trying to compete with the Saint in such flights of speculation. A man without intellectual vanity, he was content to leave such scintillations to nimbler minds. Also this saved overloading his own brain, a sensitive organ under its osseous overcoat.
“The question is, who knows how much about what?” said the Saint. “If anyone at that cocktail party is connected with the King of the Beggars, I might as well walk barefooted into a den of rattlesnakes as show up to claim my reservation at the Elliott Hotel. But by the same token, if I don’t show up, I’m announcing that I have reasons not to-which may be premature.”
“Yeah,” Hoppy concurred, with the first symptoms of headache grooving his brow.
“On the other hand,” Simon answered himself, “if the ungodly are expecting me tomorrow, they won’t be expecting me tonight, and this might be a chance to keep them off balance while I case the joint.”
“I give up,” said Mr. Uniatz sympathetically.
The Saint paced the room with long restless strides. He was at a crossroads before which far more subtle strategists than Mr. Uniatz might well have been bewildered, with the signpost spinning over them like a windmill. Simon even felt his own cool judgment growing dizzy with its own contortions. He was in a labyrinth of ifs and buts to which there seemed to be no key… .
Mr. Uniatz pinged BBs monotonously through his teeth at the electric light, drawing from it the clear sharp notes of repeated bull’s-eyes.
“I get better at dis all de time, boss,” he remarked, as if in consolation. “Dis afternoon I stop in a boilicue an’ get in de toid row. Dey is a stripper on who is but lousy-she shoulda stood home wit’ her grandchildren. Well, I start practicin’ on her wit’ my BBs. I keep hittin’ her just where I’m aimin’, an’ she can’t figure where dey come from. It breaks up de act—”
The Saint halted in the middle of a step and swung around.
“Hoppy,” he said, “I never expected to see you cut Gordian knots, but I think you’ve done it.”
“Cheez, boss, dat’s great,” said Mr. Uniatz. “What did I do?”
“You’ve given me an idea,” said the Saint. “In your own words-if the ungodly can’t figure where it’s coming from, it might break up the act.”
“Sure,” Hoppy agreed sagely. “But who is dis guy Gordian?”
Simon Templar had always lived by inspiration, even by hunches; but his recklessness had no relation to any unconsciousness of danger. On the contrary, he was never more watchful and calculating than in his rashest moves. He diced with fate like a seasoned gambler, taking mathematical risks with every shade of odds coldly tabulated in his head. It was simply that once his bet was down he gave himself up to the unalloyed delight of seeing how it would turn out. The anxiety was over for him once the dice began to roll. After that there was only the excitement of riding with them, and the taut invigoration of waiting poised like a fencer to respond to the next flick of steel.
“Which is a nice trick if you can do it,” he mused, blinking through his dark glasses as he tapped his way along the sidewalk towards the Elliott Hotel a couple of hours later.
He looked interestedly at the huge ramshackle structuret which despite its new coat of brown paint could scarcely have brought much inspiration to the souls of the poor unfortunates who inhabited it. The building had been constructed after the Chicago fire, but not much later; and it had an air of rather desperately sterile cheer, like an asthmatic alderman wheezing out Christmas carols.
The front door yawned, more rudely than invitingly, Simon decided. He made pleading gestures at a passing pedestrian.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the Elliott Hotel. Can you tell me —”
“Right here,” said the florid man Simon had accosted. “Want to go in?” He took the Saint’s arm and guided him up the steps to the door. “Okay now?”
“Thank you,
“The question is, who knows how much about what?” said the Saint. “If anyone at that cocktail party is connected with the King of the Beggars, I might as well walk barefooted into a den of rattlesnakes as show up to claim my reservation at the Elliott Hotel. But by the same token, if I don’t show up, I’m announcing that I have reasons not to-which may be premature.”
“Yeah,” Hoppy concurred, with the first symptoms of headache grooving his brow.
“On the other hand,” Simon answered himself, “if the ungodly are expecting me tomorrow, they won’t be expecting me tonight, and this might be a chance to keep them off balance while I case the joint.”
“I give up,” said Mr. Uniatz sympathetically.
The Saint paced the room with long restless strides. He was at a crossroads before which far more subtle strategists than Mr. Uniatz might well have been bewildered, with the signpost spinning over them like a windmill. Simon even felt his own cool judgment growing dizzy with its own contortions. He was in a labyrinth of ifs and buts to which there seemed to be no key… .
Mr. Uniatz pinged BBs monotonously through his teeth at the electric light, drawing from it the clear sharp notes of repeated bull’s-eyes.
“I get better at dis all de time, boss,” he remarked, as if in consolation. “Dis afternoon I stop in a boilicue an’ get in de toid row. Dey is a stripper on who is but lousy-she shoulda stood home wit’ her grandchildren. Well, I start practicin’ on her wit’ my BBs. I keep hittin’ her just where I’m aimin’, an’ she can’t figure where dey come from. It breaks up de act—”
The Saint halted in the middle of a step and swung around.
“Hoppy,” he said, “I never expected to see you cut Gordian knots, but I think you’ve done it.”
“Cheez, boss, dat’s great,” said Mr. Uniatz. “What did I do?”
“You’ve given me an idea,” said the Saint. “In your own words-if the ungodly can’t figure where it’s coming from, it might break up the act.”
“Sure,” Hoppy agreed sagely. “But who is dis guy Gordian?”
Simon Templar had always lived by inspiration, even by hunches; but his recklessness had no relation to any unconsciousness of danger. On the contrary, he was never more watchful and calculating than in his rashest moves. He diced with fate like a seasoned gambler, taking mathematical risks with every shade of odds coldly tabulated in his head. It was simply that once his bet was down he gave himself up to the unalloyed delight of seeing how it would turn out. The anxiety was over for him once the dice began to roll. After that there was only the excitement of riding with them, and the taut invigoration of waiting poised like a fencer to respond to the next flick of steel.
“Which is a nice trick if you can do it,” he mused, blinking through his dark glasses as he tapped his way along the sidewalk towards the Elliott Hotel a couple of hours later.
He looked interestedly at the huge ramshackle structuret which despite its new coat of brown paint could scarcely have brought much inspiration to the souls of the poor unfortunates who inhabited it. The building had been constructed after the Chicago fire, but not much later; and it had an air of rather desperately sterile cheer, like an asthmatic alderman wheezing out Christmas carols.
The front door yawned, more rudely than invitingly, Simon decided. He made pleading gestures at a passing pedestrian.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the Elliott Hotel. Can you tell me —”
“Right here,” said the florid man Simon had accosted. “Want to go in?” He took the Saint’s arm and guided him up the steps to the door. “Okay now?”
“Thank you,
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