Leslie Charteris - The Saint Sees it Through

"Looking for me?"

"Yes, come on," Kay Natello said, in the voice which was so like an overstrained buzz-saw.

"The most marvellous thing, darling," Ferdinand burbled. "Magnamount's going to do a picture around Cookie's Canteen. We'll all be in it. And you're to have a good role. So come along. Cookie wants to be sure you'll play before she signs up with Mr. Pfeffer."

"Mr. Pfeffer being—?"

"The producer, dear girl. He's very quaint."

Avalon stood in indecision for a moment. She seemed to find nothing to say. But at last she said: "Okay. You two run along. I'll join you shortly. At Cookie's?"

"But you can't possibly," Ferdinand objected. "And surely you haven't anything to do in this dismal place. You couldn't be interested in any of the sordid characters who find their way in here. What are you doing here anyway?"

"I lost a gold compact and a pair of earrings out of my purse in a taxi," she said. "I thought this would be the place to report it. Not that I expect it'll do much good."

"It probably won't," Ferdinand said. "But I'll help you talk to these dreadful barbarians, and then we can all ride back up town together."

The two young men who rang James Prather's doorbell might have been well-dressed haberdasher's assistants, shoe salesmen, or stockbrokers. They told the goggle-eyed Mr. Prather that they were attached to the Treasury Department and had credentials to prove it. One of them, a calm blond boyish young man, said his name was Harrison. He introduced the other, who was red-headed and freckled, as Smith.

Prather's pale hands fluttered in the direction of the divan.

"Sit down, will you? What's the matter? Income Tax trouble?"

Smith placed his blue felt hat on his well-pressed knee and said nothing. He seemed intensely interested in the hat. Harrison pushed his own hat back on his tow hair and seemed to develop a curiosity about the ceiling. Nobody said anything. Prather remained standing, not quite twisting his hands together; and his lobster-like eyes moved from Harrison to Smith and back.

Harrison broke the silence lazily: "You know a man named Sam Jeffries, I believe?"

Prather frowned.

"Jeffries? Jeffries? No, I think not."

"He said he was here to see you. He was quite definite about the location."

Prather frowned again.

"Oh... Yes, Yes, I think I remember who you mean. Yes. He was here, all right. What about him?"

Smith raised his freckled face.

"How's Shanghai these days?"

Prather blinked.

Harrison said: "Specifically, 903 Bubbling Well Road."

Prather blinked again. The effect was rather like raising and lowering a curtain rapidly over thickly curved lenses.

"I don't know what you're talking about, of course."

"Ah?" Smith said.

"Oh?" Harrison said.

"And I don't understand why the Treasury Department should be interested in me."

Harrison leaned back and looked at the far corner of the room. "I believe Sam Jeffries brought you a package — or packages?"

"Yes. He picked up a piece of carving for me in Shanghai — an old Chinese monk carrying a basket of fish. Very pretty."

"Where is it?" Smith asked.

"I — uh — I gave it to a — well, you know how it is — a girl."

"U'mm," Smith said.

"H'mm," Harrison said. "Where did you meet this Jeffries?"

"Oh — uh — you know — around — I don't remember."

Smith pushed a hand through his red hair and looked directly at Prather.

"According to the information that we have," he said, like a class valedictorian reciting, "you met Sam Jeffries for the first time in a place known as Cookie's Canteen on August 18, last year. At that time you entered into some kind of an agreement with him, which required a handshake to seal it, and he went on his way. On November 30, Sam Jeffries met you here in this apartment and brought with him his friend, Joe Hyman. Why? What agreement did you enter into with the two of them?"

"If you two guys would give me some idea of what you're trying to find out," Prather said, "I might be able to help you. So far you haven't made any sense at all."

Harrison moved his eyes, giving the impression of a Government Man on an important job.

"Suppose you answer a few questions for a change, Mr. Prather. We could take you downtown with us and make quite a business of this, you know."

"What goes? AH you've done so far is make innuendoes. You haven't accused me of anything specific, and — well — hell! I don't like it!"

Smith turned his freckled face directly on Prather.

"What is 903 Bubbling Well Road to you? What did you say to Sam Jeffries? Who's the guy above you? How do you think you're going to get out of all this? There, my friend, are some specific questions."

James Prather's cock-lobster eyes regarded Mr. Smith with a sort of frantic intensity.

"But — but — but—"

Harrison said: "I see. Maybe you'd better come along with us, Mr. Prather."

Prather, it was quite obvious, searched his conscience, his capabilities, and appraised his ingenuity. He looked at Harrison. He looked at Smith, and his thoughts retreated into the inside of his own mind. From somewhere he gathered a certain nervous courage, and he set his mouth in a quivering line.

"I don't know what you're after, but I do know one thing. I can stand on my constitutional rights. Unless you have any formal charges to bring against me, I don't have to say anything to you. Good day, gentlemen."

"Well," Harrison said.

"Ho-hum," Smith said.

The two young men got lazily to their feet and eyed the jittering Prather without expression for a long time. Then they went away. Prather was also on his way as soon as he could get into a jacket and grab a hat. He flagged a taxi in front of the apartment house, and directed the driver to Dr. Zellermann's Park Avenue offices.

Zellermann was not happy to see him. His long face would have made ice-cubes seem like firecrackers. He chose his words carefully, as if he were picking each one out of a hat.

"And so you led them directly to me. Mr. Prather, I consider this a very ill-advised move on your part."

"I didn't lead them to you. I wasn't followed."

"May I ask just how you know that? In your present condition you wouldn't see an elephant following you." Dr. Zellermann picked up his phone, and dialed a number. "Bring two of your boys with you immediately."

"What — what are you going to do?" Prather asked. He repeated the question three times.

Dr. Zellermann made a triangle with the thumb and forefingers of his two white hands, and rested his chin upon the apex. He looked at James Prather as if he were a subject being discussed by a class in zoology.

"One of the principal aims of this particular organization, as you know, is to take care of our own. You, inadvertently, have placed us in a position where you are in danger — physically, morally, and legally. We believe that it is to the interests of the organization to protect you. That was the purpose of my call."

"You mean then you're not—"

"Going to—"

"Well — uh—"

"Liquidate you? My dear Mr. Prather, please! As I said before our prime motivation in these present circumstances is to take care of our own. While we are waiting, I want you to tell me exactly what you told the Government men."

James Prather's mind was a roil of emotions. Uppermost, of course, was the instinct of self-preservation. He not only had no desire to die, but his every thought was directed strictly towards keeping himself alive. He cast into his mind for motives, inferences, and implications in Dr. Zellermann's attitude which might be at odds with that inherent drive which is born into every man.