Saint Steps In by Leslie Charteris Page B

again.
    “That’s
better. Now will you turn around?” The man obeyed. “Now walk backwards towards me.”
    The man shuffled back, dragging his feet reluctantly. When he was still six feet away, the Saint
took two noiseless strides to meet him. Without changing his grip on his gun, he brought up his right hand and smashed the butt
down on the back of the
man’s head. The man’s knees buckled, and he feel for ward on to his hands. Simon trod hard on the small of his back and flattened him. Then he came down on him with
his knees.
    He dropped his
gun into a side pocket, grasped the lapels of the
man’s coat, and hauled it back over the man’s shoulders to the level of
his elbows. In a few lightning movements he emptied
the man’s pockets. He got a short-barreled revolver from one hip, and a blackjack from the other. The
other pockets yielded very little—a ten-dollar bill, some small change, a car key, one of those pocket-knives that open up
into the equivalent of a small chest
of tools, and a thin wallet.
    Simon
gathered up the revolver, the blackjack, the knife, and the wallet, and retreated with them to the
nearest work bench. He put the revolver
and the knife in another of his pockets. Then he took out his own automatic again and kept it in his
hand. He sat side-saddle on the bench while he emptied the wallet. It contained three new twenty-dollar
bills, a cou ple of stamps, the stub of
a Pullman ticket, a draft card with a 4-F classification, and a New York driving license.
    Both the draft
card and the driving license bore the name of Karl
Morgen.
    “Karl,”
said the Saint softly, “it was certainly nice of you to drop in.”
    The
man on the floor groaned and struggled to get his head off the ground.
    Simon
Templar fished out a cigarette and then a book of matches. He thumbed one of
the matches over until he could rub the head on the striking pad one-handed. His eyes and his gun stayed watchfully on his prisoner.
And all of him was awake with
a great and splendiferous serenity.
    If
there could have been anything better than a hundred per cent fulfillment of the wildest possibilities he had dreamed of, he
had been modest enough not to ask for it.
    He could get along very beautifully with this much.
    Karl Morgen. A
man who had something to do with Imberline. A man who could be used for
kidnaping. A man who had once worked for
Calvin Gray. A man of very questionable antecedents. A man who might tie many curious things to gether.
All combined in one blessed bountiful bonanza.
    The Saint exhaled smoke and regarded him almost affec tionately.
    He said: “Get up.”
    Morgen had his head off the ground. He got his elbows un der him and hunched his back. Then he
gathered in his long legs. Somehow he got himself together and crawled up off the floor. He stood unsteadily, clutching
the end of the work bench
for support.
    “Karl,”
said the Saint, “you used to work here.”
    “So what?”
    “Why did you come back?”            
    The man’s eyes were unflinchingly malevolent.
    “That’s none
of your business, bud.”
    “Oh, but it
is. Where were you last night?”
    Morgen took his time.
    Then
he said: “In Washington.”
    “So you were. You were in the dining room of the Shoreham with Frank Imberline.”
    “That’s
no crime.”
    “We
got a bit crowded, and you slipped a note in my pocket.”

“I did not.”
    “The
note said ‘Mind your own business.’ “
    “Why don’t you do that, bud?”
    The Saint was still patient.
    “Where
were you after that?”
    Again that deliberate pause. This wasn’t a man who pan icked. He thought all around what he
was going to say before he said it.
    “I
was with a friend. Playin’ cards.”
    “You were with a friend. But you weren’t playing cards. You were trying to kidnap Miss Gray. That was when we met again.”
    “You’ll have to prove that, bud.”
    “Both
Miss Gray and I are ready to identify you.”
    “And my friend will say we were playin’