He was taking no chances that Mr. Sylvester Angert's cousin might be looking for his room in the hall outside, complete with a little tube that heard through doors.
"Will you be long?" she asked.
"I hope not. I'll take you to your room, if you don't mind."
"I'd appreciate it."
He escorted her to the elevators, rode up five floors, and saw her safely to her door. He waited until the night latch clicked and then returned to the elevators. He rode to the main lobby and spent a few minutes looking into the dining room. It was virtually deserted — for Washington — and the man he was looking for wasn't there.
Simon left the hotel and bought a taxi driver for the second time that night.
He leaned back on the cracked-leather upholstery and reached for a cigarette.
"Take me to a street that enters into Scott Circle," he directed. "One that hits the circle near the low numbers."
"You got any special number in mind, Chief?"
"Yeah, bud. I got me a number in mind, but just do like I told you, see?"
"Okay, okay. I just wanted to know."
He lit his cigarette, wondering if his tough-guy talk would convince a radio casting director, in a pinch. He decided that it wouldn't. He hadn't used it for quite a while, and he was out of practice. He made a mental note to polish up on it.
The cab drifted to a street corner on the rim of the circle, and the hackman turned.
"How's this, Cap?" he asked.
"This is swell."
He paid off the driver, waited until the cab drove away, and waited a few minutes more to make certain that the cabbie was not too curious. He surveyed the dimned-out houses on the circle and picked out the mansion which he had already visited once this evening.
There was a light in the downstairs hallway and lights in a second-floor room that must be a bedroom. As he watched, Simon saw a bulky shadow pass the drawn shade. The shadow was of proportions that hardly could have belonged to anyone else but Frank Imberline.
The downstairs light went out. The Saint moved along the sidewalk enough to see a tiny window in the back of the house go on. That meant that the colored butler must be going to bed.
Walking in the deep shadows, Simon Templar made his way to the front door of the house that surely must have been built as an ambassadorial dwelling. He worked on the lock for about a minute with an instrument from his pocket, and it ceased to be an obstruction.
"Now," he told himself, "if there's no burglar alarm, and if there's no bolt, we might get to see Comrade Imberline in person."
There was neither alarm nor bolt. Simon let himself noiselessly into the front hall and closed the door gently behind him. A circular staircase wound its way up toward the second floor, and there was no creak of a loose joist as the Saint made his way aloft. A crack of light under a door told him that Frank Imberline was still awake.
Simon pushed open the door and calmly walked into the great man's bedroom.
Imberline was seated at a desk, scanning a sheaf of papers. He was clad in maroon and gold pajamas that made the Saint blink for a moment. As Simon stepped into the room, the rubber tycoon swung his heavy head in his direction and popped his eyes, the unhealthy ruddiness slowly ebbing from his face.
"Who are you?" he croaked.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Imberline," said the Saint soothingly. "I'm not a hold-up man, and I'm not an indignant taxpayer proposing to beat you up."
"Then who the devil are you, and what do you want?"
"My name is Simon Templar, and I just wanted to talk to you."
"How did you get in here?"
"I walked in," said the Saint, "through the front door."
"You broke in!"
Simon shook his head.
"I didn't break anything," he said innocently. "I just used one of my little tricks on the lock. Really. I did no damage at all."
Imberline made gargling noises in his throat.
"This is — this is—"
"I know," said the Saint wearily. "I know. I should have applied for an audience through the usual channels, and filled out half a dozen forms in quintuplicate. But after all there is a war going on — to coin a phrase — and it just occurred to me that this might save us waiting a few months to meet each other."
The red came back into Frank Imberline's square face and he seemed to swell within his gorgeous pajamas.
"I'll have you know," he said, in a half-bellow, "that such high-handed tactics as this — these — must be dealt with by the proper authorities I I will not be intimidated, sir, by any high handed—"
"You said that before," Simon reminded him politely. "Well — what in hell do you want?"
"I want to talk to you about a man who has invented a synthetic rubber process. One Calvin Gray."
Imberline drew his heavy brows down over his little eyes. "What about Calvin Gray?" he demanded.
"I'm interested in Mr. Gray's process," said the Saint, "and I'm wondering why the man can't get a hearing with you."
Imberline waved a pudgy hand in a disdainful gesture.
"A nut, Mr. — er — Templar," he said. "A nut, pure and simple. From what I've heard, he claims he can make rubber out of rhubarb, or something. Impossible, of course. I hope you haven't invested any money in his invention, sir."
"A fool and his money are soon parted," Simon said wisely.
"Yes," Imberline grunted. "Quite so. But this outrageous breaking into a man's house — a man's house is his castle, you know — you really have no excuse for that."
The big man got out of the chair by the desk and stalked over to the bureau. He took a fat cigar from the box on the bureau top and rammed it into his mouth. Simon's eyes were watchful. But Imberline's hand did not move toward the handle of any drawer that might have contained a gun. He marched back across the room and slumped down into a deep easy chair.
"Okay," he said over his cigar. "So you broke in here to talk to me about Gray's invention. I could throw you out or have you arrested, but instead I'll listen to what you have to say."
"Very kind of you," Simon murmured. "A soft answer turneth away stuff."
"What is it you want to know?" Imberline asked bluntly. "I'm a busy man, and every minute counts."
"While time and tide wait for no man."
"Get to the point. Why are you here?"
Simon placed a cigarette between his lips and snapped his lighter. He was aware of Imberline's gimlet eyes watching his every movement. He exhaled a long plume of smoke and sat on the end of the bed.
"Have you ever seen Gray's product?" he asked.
"Once — or maybe twice."
"And what was your opinion?"
If it were possible for the hulking shoulders of Frank Imberline to shrug, they would have.
"It's something that could be synthetic — and it's something that could be made-over rubber, cleverly disguised."
"You investigated it thoroughly, I suppose?"
"I had my staff investigate it. Their report was bad. That man Gray pestered me for weeks, trying to get to see me, and finally gave up. I hear his daughter is in town now, still trying to waste my time."
"You haven't made an appointment with her?"
"Certainly not. There are only so many hours in the day—"
"And so many days in the week—"
"Young man," said Mr. Imberline magisterially, "I am a public servant. I have the most humble respect for the trust which has been placed in me, and my daily responsibility is to make sure that not one hour — not one minute — of my time shall be frittered away on things from which the Community cannot benefit."