worry—I haven’t forgotten what you
told me about being careful. By the way, you’ll be glad to hear Cookie
called me.”
“She did?”
“Yes. Very apologetic, and begging me to
drop in and see her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I hate the joint and I
hate her, but she knows everybody in town and she isn’t a good enemy
to have. I’ll see what happens tonight… . What are you going to be
doing later?”
“Probably carousing in some gilded
cesspool, surrounded by concubines and champagne.”
“I ought to be able to get rid of this
creep at a sensible hour, and I would like to see you.”
“Why don’t you call me when you get through? I’ll probably be home. If I’m not, leave a number.”
“I will.” Her voice was wistful.
“Don’t be too gay with those concubines.”
Simon went back to his table. He felt even
emptier inside. It had been such a beautiful dream. He didn’t know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or just careless. But he didn’t want to feel any
of those things. It was a persistent irritation, like a piece of gravel in a
shoe.
“What are you doing this evening?”
Gibbs asked him.
“Having another drink.”
“I’ve got to get some dinner before I go
to that opening. Why don’t you join me?”
“I’d like to.” Simon drained his
glass. He said casually: “Avalon Dexter sent you her love.”
“Oh, do you know her? She’s a grand gal.
A swell person. One of the few honest-to-God people in that racket.”
There was no doubt about the spontaneous
warmth of Wolcott’s voice. And measured against his professional exposure to all the
chatter and gossip of the show world, it wasn’t a comment that could be easily
dismissed. The back of Simon’s brain went on puzzling.
2
The Saint watched Mr. Gibbs depart, and gently
tested the air around his tonsils. It felt dry. He moved to the cusp
of the bar and proceeded to contemplate his nebulous dissatisfactions. He ordered
more of the insidious product of the house of Dawson and meditated
upon the subject of Dr. Ernst Zeller mann, that white-maned, black-browed
high priest of the unconscious mind.
Why, Simon asked himself, should a man
apologise for sticking his face in the way of a fast travelling fist?
Why should Dr. Z wish to further his acquaintance of the Saint, who
had not only knocked him tail over teakettle but had taken his charming
companion home? How, for that matter, did Dr. Z know that Avalon
Dexter might have the telephone number of Simon Templar?
Beyond the faintest shadow of pale doubt,
Brother Zellermann was mixed up in this situation. And since the situation
was now the object of the Saint’s eagle eyeing, the type-case psy chiatrist
should come in for his share of scrutiny. And there was nothing to do but
scrutinize… .
Simon tossed off everything in his glass but a tired ice cube and went out into the night. The doorman flicked
one glance at the debonair figure
who walked as if he never touched the ground,
and almost dislocated three vertebrae as he snapped to attention.
“Taxi, sir?”
“Thanks,” said the Saint, and a
piece of silver changed hands. The doorman earned this by crooking a
finger at a waiting cab driver. And in another moment Simon Templar was on his way to the Park
Avenue address of Dr. Zellermann.
It was one of those impulsive moves of unplanned explora tion that the Saint loved best. It had all the
fascination of potential surprises, all the intriguing vistas of an
advance into new untrodden country, all the
uncertainty of dipping the first fork
into a plate of roadside eating stew. You went out into the wide world and made
your plans as you went along and hoped
the gods of adventure would be good to you.
Simon relaxed hopefully all the way uptown
until the taxi decanted him in front of the windowed monolith wherein Dr. Ernst Zellermann laved the
libido.
A light burned on the twelfth floor, and that
was entree even
though the lobby roster
told me about being careful. By the way, you’ll be glad to hear Cookie
called me.”
“She did?”
“Yes. Very apologetic, and begging me to
drop in and see her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I hate the joint and I
hate her, but she knows everybody in town and she isn’t a good enemy
to have. I’ll see what happens tonight… . What are you going to be
doing later?”
“Probably carousing in some gilded
cesspool, surrounded by concubines and champagne.”
“I ought to be able to get rid of this
creep at a sensible hour, and I would like to see you.”
“Why don’t you call me when you get through? I’ll probably be home. If I’m not, leave a number.”
“I will.” Her voice was wistful.
“Don’t be too gay with those concubines.”
Simon went back to his table. He felt even
emptier inside. It had been such a beautiful dream. He didn’t know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or just careless. But he didn’t want to feel any
of those things. It was a persistent irritation, like a piece of gravel in a
shoe.
“What are you doing this evening?”
Gibbs asked him.
“Having another drink.”
“I’ve got to get some dinner before I go
to that opening. Why don’t you join me?”
“I’d like to.” Simon drained his
glass. He said casually: “Avalon Dexter sent you her love.”
“Oh, do you know her? She’s a grand gal.
A swell person. One of the few honest-to-God people in that racket.”
There was no doubt about the spontaneous
warmth of Wolcott’s voice. And measured against his professional exposure to all the
chatter and gossip of the show world, it wasn’t a comment that could be easily
dismissed. The back of Simon’s brain went on puzzling.
2
The Saint watched Mr. Gibbs depart, and gently
tested the air around his tonsils. It felt dry. He moved to the cusp
of the bar and proceeded to contemplate his nebulous dissatisfactions. He ordered
more of the insidious product of the house of Dawson and meditated
upon the subject of Dr. Ernst Zeller mann, that white-maned, black-browed
high priest of the unconscious mind.
Why, Simon asked himself, should a man
apologise for sticking his face in the way of a fast travelling fist?
Why should Dr. Z wish to further his acquaintance of the Saint, who
had not only knocked him tail over teakettle but had taken his charming
companion home? How, for that matter, did Dr. Z know that Avalon
Dexter might have the telephone number of Simon Templar?
Beyond the faintest shadow of pale doubt,
Brother Zellermann was mixed up in this situation. And since the situation
was now the object of the Saint’s eagle eyeing, the type-case psy chiatrist
should come in for his share of scrutiny. And there was nothing to do but
scrutinize… .
Simon tossed off everything in his glass but a tired ice cube and went out into the night. The doorman flicked
one glance at the debonair figure
who walked as if he never touched the ground,
and almost dislocated three vertebrae as he snapped to attention.
“Taxi, sir?”
“Thanks,” said the Saint, and a
piece of silver changed hands. The doorman earned this by crooking a
finger at a waiting cab driver. And in another moment Simon Templar was on his way to the Park
Avenue address of Dr. Zellermann.
It was one of those impulsive moves of unplanned explora tion that the Saint loved best. It had all the
fascination of potential surprises, all the intriguing vistas of an
advance into new untrodden country, all the
uncertainty of dipping the first fork
into a plate of roadside eating stew. You went out into the wide world and made
your plans as you went along and hoped
the gods of adventure would be good to you.
Simon relaxed hopefully all the way uptown
until the taxi decanted him in front of the windowed monolith wherein Dr. Ernst Zellermann laved the
libido.
A light burned on the twelfth floor, and that
was entree even
though the lobby roster
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