receiver.
“Hullo.”
“Ernst?” asked a sharp and vaguely
familiar voice. “I’m glad you came early. I’ll be there immediately.
Something has arisen in connection with Gamaliel Foley.”
Click. The caller hung up. That click was
echoed by the Saint’s
memory, and he directed his flashlight at the appoint ment pad to confirm it. There it was, sandwiched between the names of Mrs. Gerald Meldon and James Prather,
Gamaliel Foley.
The Saint was torn between two desires. One
was to remain and eavesdrop on the approaching meeting of Dr. Z and his caller with the vaguely
familiar voice; the other was to find Gamaliel
Foley and learn what he could learn. The latter pro cedure seemed more practical, since the office
offered singularly few conveniences for eavesdropping; but Simon was saddened
by the knowledge that he would never
know what happened when the conferees
learned that it was not Dr. Zellermann who had answered the call.
He replaced the wall panel and went away. On
the twelfth floor
he summoned the elevator, and he wasn’t certain whether or not he hoped he wouldn’t encounter Park Avenue’s psyche soother. It might have been an interesting passage
at charms, for the doctor could give
persiflage with the best. But no such contretemps occurred on the way
out; and Simon walked the block to
Lexington Avenue and repaired to a drugstore stocked with greater New York’s multiple set of telephone
directories.
He found his man, noted the Brooklyn address,
and hailed a taxicab.
For a short while Simon Templar gave himself
over to trying to remember a face belonging to the voice that had spoken
with such urgency
on the telephone. The owner of the voice was excited,
which would distort the voice to some extent; and there was the further possibility that Simon had never
heard the voice over the telephone
before, which would add further distortion to remembered cadences and tonal qualities.
His worst enemies could not call Simon
Templar methodical. His
method was to stab—but to stab unerringly—in the dark. This characteristic, possessed to such an incredible degree by the Saint, had wrought confusion among those same
worst enemies on more occasions than
can be recorded here—and the list
wouldn’t sound plausible, anyway.
So, after a few unsatisfactory sallies into
the realm of Things To
Be Remembered, he gave up and leaned back to enjoy the ride through the streets of Brooklyn. He filed away the incident under unfinished business and completely relaxed.
He gave no thought to his coming
encounter with Gamaliel Foley, of which name there was only one in all
New York’s directories, for he had no
referent. Foley, so far as he was concerned, might as well be Adam, or Zoroaster—he had met neither.
When the cab driver stopped at the address the
Saint had given, Simon got out and walked back two blocks to the
address he wanted. This was an apartment house of fairly respectable mien, a
blocky building rising angularly into some hundred feet of midnight air. Its face was pocked
with windows lighted at intervals, and its
whole demeanor was one of middle-class stolidity.
He searched the name plates beside the door,
found Foley on the
eighth floor. The Saint sighed again. This was his night for climbing stairs. He rang a bell at random on
the eleventh floor, and when the door
buzzed, slipped inside. He went up the carpeted stairway, ticking off what the
residents had had for dinner as he went. First floor, lamb, fish, and something that might have been beef stew;
second floor, cabbage; third floor, ham flavored with odors of second floor’s
cabbage; and so on.
He noted a strip of light at the bottom of
Foley’s door. He wouldn’t be getting the man out of bed, then. Just what
he would say, Simon had no idea. He always left such considera tions to
the inspiration of the moment. He put knuckles to the door.
There was no sound of a man getting out of a
chair to grump to the door in answer to a late summons. There
“Hullo.”
“Ernst?” asked a sharp and vaguely
familiar voice. “I’m glad you came early. I’ll be there immediately.
Something has arisen in connection with Gamaliel Foley.”
Click. The caller hung up. That click was
echoed by the Saint’s
memory, and he directed his flashlight at the appoint ment pad to confirm it. There it was, sandwiched between the names of Mrs. Gerald Meldon and James Prather,
Gamaliel Foley.
The Saint was torn between two desires. One
was to remain and eavesdrop on the approaching meeting of Dr. Z and his caller with the vaguely
familiar voice; the other was to find Gamaliel
Foley and learn what he could learn. The latter pro cedure seemed more practical, since the office
offered singularly few conveniences for eavesdropping; but Simon was saddened
by the knowledge that he would never
know what happened when the conferees
learned that it was not Dr. Zellermann who had answered the call.
He replaced the wall panel and went away. On
the twelfth floor
he summoned the elevator, and he wasn’t certain whether or not he hoped he wouldn’t encounter Park Avenue’s psyche soother. It might have been an interesting passage
at charms, for the doctor could give
persiflage with the best. But no such contretemps occurred on the way
out; and Simon walked the block to
Lexington Avenue and repaired to a drugstore stocked with greater New York’s multiple set of telephone
directories.
He found his man, noted the Brooklyn address,
and hailed a taxicab.
For a short while Simon Templar gave himself
over to trying to remember a face belonging to the voice that had spoken
with such urgency
on the telephone. The owner of the voice was excited,
which would distort the voice to some extent; and there was the further possibility that Simon had never
heard the voice over the telephone
before, which would add further distortion to remembered cadences and tonal qualities.
His worst enemies could not call Simon
Templar methodical. His
method was to stab—but to stab unerringly—in the dark. This characteristic, possessed to such an incredible degree by the Saint, had wrought confusion among those same
worst enemies on more occasions than
can be recorded here—and the list
wouldn’t sound plausible, anyway.
So, after a few unsatisfactory sallies into
the realm of Things To
Be Remembered, he gave up and leaned back to enjoy the ride through the streets of Brooklyn. He filed away the incident under unfinished business and completely relaxed.
He gave no thought to his coming
encounter with Gamaliel Foley, of which name there was only one in all
New York’s directories, for he had no
referent. Foley, so far as he was concerned, might as well be Adam, or Zoroaster—he had met neither.
When the cab driver stopped at the address the
Saint had given, Simon got out and walked back two blocks to the
address he wanted. This was an apartment house of fairly respectable mien, a
blocky building rising angularly into some hundred feet of midnight air. Its face was pocked
with windows lighted at intervals, and its
whole demeanor was one of middle-class stolidity.
He searched the name plates beside the door,
found Foley on the
eighth floor. The Saint sighed again. This was his night for climbing stairs. He rang a bell at random on
the eleventh floor, and when the door
buzzed, slipped inside. He went up the carpeted stairway, ticking off what the
residents had had for dinner as he went. First floor, lamb, fish, and something that might have been beef stew;
second floor, cabbage; third floor, ham flavored with odors of second floor’s
cabbage; and so on.
He noted a strip of light at the bottom of
Foley’s door. He wouldn’t be getting the man out of bed, then. Just what
he would say, Simon had no idea. He always left such considera tions to
the inspiration of the moment. He put knuckles to the door.
There was no sound of a man getting out of a
chair to grump to the door in answer to a late summons. There
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