Bonacci nodded and went out. Kestry kept his grip on the Saint's arm, ready to renew his private entertainment as soon as the intrusion was disposed of, but his eyes were watching the door.
It was Inspector Fernack who came in.
He stood just inside the room, pushing back his hat, and took in the scene with hard and alert grey eyes. His craglike face showed neither elation nor surprise; the set of his massive shoulders was as solid and immutable as a mountain.
"What's this?" he asked.
"We got the Saint," Kestry proclaimed exultantly. "The other guy—Valcross—ain't been here, but this punk'll soon tell me where to look for him. I was just puttin' him on the grill ——"
"You're telling me?" Fernack roared in on him abruptly, in a voice that dwarfed even the bull-throated harshness of his subordinate's. "You bloody fool! Who told you to do it here? Where d'you get that stuff, anyway?"
Kestry gulped as if he could not believe his ears.
"But say, Chief, where's the harm? This mug wouldn't come through—he was wisecrackin' as if this was some game we were playin' at—and I didn't want to waste any time gettin' Valcross as well ——"
"So that's what they taught you at the Police Academy, huh?" Fernack ripped in searingly. "I always wondered what that place was for. That's a swell idea, Kestry. You go ahead. Tear the place to pieces. Wake all the other guests in the hotel up an' get a crowd outside. Bonacci can be ringing up the tabloids an' gettin' some reporters in to watch while you're doing it. The commissioner'll be tickled to death. He'll probably resign and hand you his job!"
Kestry let go the Saint's wrist and edged away. Simon had never seen anything like it. The great blustering bully of a few moments ago was transformed into the almost ludicrous semblance of a schoolboy who has been caught stealing apples. Kestry practically wriggled.
"I was only tryin' to save time. Chief," he pleaded.
"Get outside, and have a taxi waiting," Fernack commanded tersely. "I'll bring the Saint down myself. After that you can go home. Bonacci, you stay here an' wait for Valcross if he comes in. . . ."
Simon had admired Fernack before, but he had never appreciated the dominance of the man's character so much. Fernack literally towered over the scene like a god, booming out curt, precise directions that had the effect of cannon balls. In less than a minute after he had entered the room he had cleaned it up as effectively as if he had gone through it with a giant's flail. Kestry almost slunk away, vacating the apartment as if he never wished to see it again. Bonacci, who had been edging away into an inconspicuous corner, sank into a chair as if he hoped it would swallow him up completely until the thunder had gone. Fernack was left looming over the situation like a volcano, and there was a gleam in his frosted gaze which hinted that he would not have cared if there had been another half-dozen pygmies for him to destroy.
He eyed the Saint steadily, taking in the marks of battle which were on him. The detective's keen stare missed nothing, but no reaction appeared on the granite squareness of his face. From the beginning he had given no sign of recognition; and Simon, accepting the cue, was equally impassive.
"Come on," Fernack grunted.
He took the Saint's sound arm and led him out to the elevator. They rode down in silence and found Kestry waiting sheepishly with a taxi. Fernack pushed the Saint in and turned to his lieutenant.
"You can go with us," he said.
They journeyed downtown in the same atmosphere of silent tension. Kestry's muteness was aggrieved and plaintive, yet wisely self-effacing; Fernack refrained from talking because he chose to refrain—he was majestically unconcerned with what reasons might be attributed to his taciturnity. Simon wondered what was passing in the iron detective's mind. Fernack had given him his chance once, had even confessed himself theoretically in sympathy; but things had passed beyond a point where personal prejudices could dictate their course. The Saint thought that he had discerned a trace of private enthusiasm in the temperature of the bawling out which Fernack had given Kestry, but even that meant little. The Saint had given the city of New York a lot of trouble since that night when he had talked to Fernack in Central Park, and he respected Fernack's rugged honesty too much to think of any personal appeal. As the cards fell, so they lay.
The Saint was getting beyond caring. The vast weariness which had enveloped him had dragged him down to the point where he could do little more than wait with outward stubbornness for whatever Fate had in store. If he must go down, he would go down as he had lived, with a jest and a smile; but the fight was sapped out of him. His whole being had settled down to the acceptance of an infinity of pain and fatigue. He only wanted to rest. He scarcely noticed the brief order from Fernack which switched the cab across towards Washington Square; and when it stopped and the door was opened he climbed out apathetically, and was surprised to find that he was not in Centre Street
Fernack followed him out and turned to Kestry.
"This is my apartment," he said. "I'm going to have a talk to the Saint here. You can go on. Report to me in the mom-ing. Good-night."
He took the Saint's arm again and led him into the house, leaving the bewildered Kestry to find his own explanations. Fernack's apartment was on the street level, at the back— Simon was a trifle perplexed to find that it had a bright, comfortable living room, with a few good etchings on the walls and bookcases filled with books which looked as if they had been read.
"You're never too old to learn," said Fernack, who missed nothing. "I been tryin' to get some dope about these Greeks. Did you ever hear of Euripides?" He pronounced it Eury-pieds. "I asked a Greek who keeps a chop house on Mott Street, an' he hadn't; but the clerk in the bookstore told me he was a big shot." He threw his hat down in a chair and picked up a bottle. "Would you like a drink?"
"I could use it," said the Saint with a wry grin.
Fernack poured it out and handed him the glass. It was a liberal measure. He gave the Saint time to swallow some of it and light a cigarette, and then spat at the cuspidor which stood out incongruously by the hearth.
"Saint, you're a damn fool," he said abruptly.
"Aren't we all?" said the Saint helplessly.
"I mean you more than most. I've talked to you once. You know what it's all about. You know what I'm supposed to do now."
"Fetch out the old baseball bat and rubber hose, I take it," said the Saint savagely. "Well, I know all about it. I've met your Mr. Kestry. As a substitute for intelligence and a reasonable amount of routine work, it must be the slickest thing that was ever invented."
"We use it here," Fernack said trenchantly. "We've found that it works as well as anything. The only thing is, some fools don't know when you've gotta use it and when you're wastin' your time. That ain't the point. I got you here for something else. You've been out and around for some time since we had our talk. How close have you got to the Big Fellow?"
The question slammed out like a shot, without pause or artifice, and something in the way it was put told Simon that the time for evasions and badinage was over.
"I was pretty damn near it when I walked into Kestry's loving arms," he said. "In fact, I could have picked up a message in about an hour that ought to have taken me straight to him."
Fernack nodded. His keen grey eyes were fixed steadily on the Saint's face.
"I'm not askin' you how you did it or who's sending you the message. You move fast. You're clever. It's queer that one little bullet can break up a guy like you."
He put a hand in his hip pocket, as if his last sentence had suggested a thought which required concrete expression, and pulled out a pearl-handled gun. He tossed it in the palm of his hand.
"Guns mean a lot in this racket," he said. "If a bullet out of a gun hadn't hit you, you might have got away from Kestry and Bonacci. I wouldn't put it beyond you. If you had this gun now, you'd be able to get away from me." He dropped the revolver carelessly on the table and stared at it. "That would be pretty tough for me," he said.