Free Saint Steps In by Leslie Charteris

mustn’t ask questions.” She finished her drink, and gazed into the empty
glass. “Couldn’t we go somewhere and dance?” she said abruptly.
    “No.” He came up off the chairback that he had been prop ping himself on. “I’m sorry, but
I’ve got to pack a couple of things. And then I’ll be traveling.”
    She stood up.
    “You mean you’re leaving Washington?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then
how are we going to get to know each other better?”
    “How does anyone find you?”
    “You can call Daddy’s office in New York. His secretary al ways knows where we are—he talks to her
every day. I’ll talk to her myself and ask her to tell you.”
    “Then it ought to be easy.”
    She hesitated.
    “But where are you going?”
    He thought it
over before he answered. “I’m going to
see Calvin Gray, and I’m taking Madeline with me. I told you I was looking
after them. I’d love to go dancing with
you, Andrea, but this is business.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “Near
Stamford, Connecticut.”
    “We’ve got a place at Westport,” she said lingeringly.
    “Then
we might run into each other some time,” he smiled.
    He took her to the door, and after she had gone he came back and poured himself another drink before he went to the tele phone. He had to call three or four numbers before
he located the man he wanted.
    “Hullo,
Ham,” he said. “Simon. Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m going solo for
a few days. I want a private plane to go to the nearest field to Stamford. Organize it for me,
will you? I’ll be at the airport in
an hour.”
    “You don’t want much, do you?”
    “Only
one of those little things that you handle so beauti fully, comrade … Oh, and one other thing.”
    “I suppose you’d like Eleanor to come down and see you off.”
    “Get me some dossiers. Anything and everything you can dig up—including dirt. Airmail them to me at General Delivery, Stamford. Get the names. Calvin Gray, research
chemist. A guy named Walter Devan, who
works for Quenco.” Simon lighted a cigarette. “Also Hobart
Quennel himself, and his daughter Andrea.”
    He
hung up, and sat for several moments, drawing steadily at his cigarette and watching the smoke drift away
from his lips.
    Then he went into
the bedroom and started packing his bag, humming gently to himself as he moved
about. He was traveling very light, and there wasn’t much to do. He had
practically finished when the telephone rang
again, and he picked it up.
    “Washington
Ping-Pong and Priority Club,” he said.
    “This
is Madeline Gray,” she said. “Are you still tied up?”
    “No.”
    “Can you come up to see me, or shall I come down?”
    He didn’t need to be as sensitive as he was to feel the unnatural
restraint in her voice.
    “Is
something going on,” he asked quietly, “or can’t you talk now? Just say Yes or No.”
    “Oh, yes, I can talk. There’s nobody here. I suppose I’m just silly. But …” The pause was
quite long. Then she went on, and her voice was still cold and level and sensible. “I’ve been trying to phone my father and let him
know we’re coming. But they say there’s no answer.”
    Simon relaxed on
the bed and flipped cigarette ash on the carpet.
    “Maybe he’s gone to a movie, or he’s out with the boys analys ing alcohol in one of the local
saloons.”
    “He never
goes out in the evening. He hates it. Besides, he knew I was going to phone tonight. I was going to talk to him as soon as
I’d seen Imberline. Nothing on earth would have dragged him out until he knew about that. Or do you think you’ve scared me too much?”
    The Saint lay back and stared at the ceiling, feeling cold needles tiptoeing up his spine and
gathering In spectral con clave on the nape of his neck.
     
    4
     
    Simon
Templar checked his watch mechanically as the Beechcraft sat down on the runway at Armonk airport.
One hour and fifteen minutes
from Washington was good traveling, even with
a useful tail wind, and he hoped that his