“Really, chum,” he protested. “Is my diaper showing? Whatever booby-trap you’ve got in that hack, you shouldn’t insult me by being so unsubtle about it.”
“You are Mr Templar, aren’t you?” said the driver. “The chap they call the Saint?”
The Saint saw no point in an empty denial.
“I have been called that.”
The driver climbed down from his seat and came towards him, holding a folded piece of paper in his hand. Simon watched him come without moving, except for shifting a little more weight invisibly on to his toes. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his bronzed pirate’s face which might have suggested that he was not only ready but almost hoping for the approach to turn into an attack.
“I have a message for you, sir,” the man said.
“My telephone is in order, and so is the national postal service, I think,” the Saint said pleasantly. “My friends are getting awfully snobbish if they won’t use either one.”
“It was a man what wouldn’t give his name,” said the driver, who was small and ugly and cheerful-looking. “Came up to me by Piccadilly and give me this.”
Simon unfolded the paper and saw typed there a name and an address.
Perry Loudon 54 Pinter Street Chelsea
“Never heard of him,” he said. “And it’s not much of a message, either.”
But in the faint electric chill which ran along his bones he knew that fate and his reputation as an outlaw who preyed on the lawless were trying to involve him again in one of those adventures which had made his life a legend.
“I was told to ask you to let me take you there, sir,” the driver said. “This bloke says it would be well worth your while — something you’d never want to miss — and the fare is all paid in advance, including wherever you’d like to go afterwards.” The driver grinned his ugly cheerful grin. “He was most generous with me. I told him I’d do me best.”
The Saint let his blue eyes dwell thoughtfully on the other’s face for a moment, and then he looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. He had no engagements for the evening, other than a cocktail party where he could show up at any time, or not at all. In such a convenient state of availability, Simon Templar could no more have passed up such a challenge than a prospector could have ignored a glittering vein of raw gold suddenly revealed by a cave-in.
“It’s still a pretty vague invitation,” he said. “But let’s give it a whirl.”
The cabby opened the door for him, and they were on their way.
“Who was this fellow who hired you?” the Saint asked.
The driver turned his head half way and spoke over his shoulder.
“Never saw him before. Kind of young and with light hair. Well dressed. But he said that’s not his name in the note.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“That’s it. I figured you might know something about it yourself, sir.”
Simon decided to ignore the implied question and sit back in his seat and enjoy the rest of the ride. One of the secrets of happy buccaneering was the ability to relax completely when not actually engaged in combat or the chase, and to waste no energy on futile speculation. As far as the state of his nerves was concerned, the Saint might have been off to a movie instead of a rendezvous with the unknown.
“Here we are, sir. I’ll wait.”
They were a block and a half up a turning off the King’s Road.
“Never mind,” Simon said. “You’ve spent enough time on this job.”
He stepped out on to the sidewalk, and the cab pulled away. The Saint stood for a moment to get the feel of the neighborhood. The long summer evening was still bright and the only distinct sign of the hour was the smell of cooking food, heavily dominated by garlic, which apparently is favored by artists throughout the civilized world. And this Chelsea district was definitely populated by artists of all kinds — mostly, Simon was afraid, by the kinds whose masterworks exist only in dreams.
A miniskirted girl hurried past him with an outsized portfolio clutched to her bosom. A longhaired creature of indeterminate gender strode across the little-traveled street with a pile of thin volumes in his, her, or its hands. A gaunt bearded type in blue jeans and sleeveless T-shirt trudged along the gutter with a bunch of bananas in one hand and a guitar under his arm; Simon wondered if the bananas were to eat or for smoking.
Number 54 Pinter Street was very much like the other numbers. It was a narrow, two-storied house with a sharply peaked roof, shoulder to shoulder with its neighbors on either side. Simon went up the shallow flight of steps which led to the front door and read the card tacked above the bell. On it, in a strong and ornate hand, was penned the name Perry Loudon.
The Saint, whose experience with the doorbells of possible enemies had not instilled in him any great trust, pressed the button with one end of his rolled newspaper. There was no sound, as far as he could hear, and when a second try brought no response he pushed open the door, which was already several inches ajar. From upstairs he could hear heavy thumping sounds. As he stepped into the hallway the thumping stopped and was replaced by a faint hissing noise.
“Hullo!” Simon called. “Anybody homer?”
“Come on up, whoever you are,” was the reply, in deep masculine tones which had no particular quality of friendliness.
The hissing continued as the Saint climbed the stairs. It originated in the room to the right of the landing.
Looking in, he at first had the impression that he had come on some monstrous junk yard. The entire space was cluttered with tangles of metal and glass — some of them taller than Simon’s head, a few no larger than a potato. A door, slightly ajar, led on to the flat kitchen roof at the rear of the house. A stool and straight chair were the only furniture besides a heavy table. In among the sculptures was a black-maned apparition in blue goggles and a leather apron. In his hairy strong hand was the source of the hissing sound — a welder’s torch spurting blue flame.
He looked up from his work, which consisted of fusing a new contortion of steel to one of the larger metal constructions, and turned his opaque goggles on the Saint. His stocky body seemed to undergo a shift from relaxed indifference to tense defensiveness. He shut off the welding torch.
“I told you never to come back here,” he snarled.
The Saint stood in the doorway for a moment, and then strolled casually into the forest of drooled and twisted metal.
“That’s odd,” he said. “I was under the impression I’d just been asked to call.”
The sculptor made an empty threatening gesture with his dead torch and then flung it on the floor.
“No playing games any more,” he said furiously. “Get out! Beat it! And take your bloody portrait with you!”
He turned to the nearest wall and yanked down a foot-square plaque. Then he came toward the Saint and threw it to him. There was something like a distorted human face faintly discernible in the tangle of dark steel.
“Am I supposed to recognize this?” Simon asked. “Or is this just your peculiar way of trying to make a sale?”
“It’s on the back — just so you don’t forget.”
The Saint turned over the plaque. There was lettering cut into the metal.
The sculptor had already gone back to his welding. Simon had reached the limit of his patience, and he took the metal plaque and threw it to the floor so close to the other man’s feet that only his excellent aim prevented a double amputation. The artist whirled angrily and shut off his torch again.
“That’s enough,” he said, crouching into a fighting stance. “You’re asking for it.”