still—— ” He
nodded at Avalon. “Thought we had something there—uh, Miss. But seems she’s staked out. So we’ll blow.”
More
handshakes, and they were gone.
Kay
Natello came over to greet them, and in that voice like a nutmeg
grater on tin cans, asked, “What’ll it be?”
She didn’t seem to be anxious to cut up old
touch é s with Simon, so he played
it her way.
“Old Foresters all around.
Doubles,” he added, remembering the strength of drinks at Cookie’s.
“Now,” the Saint said when Kay had
gone. “Tell me about Dr. Zellermann.”
“What
is there to tell?”
Prather didn’t seem uncomfortable. There
was, in his mind, nothing to tell. At least, he gave that impression.
“He’s a psychiatrist,” he went on.
“A good one, maybe. Any rate, he gets good prices.”
“Well,” the Saint said. “Maybe
we’d better drop him. Let’s just have fun, kids.”
Avalon looked several volumes of unprintable
material at the Saint and asked: “How do you propose to do
that?”
“By displaying my erudition,
darling.” The Saint smiled gently at her, and then bent attentive eyes
on Prather as he said: “For instance. Do you know the word
‘cougak’?”
This brought no response. Simon sighed
inwardly. Might as well get it out into the open, he thought. “It’s the
term applied to
the bloom of a certain plant known as Pavarer somniferum. It’s cultivated chiefly in Asia. After the poppy
flowers, and the leaves fall off, the
remaining pod develops a bloom, easily rubbed
off with the fingers, called cougak. Then it is time to make the
incision.”
“What are you talking about?” Avalon demanded.
“Mr.
Prather, I think,” said the Saint.
Prather blinked his overblue
eyes at Simon.
“I’m
sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” the
Saint said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
He noted that Kay Natello, who had been
hovering in the middle distance, took her departure at this point and
vanished through the archway at the back. Had there been a signal?
If so, he hadn’t caught it.
“Mr.
Prather,” he said, “you must find life quite exhilarating. Contact
with the major ports of the world, and all that.”
Prather
stared, his eyes more lobster-like than usual.
“What
are you talking about?”
There was no mistaking the honest
bewilderment in the prominent
blue eyes, and this gave the Saint pause. According to his ideas on the
organization he was bucking, Prather would be
one of the key men. Sam Jeffries had substantiated this no tion, in his interrupted story to Avalon: “. .
. and there was this guy we had to
see in Shanghai.”
That fitted in with the whole theory of
“Benny sent me.” A contact was made here, instructions given, perhaps
an advance made. Then the delivery of a package in the Orient or
the Near East, which was returned to New York and duly turned over to James
Prather or a prototype. All this made sense, made a pat tern.
But here was James Prather, obviously bewildered by the plainest kind of a lead. Was the man cleverer
than he seemed? Was he putting on an act that could mislead that expert
act-detector, the Saint? Or was he honestly in the dark about the Saint’s meaning? And if he was, why was he here
immediately after a visit from two
sailors freshly back from the Orient?
Mr. James Prather, it seemed, was in this
picture somewhere, and it behooved the Saint to find out where.
“Well,” Simon said, “no matter. We have more important
things to do, such as demolishing our—— But we
have no drinks.” He motioned to
an aproned individual, who came to the
table and assumed an attitude of servility. “Three more of the
same. Old Forester.”
The waiter took the empty glasses and went
away. The Saint turned his most winning smile on Prather.
“I wasn’t really shooting in the
dark,” he said. “But I guess my remarks weren’t
down the right alley.”
“Whatever you say,” Prather
replied, “I
nodded at Avalon. “Thought we had something there—uh, Miss. But seems she’s staked out. So we’ll blow.”
More
handshakes, and they were gone.
Kay
Natello came over to greet them, and in that voice like a nutmeg
grater on tin cans, asked, “What’ll it be?”
She didn’t seem to be anxious to cut up old
touch é s with Simon, so he played
it her way.
“Old Foresters all around.
Doubles,” he added, remembering the strength of drinks at Cookie’s.
“Now,” the Saint said when Kay had
gone. “Tell me about Dr. Zellermann.”
“What
is there to tell?”
Prather didn’t seem uncomfortable. There
was, in his mind, nothing to tell. At least, he gave that impression.
“He’s a psychiatrist,” he went on.
“A good one, maybe. Any rate, he gets good prices.”
“Well,” the Saint said. “Maybe
we’d better drop him. Let’s just have fun, kids.”
Avalon looked several volumes of unprintable
material at the Saint and asked: “How do you propose to do
that?”
“By displaying my erudition,
darling.” The Saint smiled gently at her, and then bent attentive eyes
on Prather as he said: “For instance. Do you know the word
‘cougak’?”
This brought no response. Simon sighed
inwardly. Might as well get it out into the open, he thought. “It’s the
term applied to
the bloom of a certain plant known as Pavarer somniferum. It’s cultivated chiefly in Asia. After the poppy
flowers, and the leaves fall off, the
remaining pod develops a bloom, easily rubbed
off with the fingers, called cougak. Then it is time to make the
incision.”
“What are you talking about?” Avalon demanded.
“Mr.
Prather, I think,” said the Saint.
Prather blinked his overblue
eyes at Simon.
“I’m
sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” the
Saint said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
He noted that Kay Natello, who had been
hovering in the middle distance, took her departure at this point and
vanished through the archway at the back. Had there been a signal?
If so, he hadn’t caught it.
“Mr.
Prather,” he said, “you must find life quite exhilarating. Contact
with the major ports of the world, and all that.”
Prather
stared, his eyes more lobster-like than usual.
“What
are you talking about?”
There was no mistaking the honest
bewilderment in the prominent
blue eyes, and this gave the Saint pause. According to his ideas on the
organization he was bucking, Prather would be
one of the key men. Sam Jeffries had substantiated this no tion, in his interrupted story to Avalon: “. .
. and there was this guy we had to
see in Shanghai.”
That fitted in with the whole theory of
“Benny sent me.” A contact was made here, instructions given, perhaps
an advance made. Then the delivery of a package in the Orient or
the Near East, which was returned to New York and duly turned over to James
Prather or a prototype. All this made sense, made a pat tern.
But here was James Prather, obviously bewildered by the plainest kind of a lead. Was the man cleverer
than he seemed? Was he putting on an act that could mislead that expert
act-detector, the Saint? Or was he honestly in the dark about the Saint’s meaning? And if he was, why was he here
immediately after a visit from two
sailors freshly back from the Orient?
Mr. James Prather, it seemed, was in this
picture somewhere, and it behooved the Saint to find out where.
“Well,” Simon said, “no matter. We have more important
things to do, such as demolishing our—— But we
have no drinks.” He motioned to
an aproned individual, who came to the
table and assumed an attitude of servility. “Three more of the
same. Old Forester.”
The waiter took the empty glasses and went
away. The Saint turned his most winning smile on Prather.
“I wasn’t really shooting in the
dark,” he said. “But I guess my remarks weren’t
down the right alley.”
“Whatever you say,” Prather
replied, “I
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