip, and a blackjack from the other. The other pockets yielded very little — a ten-dollar bill, some small change, a car key, one of those pocket-knives that open up into the equivalent of a small chest of tools, and a thin wallet.
Simon gathered up the revolver, the blackjack, the knife, and the wallet, and retreated with them to the nearest workbench. He put the revolver and the knife in another of his pockets. Then he took out his own automatic again and kept it in his hand. He sat side-saddle on the bench while he emptied the wallet. It contained three new twenty-dollar bills, a couple of stamps, the stub of a Pullman ticket, a draft card with a 4-F classification, and a New York driving license.
Both the draft card and the driving license bore the name of Karl Morgen.
"Karl," said the Saint softly, "it was certainly nice of you to drop in."
The man on the floor groaned and struggled to get his head off the ground.
Simon Templar fished out a cigarette and then a book of matches. He thumbed one of the matches over until he could rub the head on the striking pad one-handed. His eyes and his gun stayed watchfully on his prisoner. And all of him was awake with a great and splendiferous serenity.
If there could have been anything better than a hundred per cent fulfillment of the wildest possibilities he had dreamed of, he had been modest enough not to ask for it.
He could get along very beautifully with this much.
Karl Morgen. A man who had something to do with Imberline. A man who could be used for kidnaping. A man who had once worked for Calvin Gray. A man of very questionable antecedents. A man who might tie many curious things together. All combined in one blessed bountiful bonanza.
The Saint exhaled smoke and regarded him almost affectionately.
He said: "Get up."
Morgen had his head off the ground. He got his elbows under him and hunched his back. Then he gathered in his long legs. Somehow he got himself together and crawled up off the floor. He stood unsteadily, clutching the end of the workbench for support.
"Karl," said the Saint, "you used to work here."
"So what?"
"Why did you come back?"
The man's eyes were unflinchingly malevolent.
"That's none of your business, bud."
"Oh, but it is. Where were you last night?"
Morgen took his time.
Then he said: "In Washington."
"So you were. You were in the dining room of the Shoreham with Frank Imberline."
"That's no crime."
"We got a bit crowded, and you slipped a note in my pocket."
"I did not."
"The note said 'Mind your own business.' "
"Why don't you do that, bud?"
The Saint was still patient.
"Where were you after that?"
Again that deliberate pause. This wasn't a man who panicked. He thought all around what he was going to say before he said it.
"I was with a friend. Playin' cards."
"You were with a friend. But you weren't playing cards. You were trying to kidnap Miss Gray. That was when we met again."
"You'll have to prove that, bud."
"Both Miss Gray and I are ready to identify you."
"And my friend will say we were playin' cards."
"Quite a while after that," Simon continued unperturbed, "did you by any chance take a long shot at me through my window at the Shoreham?"
"No."
Simon inhaled throughtfully.
"No, maybe that wasn't you. That was probably your chunky friend." He glanced down at the Pullman stub for a moment. "You came up on the sleeper last night, so you'd have been headed for the station by that time."
"It's a free country."
"I didn't think you'd be a guy who appreciated free countries."
The other went on looking at him with his mouth clamped shut and his eyes hard with hate.
"I hope you know just what sort of a spot you're in," said the Saint carefully. "Kidnaping has been a federal rap for quite a while now, and I don't imagine you'd be very happy about having a lot of G-men move in on your life. On top of that, I catch you breaking in here—"
"I didn't break anything. The door was unlocked."
"That doesn't make any difference. And you know it. You were carrying concealed weapons—"
"Only because you say so."
"And just how do you explain being here?"
"I left a coupla books," Morgen said slowly. "I forgot them when I was packin'. I came back to get them."
"Why didn't you go to the house and ask for them?"
"I didn't want to make any trouble. I just thought I could find them and take them away."
Simon shook his head judicially.
"It's a lovely story, Karl. The FBI will have lots of fun with it."
"Go ahead. Tell them."
"Aren't you afraid they might be a little rough with you?"
"Why don't you turn me in and find out?"
"Because," said the Saint, "I want to talk to you myself first."
The man licked his lips, standing very stiffly and still holding on to the work-bench with big bony hands.
"I don't want to talk to you, bud."
"But you don't have any choice," Simon pointed out mildly. "And I've got a whole lot of questions I want answered. I want to know who gave you that note to put in my pocket at the Shoreham. I want to know who hired you to put the arm on Madeline Gray. I want to know who you're working for, in a general way. I want to know where Calvin Gray is right now."
"You better ask somebody who can tell you."
"And who's that?"
"I wouldn't know."
The Saint smiled very faintly.
"Tough guy, aren't you?"
"Maybe."
"So am I," Simon said, rather diffidently. "I'm sure you know who I am. And I expect you've heard about me before. I'm a pretty tough guy too, Karl. I could have quite a good time getting rough with you."
"Yeah? When do you start?"
"You don't want to play?"
"No, bud."
The smile didn't leave the Saint's lips.
"Bud," he said, "your dialogue is a little dull."
He put his weight on the foot that was on the floor, and followed it with the other.
He knew exactly what he was going to do, and he was perfectly calm about it. It wouldn't be pretty, but that wasn't his fault. He couldn't see anything handy to tie Morgen up with at the moment, and he couldn't afford to take any chances. The man really was tough, out of the down-to-bone fiber of him — and dangerous.
The Saint's expression was amiable and engaging, and he really felt that way, taking an audit of his good fortune. Only the icy blue of his eyes matched the part of his mind that was detached and passionless and without pity or friendliness.
He walked around the bench until he was within arm's length of Morgen, and raised his right hand until his gun was at the level of Morgen's face. The other stared at it without blinking. Simon swung his wrist and forearm through a sudden arc that smashed the gun barrel against the side of the man's head. Morgen staggered and clung to the table. The Saint took another step towards him and jabbed the muzzle of the gun like a kicking piston into the region of his solar plexus. Morgen gasped throatily and sagged towards him.
The Saint took a half step back and slipped the automatic into his pocket. He used Morgan's chin like a punch-bag, giving him a left hook and then a right. The man let go the table and reeled back until he crashed into the wall behind him and slid down it to the floor.
"Get up," Simon said relentlessly. "This is only the beginning."
The man clawed himself up against the wall. He spat blood, and spat out an unprintable phrase after it.