He studied the two men with grim intentness. They have been classified, for immediate convenience, as the larger and the smaller man; but in point of fact there was little to choose between them—the effect was much the same as establishing the comparative dimensions of a rhinoceros and a hippopotamus. The "smaller" man stood about six feet three in his shoes and must have weighed approximately three hundred pounds; the other, it should be sufficient to say, was a great deal larger. Taken as a team, they summed up to one of the most undesirable deputations of welcome which the Saint could imagine at that moment.
The larger man bulked ponderously round the intervening table and advanced towards him. With the businesslike Colt jabbing into the Saint's middle, he made a quick and efficient search of Simon's pockets and found the gun which had belonged to the late lamented Joe. He tossed it back to his companion and put his own weapon away.
"Now, you," he rasped, "what's your name?"
"They call me Daffodil," said the Saint exquisitely. "And what's yours?"
The big man's eyebrows drew together, and his eyes hardened malevolently.
"Listen, sucker," he snarled, "you know who we are."
"I don't," said the Saint calmly. "We haven't been introduced. I tried a guess, but apparently I was wrong. You might like to tell me."
"My name's Kestry," said the big man grudgingly, "and that's Detective Bonacci. We're from headquarters. Satisfied?"
Simon nodded. He was more than satisfied. He had been thinking along those lines ever since he had looked down the barrel of the big man's gun and it had failed to belch death at him instantly and unceremoniously, as it would probably have done if any of the Kuhlmann or Ualino mobs had been behind it. The established size of the men, the weight of their shoes, and the dominant way they carried themselves had helped him to the conclusion; but he liked to be sure.
"It's nice of you to drop in," he said slowly. "I suppose you got my message."
"What message?"
"The message I sent asking you to drop in."
Kestry's eyes narrowed.
"You sent that message?"
"Surely. I was rather busy at the time myself, but I got a. bloke to do it for me."
The detective expanded his huge chest.
"That's interesting, ain't it? And what did you want to see me about?"
The Saint had been thinking fast. So a message had actually been received—his play for time had revealed that much. He wondered who could have given him away. Fay Edwards? She knew nothing. The taxi driver who had been so interested in him on the day when Papulos died? He didn't see how he could have been followed——
"What did you want to see me about?" Kestry was repeating.
"I thought you might like to hear some news about the Big Fellow."
"Did you?" said the detective, almost benignly; and then his expression changed as if a hand had smudged over a clay model. "Then, you lousy liar," he roared suddenly, "why did the guy that was phoning for you say: "This is the Big Fellow —you'll find the Saint in the tower suite of the Waldorf Astoria belonging to a Mr. Valcross—he's been treading on my toes a damn sight too long'?"
Simon Templar breathed in and out in a long sigh.
"I can't imagine," he said. "Maybe he'd had too much to drink. Now I come to think of it, he was a bit cock-eyed——"
"You're damn right you can't imagine it," Kestry bit out with pugnacious satisfaction. He had been studying" the Saint's face closely, and Simon saw suspicion and confirmation pass in procession through his mind. "I know who you are," Kestry said. "You are the Saint!"
Simon bowed. If he had had a chance to inspect himself in a mirror and discover the ravages which the night's ordeal had worked on his appearance, he might have been less surprised that the detective had taken so long to identify him.
"Congratulations, brother," he murmured. "A very pretty job of work. I suppose you're just practising tracking people down. Let's see—is there anything else I can give you to play with? . . . We used to have a couple of fairly well-preserved clues in the bathroom, but they slipped down the waste pipe last Saturday night——"
"Listen again, sucker," the detective cut in grittily. "You've had your gag, and the rest of the jokes are with me. If you play dumb, I'll soon slap it out of you. The best thing you can do is to come clean before I get rough. Understand?"
The Saint indicated that he understood. His eyes were still bright, his demeanour was as cool and debonair as it had always been; but a sense of ultimate defeat hung over him like a pall. Was this, then, the end of the adventure and the finish of the Saint? Was he destined after all to be ignominiously carted off to a cell at last, and left there like a caged tiger while on four continents the men who had feared his outlawry read of his downfall and gloated over their own salvation? He could not believe that it would end like that; but he realized that for the last few hours he had been playing a losing game. Yet there was not a hint of despair or weakness in his voice when he spoke again.
"You don't want much, do you?" he remarked gently.
"I want plenty with you," Kestry shot back. "Where's this guy Valcross?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," said the Saint honestly.
Before he realized what was happening, Kestry's great fist had knotted, drawn back, and lashed out at bis face. The blow slammed him back against the door and left his brain rocking.
"Where do I find Valcross?"
"I don't know," said the Saint, with splinters of steel glittering in his eyes. "The last tune I saw him, he was occupying a private cage in the monkey house at the Bronx Zoo, disguised as a retired detective."
Kestry's fist smacked out again with malignant force, and the Saint staggered and gripped the edge of the door for support.
"Where's Valcross?"
Simon shook his head mutely. There was no strength in his knees, and he felt dazed and giddy. He had never dreamed of being hit with such power.
Kestry's flinty eyes were fixed on him mercilessly.
"So you think you won't talk, eh?"
"I'm rather particular about whom I talk to, you big baboon," said the Saint unsteadily. "If this is your idea of playing at detectives, I don't wonder that you're a flop."
Kestry's stare reddened.
"I've got you, anyhow," he grated, and his fist swung round again and sent the Saint reeling against a bookcase.
He caught the Saint by his coat lapels with one vast hand and dragged him up again. As he did so, he seemed to notice for the first time that one of Simon's sleeves was hanging empty. He flung the coat off his right shoulder and saw the dull red of drying stains on his shirt.
"Where did you get that?" he barked.
"A louse bit me," said the Saint. "Now I come to think of it, he must have been a relation of yours."
Kestry grabbed his wrist and twisted the arm up adroitly behind his back. The strength of the detective's hands was terrific. A white-hot blaze of pure agony went through the Saint's injured shoulder, and a kind of mist swam across his eyes. He knew that he could not hold up much longer, even though he had nothing to tell. But the medieval methods of the third degree would batter and torture him into unconsciousness before they were satisfied with the consolidation of their status as the spiritual heirs of Sherlock Holmes.
And then, through the hammering of many waters that seemed to be deadening his ears, he heard the single sharp ring of a bell, and the racking of his arm eased.
"See who it is, Dan," ordered Kestry.