Saint in New York by Leslie Charteris Read Free Book Online Page A

the Saint’s mind had leapt to some strat egy of lightning cunning that Nather could not
see.
    “You’ll get your chance,” said the
judge gruffly, searching for comprehension through a kind of fog.
    Simon rasped the head of a match with his
left thumbnail, applied
the spluttering flame to the tip of his cigarette, and inhaled luxuriously. With a drift of smoke trailing back through his lips, he lounged towards a large
tapestried Morris chair that stood
between the French windows by which he had entered, and swung the chair around with his foot so that its heavily padded side was presented to the door
through which the detective would
enter.
    He came back, overturned the wastebasket with an adroit twist of his toe, and picked up the crumpled scrap
of paper and dropped it into his pocket in one smooth swoop that frus trated the judge’s flash of fight even before the
idea was con ceived. He pulled open
the drawer to which Nather’s hand had
jumped at the first sound of his voice, and transferred the revolver from it to
his hip. And then, with the scene set to his satisfaction, he walked back to
his chosen chair and settled himself comfortably in it with his right leg
draped gracefully over the arm.
    He flicked a quarter inch of ash from his
cigarette onto the expensive carpet.
    “When your man announces Fernack,”
he directed, “open the door and let him in. And come back
yourself. Under stand?”
    Nather did not understand. His brain was
still fumbling dazedly
for the catch that he could not find. On the face of it, it seemed like the answer to a prayer. With
Fernack on the scene, there must be the chance of a way out for him—away to retrieve that scrap of paper buried in Templar’s pocket and to dispose of the Saint himself. But something
told him that the calm smiling man in
the chair was not legislating foe any such
d é nouement.
    Simon read his thoughts.
    “The gun won’t be in evidence for a while, Nather. But it’ll be handy. And at this range I’m a real sniper. I
shouldn’t want you to get excited
over any notions of ganging up on me with Fernack. Somebody might get hurt.”
    Nather’s gaze rested on him venomously.
    “Some day,” said the judge slowly,
“I hope we shall meet again.”
    “In Sing Sing,” suggested the Saint
breezily. “Let’s call it a date.”
    He drew on his cigarette again and listened
to the returning footsteps of the butler, accompanied by a heavier, more determined
tread. Asa matter of fact, he was innocent of all sub terfuge.
There was nothing more behind his decision than ap peared on the face of
it. Fernack was there, and the Saint saw no reason why they
should not meet. His whole evening had started off in the
same spirit of open-minded expectation, and it had turned out
very profitably. He waited the addition to his growing circle of
acquaintances with no less kindly in terest.
    The butler’s knuckles touched the door again.
    “Inspector Fernack, sir.”
    Simon waved the judge on, and Nather crossed
the room slowly.
Every foot of the distance he was conscious of the con cealed automatic that was aiming into his back. He snapped the key over in the lock and opened the door; and
Inspector Fernack shouldered his
brawny bulk across the threshold.
    *    *    *
    “Why the locked door, Judge?”
Fernack inquired sourly. “Getting nervous?”
    Nather closed the door without answering, and
Simon de cided to
oblige.
    “I did it,” he explained. Fernack,
who had not noticed him, whirled round in surprise; and Simon went on:
“Would you mind locking it again, Judge—just as I told you?”
    Nather hesitated for a second and then obeyed.
Fernack stared blankly at the figure lounging in the armchair and then turned
with puzzled eyes to the judge. He pushed back his battered fedora and
pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
    “What the hell is this?” he
demanded; and Nather shrugged.
    “A nut,” he said tersely.
    Simon ignored the insult, studying the man