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Authors: Leslie Charteris
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wind is full of straws. I’m
watching to see how they fall.”
“I trust you know the difference
between straws and hay,” Hamilton said somewhat darkly, and rang off.
Simon picked up a paper on the way out of the
hotel, and found the death of Gamaliel Bradford Foley recorded in
two paragraphs on
an inside page.
DEATH LOOKS IN
ON TOP SEAMEN’S
UNION OFFICIAL
Gamaliel Bradford Foley,
secretary of the Seamen’s Union. Local 978 (AFL). was found stabbed to death in his Brooklyn apartment early this morning by
police.
A telephone
tip—“You’ll recognize him by the knife he’s
wearing, in his back”—sent patrol car 12 to the scene.
Officers J. R. McCutcheon and I. P. Wright found the corpse in the apartment bedroom, with a butcher knife in its back.
An arrest is expected any moment. Inspector
Fernack told reporters today.
It wasn’t a smile that twisted the Saint’s
sensitive mouth as the taxi took him to Avalon’s place—it was a grimace of
skep ticism. “An arrest is expected any moment.” He shrugged. The police
certainly knew no more than himself—not as much, as a matter of fact. He
knew of the connection, however nebulous, between Foley and Dr. Zellermann. How
could the police ex pect an arrest?
Ah, well. That was the sort of thing
reporters put on copy paper. City editors had to be considered, too. If you, as a re porter, phoned your desk with a story, you wanted
something to lead into a follow-up
yarn, and “arrest expected” certainly indicated more to come.
Avalon met him in a housecoat of greenish
blue that in a strange and not understandable way was completely right for her. She
turned up her face and he kissed her on the mouth, that mouth so full of promise. They said
nothing.
She led him to a divan, where he sat
wordless with her beside him. Her tawny hair was shot with glints of
gold. Her eyes, he noted in passing, were dark, yet alight. He thought of a
title by Dale Jennings: “Chaos Has Dark Eyes.”
She said: “Hullo, boy.”
He grinned.
“I burgle joints and discover bodies. I
am not a respectable character. You wouldn’t like me if you knew
me.”
“I know you,” she said. “I like
you. I’ll demonstrate—later.”
She got up, went into the kitchen, and brought
back a bottle of beer.
“I hope you belong to the beer-for-breakfast
school.”
“There’s nothing like it, unless it’s
Black Velvet. But that’s for special breakfasts.”
“Isn’t this?”
“Well, not quite, you must admit.”
“Yes, I must admit.” She gave him a
smile, a short kiss. “Excuse me while I make eggs
perform.”
He sipped his beer and wondered about Mrs.
Gerald Meldon, whose Park Avenue address he had decided to visit. Gerald
Meldon was a name to conjure with in Wall Street. He was at one time
the Boy Wonder of the mart. If he went for a stock, it signalled a rush of hangers-on.
This had caused him to operate under pseudonyms, which the Saint considered
having a touch of swank—a stock-market operator using phony names. If
Meldon were known to be dumping a stock, this was another signal. Everybody
who could get hold of the information, dumped his. The stock usually went
down.
It had been Gerald Meldon, the
son—obviously—of a rich father, who had made collegiate history by
dressing in white coveralls, driving along Fifth Avenue, and stealing all the
street lamp bulbs one afternoon. It had been Gerald Meldon who had been chosen
by Grantland Rice as All-American tackle from Harvard, accent and
all.
The Saint knew nothing of Mrs. Gerald Meldon,
but he could understand that reasons might exist why she should seek
psychiatric help from Dr. Z. Well, he would see what he would see.
It was easy enough to find Meldon’s address in
the directory, and after breakfast that was what he did.
When he and Avalon arrived there later—she
was now in a tailored suit of tan gabardine—the first thing he saw
caused him to clutch her arm.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “but my
eyes
watching to see how they fall.”
“I trust you know the difference
between straws and hay,” Hamilton said somewhat darkly, and rang off.
Simon picked up a paper on the way out of the
hotel, and found the death of Gamaliel Bradford Foley recorded in
two paragraphs on
an inside page.
DEATH LOOKS IN
ON TOP SEAMEN’S
UNION OFFICIAL
Gamaliel Bradford Foley,
secretary of the Seamen’s Union. Local 978 (AFL). was found stabbed to death in his Brooklyn apartment early this morning by
police.
A telephone
tip—“You’ll recognize him by the knife he’s
wearing, in his back”—sent patrol car 12 to the scene.
Officers J. R. McCutcheon and I. P. Wright found the corpse in the apartment bedroom, with a butcher knife in its back.
An arrest is expected any moment. Inspector
Fernack told reporters today.
It wasn’t a smile that twisted the Saint’s
sensitive mouth as the taxi took him to Avalon’s place—it was a grimace of
skep ticism. “An arrest is expected any moment.” He shrugged. The police
certainly knew no more than himself—not as much, as a matter of fact. He
knew of the connection, however nebulous, between Foley and Dr. Zellermann. How
could the police ex pect an arrest?
Ah, well. That was the sort of thing
reporters put on copy paper. City editors had to be considered, too. If you, as a re porter, phoned your desk with a story, you wanted
something to lead into a follow-up
yarn, and “arrest expected” certainly indicated more to come.
Avalon met him in a housecoat of greenish
blue that in a strange and not understandable way was completely right for her. She
turned up her face and he kissed her on the mouth, that mouth so full of promise. They said
nothing.
She led him to a divan, where he sat
wordless with her beside him. Her tawny hair was shot with glints of
gold. Her eyes, he noted in passing, were dark, yet alight. He thought of a
title by Dale Jennings: “Chaos Has Dark Eyes.”
She said: “Hullo, boy.”
He grinned.
“I burgle joints and discover bodies. I
am not a respectable character. You wouldn’t like me if you knew
me.”
“I know you,” she said. “I like
you. I’ll demonstrate—later.”
She got up, went into the kitchen, and brought
back a bottle of beer.
“I hope you belong to the beer-for-breakfast
school.”
“There’s nothing like it, unless it’s
Black Velvet. But that’s for special breakfasts.”
“Isn’t this?”
“Well, not quite, you must admit.”
“Yes, I must admit.” She gave him a
smile, a short kiss. “Excuse me while I make eggs
perform.”
He sipped his beer and wondered about Mrs.
Gerald Meldon, whose Park Avenue address he had decided to visit. Gerald
Meldon was a name to conjure with in Wall Street. He was at one time
the Boy Wonder of the mart. If he went for a stock, it signalled a rush of hangers-on.
This had caused him to operate under pseudonyms, which the Saint considered
having a touch of swank—a stock-market operator using phony names. If
Meldon were known to be dumping a stock, this was another signal. Everybody
who could get hold of the information, dumped his. The stock usually went
down.
It had been Gerald Meldon, the
son—obviously—of a rich father, who had made collegiate history by
dressing in white coveralls, driving along Fifth Avenue, and stealing all the
street lamp bulbs one afternoon. It had been Gerald Meldon who had been chosen
by Grantland Rice as All-American tackle from Harvard, accent and
all.
The Saint knew nothing of Mrs. Gerald Meldon,
but he could understand that reasons might exist why she should seek
psychiatric help from Dr. Z. Well, he would see what he would see.
It was easy enough to find Meldon’s address in
the directory, and after breakfast that was what he did.
When he and Avalon arrived there later—she
was now in a tailored suit of tan gabardine—the first thing he saw
caused him to clutch her arm.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “but my
eyes
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