Simon returned the key and smiled easily.
"Everything checks beautifully, doesn't it?" he asked. "Suppose you have a seat, Sylvester, and toy with a drink while we talk this over."
Reluctantly the little man took a chair across the room from the door. Simon splashed liquor into a glass and fizzed the soda syphon. He nodded in the direction of the girl.
"I suppose introductions are in order," he said. "Mr. Angert, this is Miss Millie Van Ess. Miss Van Ess, Mr. Angert."
His eyes were bland but they would not have missed the minutest change in Angert's expression, if there had been any reaction to the alias he had inflicted on Madeline Gray. But he saw no reaction at all.
The little man nodded stiffly to the girl and murmured something that might have been "How do you do." He took the glass from Simon and sipped the highball daintily.
Simon's long brown fingers reached for a cigarette.
"Now, Mr. Angert," he said. "I'm sure you'll agree that explanations are in order — on both sides, possibly. Just what is your business, Comrade?"
The liquor seemed to give the little man courage, or perhaps it was the realisation that he was not going to be stretched on a rack — at least not immediately. Over the rim of his glass, he said: "I don't know your name, sir."
"So sorry. It's Templar, Simon Templar."
Angert's voice was quite calm as he said: "I believe I've heard of you. Aren't you the one they call the Saint, or some such name?"
Simon bowed modestly.
"My wife, that's Mrs. Angert, takes a great interest in the crime news in the papers, and I've heard her mention your name. I, personally, don't pay much attention to that sort of thing." He looked up apologetically. "Not," he added, "that I have anything against crime news, but—"
Simon held up a hand.
"No apologies, please," he said. "I much prefer the funnies and the produce market reports, myself. But what do you do, brother, besides not read crime news?"
The little man delved into a vest pocket and brought out a card. Simon read that Sylvester was sales manager of the Choctaw Pipe and Tube Company of Cleveland.
"I'm in Washington, trying to get to see somebody about a subcontract, but, oh dear, I just haven't been able to do anything! They all keep sending me from one office to the other and then back to the place I contacted first."
Simon casually slipped the card into his pocket and dragged at his cigarette.
"I take it you make pipes and tubes," he said.
"We did, up until the war," explained Sylvester. "Then we converted to more direct war products. Naturally, I can't explain just what we're turning out now, but it's important Yessiree, very important, if I may say so."
"I'm sure you may," Simon murmured.
Then he shot his next question in a rapier-like tone that cut away the smug complacency Sylvester seemed to be building up as thoroughly as a sharp knife would rip away cheesecloth.
"Does your plant have anything to do with rubber?" he demanded.
This time Mr. Angert's eyes bounced a bit. He had been prepared for the other questions, but this one had come out of nowhere and there was a split second's interval before he recovered.
"Rubber? Oh no. We're a metal production outfit No, we have nothing to do with rubber at all."
Simon half turned away to freshen his drink.
"Naturally not," he said. "That was rather a silly question."
Sylvester Angert finished his drink and got out of his chair. He laughed rather uncertainly.
"I'm sorry I was so — so harsh when I first — er — arrived here, but the surprise… I guess I do owe you an apology at that. Perhaps we could get together for a drink tomorrow."
"Perhaps," said the Saint noncommittally.
"And now I'd better be getting up to my room. It's getting late and I've had a hard day. Goodnight Miss Van Ess, Mr. Templar."
He ducked his head and scuttled out of the room.
Madeline giggled.
"A funny little man," she said.
"Very. Will you excuse me for a second? I've got a couple of calls to make."
He went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He called a local number which was not in any directory, and talked briefly with a man named Hamilton, whom very few people knew. Then he called the desk and exchanged a few words with Information. He returned to the living room, smiling in his satisfaction.
"A funny little man indeed," he said. "There is no such animal as the Choctaw Pipe and Tube Company of Cleveland. And the suite above this is occupied by a senator who's been living there ever since his misguided constituents banded together in a conspiracy to get him out of his home state."
"Then—"
"Oh, he's harmless," the Saint assured her. "I don't think he'll bother us again. It will be somebody very different from little Sylvester who'll probably get the next assignment.
"But who's he working for?"
"The same people, my dear, who seem to be determined that your father's invention is going to blush unseen. I only hope for your sake that hereafter they limit their activities to such things as visits by Sylvester Angert. But I'm afraid they won't."
"What difference does it make?" she protested. "If you'll really help me — and if you're really like any of the things I've read about you — you should be able to wangle an appointment with Imberline in a few days at the outside."
The Saint's fingers combed through his hair. The piratical chiseling of his face looked suddenly quite old in a sardonic and careless way.
"I know, darling," he said. "That isn't the problem. The job that's going to keep me busy is trying to make sure that you and your father are allowed to live that long."
2. How Simon Templar interviewed Mr. Imberline,
and was interviewed in his turn
1
A change of expression flickered over her face, that started with a half smile and ended with half a frown; but under the half-frown her brown eyes were level and steady.
"Now are you giving me what you thought I was asking for, or do you mean that?"
"Think it out for yourself," he said patiently. "Somebody was interested enough to make your father a present of two explosions and a fire — according to what you told me. Somebody followed you long enough to know you'd been trying to see Imberline. Somebody thought it was worth while calling you and making a phony appointment, and then sending you a threatening note to see how easily you'd scare off. Somebody even thought it was worth while trying another note on me, after they'd seen us talking."
"You don't know how it got into your pocket?"
"No more than you know how yours fell into your lap. But I was bumped into rather heavily on two occasions, so it was on one of those occasions that the note was planted. The face of Walter Devan and the tall man who had been in Imberline's entourage passed through the Saint's memory. "Anyway, since you didn't scare, there was an ambush waiting for you on the way. If you'd taken a cab it doubtless would have been run off the road."
She was neither frightened nor foolish now. She simply watched his face estimatingly.
"What do you think they meant to do?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they were just told to rough you up a bit to discourage you. Maybe it was to be a straight kidnaping. Maybe they thought you could be used to keep your father quiet. Or maybe they thought you might be able to tell them his process if they persuaded you enough. By the way, could you?"
She nodded.
"It's very simple, once you know it; and I've been helping Father in his laboratory ever since he started working on it again."