"Cocktail at the Bruton at a quarter to one," he murmured, and drifted out again.
By that time, which was 10:44 precisely, if that matters a damn to anyone, the floating population of Upper Berkeley Mews had increased by one conspicuous unit; but that did not surprise the Saint. Such things had happened before, they were part of the inevitable paraphernalia of the attacks of virulent detectivosis which periodically afflicted the ponderous lucubrations of Chief Inspector Teal; and after the brief but comprehensive exchanges of pleasantries earlier that morning, Simon Templar would have been more disappointed than otherwise if he had seen no symptoms of a fresh outbreak of the disease.
Simon was not perturbed. . . . He raised his hat politely to the sleuth, was cut dead, and remained unperturbed. . . . And he sauntered imperturbably westwards through the smaller streets of Mayfair until, in one of the very smallest streets, he was able to collar the one and only visible taxi, in which he drove away, fluttering his handkerchief out of the window, and leaving a fuming plain-clothes man standing on the kerb glaring frantically around for another cab in which to continue the chase—and finding none.
At the Dover Street corner of Piccadilly, he paid off the driver and strolled back to the Piccadilly entrance of the Berkeley. It still wanted a few minutes to eleven, but the reception clerk, spurred on perhaps by the Saint's departing purposefulness, had a doctor already waiting for him.
Simon conducted the move to the patient's room himself, and had his first shock when he helped to remove the man's shirt.
He looked at what he saw in silence for some seconds; and then the doctor, who had also looked, turned to him with his ruddy face gone a shade paler.
"I was told that your friend had had an accident," he said bluntly, and the Saint nodded.
"Something unpleasant has certainly happened to him. Will you go on with your examination?"
He lighted a cigarette and went over to the window, where he stood gazing thoughtfully down into Berkeley Street until the doctor rejoined him.
"Your friend seems to have been given an injection of scopolamine and morphia—you have probably heard of 'twilight sleep'. His other injuries you've seen for yourself—I haven't found any more."
The Saint nodded.
"I gave him the injection myself. He should be waking up soon—he had rather less than one-hundredth of a grain of scopolamine. Will you want to move him to a nursing-home?"
"I don't think that will be necessary, unless he wishes it himself, Mr.——"
"Travers."
"Mr. Travers. He should have a nurse, of course——"
"I can get one."
The doctor inclined his head.
Then he removed his pince-nez and looked the Saint directly in the eyes.
"I presume you know how your friend received his injuries?" he said.
"I can guess." The Saint flicked a short cylinder of ash from his cigarette. "I should say that he had been beaten with a raw-hide whip, and that persuasion by hot irons had also been applied."
The doctor put his finger-tips together and blinked.
"You must admit, Mr. Travers, that the circumstances are— er—somewhat unusual."
"You could say all that twice, and no one would accuse you of exaggerating," assented the Saint, with conviction. "But if that fact is bothering your professional conscience, I can only say that I'm as much in the dark as you are. The accident story was just to satisfy the birds below. As a matter of fact, I found our friend lying by the roadside in the small hours of this morning, and I sort of took charge. Doubtless the mystery will be cleared up in due course."
"Naturally, you have communicated with the police."
"I've already interviewed one detective, and I'm sure he's doing everything he can," said the Saint veraciously. He opened the door, and propelled the doctor decisively along the corridor. "Will you want to see the patient today?"
"I hardly think it will be necessary, Mr. Travers. His dressing should be changed tonight—the nurse will see to that. I'll come in tomorrow morning——"
"Thanks very much. I shall expect you at the same time. Good-bye."
Simon shook the doctor warmly by the hand, swept him briskly into the waiting elevator, and watched him sink downwards out of view.
Then he went back to the room, poured out a glass of water, and sat down in a chair by the bedside. The patient was sleeping easily; and Simon, after a glance at his watch, prepared to await the natural working-off of the drug.
A quarter of an hour later he was extinguishing a cigarette when the patient stirred and groaned. A thin hand crawled up to the bare throat, and the man's head rolled sideways with his eyelids flickering. As Simon bent over him, a husky whisper of a word came through the relaxed lips.
"Acqua. . . ."
"Sure thing, brother." Simon propped up the man's head and put the glass to his mouth.
"Mille grazie."
"Prego."
Presently the man sank back again. And then his eyes opened, and focused on the Saint.
For a number of seconds there was not the faintest glimmer of understanding in the eyes: they stared at and through their object like the eyes of a blind man. And then, slowly, they widened into round pools of shuddering horror, and the Italian shrank away with a thin cry rattling in his throat.
Simon gripped his arm and smiled.
"Non tema. Sono un amico."
It was some time before he was able to calm the man into a dully incredulous quietness; but he won belief before he had finished, and at last the Italian sank back among the pillows and was silent.
Simon mopped his brow and fished out his cigarette-case.
And then the man spoke again, still weakly, but in a different voice.
"Quanti ne abbiamo quest' oggi?"
"Eil due ottobre."
There was a pause.
"Vuol favorire di dirmi il suo nome?"
"Templar—Simon Templar."
There was another pause. And then the man rolled over and looked at the Saint again. And he spoke in almost perfect English.
"I have heard of you. You were called——"
"Many things. But that was a long time ago."
"How did you find me?"
"Well-—I rather think that you found me."
The Italian passed a hand across his eyes.
"I remember now. I was running. I fell down. Someone caught me. . . ." Suddenly he clutched the Saint's wrist. "Did you see—him?"
"Your gentleman friend?" murmured Simon lightly. "Sure I did. He also saw me, but not soon enough. Yes, we certainly met."
The grip of the trembling fingers loosened slowly, and the man lay still, breathing jerkily through his nose.
"Voglia scusarmi," he said at length. "Mi vergogno."
"Non ne val la pena."
"It is as if I had awoken from a terrible dream. Even now——" The Italian looked down at the bandages that swathed the whole of the upper part of his body, and shivered uncontrollably. "Did you put on these?" he asked.
"No—a doctor did that."
The man looked round the room.
"And this ——?"
"This is the Berkeley Hotel, London."
The Italian nodded. He swallowed painfully, and Simon refilled his glass and passed it back. Another silence fell, which grew so long that the Saint wondered if his patient had fallen asleep again. He rose stealthily to his feet, and the Italian roused and caught his sleeve.
"Wait." The words came quite quietly and sanely. "I must talk to you."