placed Dr. Zellermann on the eighteenth floor. Simon entered the elevator, signed “John Paul Jones” on the form for nocturnal
visitors, said “Twelve” to the ancient lackey, and was levitated on
greased runners.
He walked toward the lighted doorway, an
emporium of Swedish masseurs, but wheeled on silent feet as soon as
the elevator doors closed and went up six flights as swiftly and as silently as
the elevator had ascended. The lock on Zellermann’s door gave him little
trouble, snicking open to reveal a waiting room of considerable
proportions.
The pencil beam of his flashlight told him
that the man who decorated this restful room knew the value of the pause
that relaxes. “This is your home,” the room said. “Welcome. You like this
chair? It was made for you. The prints? Nice, aren’t they? Nothing like
the country. And isn’t that soft green of the walls pleasant to the eye? Lean
back and relax. The doctor will see you presently, as a friend. What else, in
these surroundings?”
The Saint tipped his mental hat and looked
around for more informative detail. This wasn’t much. The receptionist’s
desk gave up nothing but some paper and pencils, a half pack of cigarettes,
a lipstick, and a copy of Trembling Romances. Three names were
written on an appointment pad on the desk top.
He went into the consultation room, which was
severely furnished with plain furniture. A couch lay against one
wall, the large desk was backed against an opaque window, and the walls
were free of pictorial distractions.
Yet this, too, was a restful room. The green
of the reception room walls had been continued here, and despite the
almost monastic simplicity of the decor, this room invited you to relax.
Simon had no doubt that a patient lying on the couch, with Dr. Zellermann
discreetly in the background gloom, would drag from the
censored files of memory much early minutiae, the stuff of which human beings
are made.
But where were the files? The office safe?
Surely it was necessary to keep records, and
surely the records of ordinary daily business need not be hidden. The
secretary must need a card file of patients, notations, statements
of accounts, and what not.
Once more the pencil beam slid around the
office, and snapped out. Then the Saint moved silently—compared to him, a
shadow would have seemed to be wearing clogs—back into the reception room. His flash made an
earnest scrutiny of the receptionist’s
corner and froze on a small protuberance. Simon’s fingers were on it in a second. He pulled, then lifted— and a section of wall slid upward to reveal a
filing cabinet, a small safe, and a
typewriter.
The Saint sighed as he saw the aperture revealed no liquid goods. Tension always made him thirsty, and
breaking and entering always raised
his tension a notch.
As he reached for the top drawer of the file
to see what he could see, the telephone on the reception desk gave out a
shrill demand. The Saint’s reflexes sent a hand toward it, which hovered
over the instrument while he considered the situation. More than likely,
somebody had called a wrong number. It was about that time
in the evening when party goers reach the point where it seems
a good idea to call somebody, and the somebody is often determined by
spinning the dial at random.
If it happens to be your telephone that
rings, and you struggle out of pleasant dreams to curse any dizzy
friend who would call you at that hour, and you say “Hello” in
churlish tones, some oafish voice is likely as not to give you a song and
a dance about being a telephone tester, and would you please stand three feet away from the
phone and say “Methodist Episcopalian”
or some such phrase, for which you get the horse laugh when you pick up the phone again.
This is considered top-hole wit in some
circles.
If this were the case, Simon reflected, no
harm could be done by answering. But what harm in any case? he asked
himself, and lifted the
visitors, said “Twelve” to the ancient lackey, and was levitated on
greased runners.
He walked toward the lighted doorway, an
emporium of Swedish masseurs, but wheeled on silent feet as soon as
the elevator doors closed and went up six flights as swiftly and as silently as
the elevator had ascended. The lock on Zellermann’s door gave him little
trouble, snicking open to reveal a waiting room of considerable
proportions.
The pencil beam of his flashlight told him
that the man who decorated this restful room knew the value of the pause
that relaxes. “This is your home,” the room said. “Welcome. You like this
chair? It was made for you. The prints? Nice, aren’t they? Nothing like
the country. And isn’t that soft green of the walls pleasant to the eye? Lean
back and relax. The doctor will see you presently, as a friend. What else, in
these surroundings?”
The Saint tipped his mental hat and looked
around for more informative detail. This wasn’t much. The receptionist’s
desk gave up nothing but some paper and pencils, a half pack of cigarettes,
a lipstick, and a copy of Trembling Romances. Three names were
written on an appointment pad on the desk top.
He went into the consultation room, which was
severely furnished with plain furniture. A couch lay against one
wall, the large desk was backed against an opaque window, and the walls
were free of pictorial distractions.
Yet this, too, was a restful room. The green
of the reception room walls had been continued here, and despite the
almost monastic simplicity of the decor, this room invited you to relax.
Simon had no doubt that a patient lying on the couch, with Dr. Zellermann
discreetly in the background gloom, would drag from the
censored files of memory much early minutiae, the stuff of which human beings
are made.
But where were the files? The office safe?
Surely it was necessary to keep records, and
surely the records of ordinary daily business need not be hidden. The
secretary must need a card file of patients, notations, statements
of accounts, and what not.
Once more the pencil beam slid around the
office, and snapped out. Then the Saint moved silently—compared to him, a
shadow would have seemed to be wearing clogs—back into the reception room. His flash made an
earnest scrutiny of the receptionist’s
corner and froze on a small protuberance. Simon’s fingers were on it in a second. He pulled, then lifted— and a section of wall slid upward to reveal a
filing cabinet, a small safe, and a
typewriter.
The Saint sighed as he saw the aperture revealed no liquid goods. Tension always made him thirsty, and
breaking and entering always raised
his tension a notch.
As he reached for the top drawer of the file
to see what he could see, the telephone on the reception desk gave out a
shrill demand. The Saint’s reflexes sent a hand toward it, which hovered
over the instrument while he considered the situation. More than likely,
somebody had called a wrong number. It was about that time
in the evening when party goers reach the point where it seems
a good idea to call somebody, and the somebody is often determined by
spinning the dial at random.
If it happens to be your telephone that
rings, and you struggle out of pleasant dreams to curse any dizzy
friend who would call you at that hour, and you say “Hello” in
churlish tones, some oafish voice is likely as not to give you a song and
a dance about being a telephone tester, and would you please stand three feet away from the
phone and say “Methodist Episcopalian”
or some such phrase, for which you get the horse laugh when you pick up the phone again.
This is considered top-hole wit in some
circles.
If this were the case, Simon reflected, no
harm could be done by answering. But what harm in any case? he asked
himself, and lifted the
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