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."Simon went back to his table.He felt even emptier inside.It had been such abeautiful dream.He didn't know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or justcareless.But he didn't want to feel any of those things.It was a persistentirritation, like a piece of gravel in a shoe."What are you doing this evening?" Gibbs asked him."Having another drink.""I've got to get some dinner before I go to that opening.Why don't you joinme?""I'd like to." Simon drained his glass.He said casually: "Avalon Dexter sentyou her love.""Oh, do you know her? She's a grand gal.A swell person.One of the fewhonest-to-God people in that racket."There was no doubt about the spontaneous warmth of Wol-cott's voice.Andmeasured against his professional exposure to all the chatter and gossip ofthe show world, it wasn't a com-ment that could be easily dismissed.The backof Simon's brain went on puzzling.2The Saint watched Mr.Gibbs depart, and gently tested the air around histonsils.It felt dry.He moved to the cusp of the bar and proceeded tocontemplate his nebulous dissatisfactions.He ordered more of the insidiousproduct of the house of Dawson and meditated upon the subject of Dr.ErnstZellermann, that white-maned, black-browed high priest of the un-consciousmind.Why, Simon asked himself, should a man apologise for sticking his face in theway of a fast travelling fist? Why should Dr.Z wish to further hisacquaintance of the Saint, who had not only knocked him tail over teakettlebut had taken his charming companion home? How, for that matter, did Dr.Zknow that Avalon Dexter might have the telephone number of Simon Templar?Beyond the faintest shadow of pale doubt, Brother Zellermann was mixed up inthis situation.And since the situation was now the object of the Saint'seagle eyeing, the type-case psy-chiatrist should come in for his share ofscrutiny.And there was nothing to do but scrutinize.Simon tossed off everything in his glass but a tired ice cube and went outinto the night.The doorman flicked one glance at the debonair figure whowalked as if he never touched the ground, and almost dislocated threevertebrae as he snapped to attention."Taxi, sir?""Thanks," said the Saint, and a piece of silver changed hands.The doormanearned this by crooking a finger at a waiting cab driver.And in anothermoment Simon Templar was on his way to the Park Avenue address of Dr.Zellermann.It was one of those impulsive moves of unplanned explora-tion that the Saintloved best.It had all the fascination of potential surprises, all theintriguing vistas of an advance into new untrodden country, all theuncertainty of dipping the first fork into a plate of roadside eating stew.You went out into the wide world and made your plans as you went along andhoped the gods of adventure would be good to you.Page 23 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlSimon relaxed hopefully all the way uptown until the taxi decanted him infront of the windowed monolith wherein Dr.Ernst Zellermann laved the libido.A light burned on the twelfth floor, and that was entree even though the lobbyroster placed Dr.Zellermann on the eighteenth floor.Simon entered theelevator, signed "John Paul Jones" on the form for nocturnal visitors, said"Twelve" to the ancient lackey, and was levitated on greased runners.He walked toward the lighted doorway, an emporium of Swedish masseurs, butwheeled on silent feet as soon as the elevator doors closed and went up sixflights as swiftly and as silently as the elevator had ascended.The lock onZellermann's door gave him little trouble, snicking open to reveal a waitingroom of considerable proportions.The pencil beam of his flashlight told him that the man who decorated thisrestful room knew the value of the pause that relaxes."This is your home,"the room said."Welcome.You like this chair? It was made for you.The prints?Nice, aren't they? Nothing like the country.And isn't that soft green of thewalls pleasant to the eye? Lean back and relax.The doctor will see youpresently, as a friend.What else, in these surroundings?"The Saint tipped his mental hat and looked around for more informative detail.This wasn't much.The receptionist's desk gave up nothing but some paper andpencils, a half pack of cigarettes, a lipstick, and a copy of TremblingRomances.Three names were written on an appointment pad on the desk top.He went into the consultation room, which was severely furnished with plainfurniture.A couch lay against one wall, the large desk was backed against anopaque window, and the walls were free of pictorial distractions.Yet this, too, was a restful room.The green of the reception room walls hadbeen continued here, and despite the almost monastic simplicity of the decor,this room invited you to relax.Simon had no doubt that a patient lying on thecouch, with Dr.Zellermann discreetly in the background gloom, would drag fromthe censored files of memory much early minutiae, the stuff of which humanbeings are made.But where were the files? The office safe?Surely it was necessary to keep records, and surely the records of ordinarydaily business need not be hidden.The secretary must need a card file ofpatients, notations, statements of accounts, and what not.Once more the pencil beam slid around the office, and snapped out.Then theSaint moved silently compared to him, a shadow would have seemed to be wearingclogs back into the reception room.His flash made an earnest scrutiny of thereceptionist's corner and froze on a small protuberance.Simon's fingers wereon it in a second.He pulled, then lifted and a section of wall slid upwardto reveal a filing cabinet, a small safe, and a typewriter.The Saint sighed as he saw the aperture revealed no liquid goods.Tensionalways made him thirsty, and breaking and entering always raised his tension anotch [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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."Simon went back to his table.He felt even emptier inside.It had been such abeautiful dream.He didn't know whether to feel foolish, or cynical, or justcareless.But he didn't want to feel any of those things.It was a persistentirritation, like a piece of gravel in a shoe."What are you doing this evening?" Gibbs asked him."Having another drink.""I've got to get some dinner before I go to that opening.Why don't you joinme?""I'd like to." Simon drained his glass.He said casually: "Avalon Dexter sentyou her love.""Oh, do you know her? She's a grand gal.A swell person.One of the fewhonest-to-God people in that racket."There was no doubt about the spontaneous warmth of Wol-cott's voice.Andmeasured against his professional exposure to all the chatter and gossip ofthe show world, it wasn't a com-ment that could be easily dismissed.The backof Simon's brain went on puzzling.2The Saint watched Mr.Gibbs depart, and gently tested the air around histonsils.It felt dry.He moved to the cusp of the bar and proceeded tocontemplate his nebulous dissatisfactions.He ordered more of the insidiousproduct of the house of Dawson and meditated upon the subject of Dr.ErnstZellermann, that white-maned, black-browed high priest of the un-consciousmind.Why, Simon asked himself, should a man apologise for sticking his face in theway of a fast travelling fist? Why should Dr.Z wish to further hisacquaintance of the Saint, who had not only knocked him tail over teakettlebut had taken his charming companion home? How, for that matter, did Dr.Zknow that Avalon Dexter might have the telephone number of Simon Templar?Beyond the faintest shadow of pale doubt, Brother Zellermann was mixed up inthis situation.And since the situation was now the object of the Saint'seagle eyeing, the type-case psy-chiatrist should come in for his share ofscrutiny.And there was nothing to do but scrutinize.Simon tossed off everything in his glass but a tired ice cube and went outinto the night.The doorman flicked one glance at the debonair figure whowalked as if he never touched the ground, and almost dislocated threevertebrae as he snapped to attention."Taxi, sir?""Thanks," said the Saint, and a piece of silver changed hands.The doormanearned this by crooking a finger at a waiting cab driver.And in anothermoment Simon Templar was on his way to the Park Avenue address of Dr.Zellermann.It was one of those impulsive moves of unplanned explora-tion that the Saintloved best.It had all the fascination of potential surprises, all theintriguing vistas of an advance into new untrodden country, all theuncertainty of dipping the first fork into a plate of roadside eating stew.You went out into the wide world and made your plans as you went along andhoped the gods of adventure would be good to you.Page 23 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlSimon relaxed hopefully all the way uptown until the taxi decanted him infront of the windowed monolith wherein Dr.Ernst Zellermann laved the libido.A light burned on the twelfth floor, and that was entree even though the lobbyroster placed Dr.Zellermann on the eighteenth floor.Simon entered theelevator, signed "John Paul Jones" on the form for nocturnal visitors, said"Twelve" to the ancient lackey, and was levitated on greased runners.He walked toward the lighted doorway, an emporium of Swedish masseurs, butwheeled on silent feet as soon as the elevator doors closed and went up sixflights as swiftly and as silently as the elevator had ascended.The lock onZellermann's door gave him little trouble, snicking open to reveal a waitingroom of considerable proportions.The pencil beam of his flashlight told him that the man who decorated thisrestful room knew the value of the pause that relaxes."This is your home,"the room said."Welcome.You like this chair? It was made for you.The prints?Nice, aren't they? Nothing like the country.And isn't that soft green of thewalls pleasant to the eye? Lean back and relax.The doctor will see youpresently, as a friend.What else, in these surroundings?"The Saint tipped his mental hat and looked around for more informative detail.This wasn't much.The receptionist's desk gave up nothing but some paper andpencils, a half pack of cigarettes, a lipstick, and a copy of TremblingRomances.Three names were written on an appointment pad on the desk top.He went into the consultation room, which was severely furnished with plainfurniture.A couch lay against one wall, the large desk was backed against anopaque window, and the walls were free of pictorial distractions.Yet this, too, was a restful room.The green of the reception room walls hadbeen continued here, and despite the almost monastic simplicity of the decor,this room invited you to relax.Simon had no doubt that a patient lying on thecouch, with Dr.Zellermann discreetly in the background gloom, would drag fromthe censored files of memory much early minutiae, the stuff of which humanbeings are made.But where were the files? The office safe?Surely it was necessary to keep records, and surely the records of ordinarydaily business need not be hidden.The secretary must need a card file ofpatients, notations, statements of accounts, and what not.Once more the pencil beam slid around the office, and snapped out.Then theSaint moved silently compared to him, a shadow would have seemed to be wearingclogs back into the reception room.His flash made an earnest scrutiny of thereceptionist's corner and froze on a small protuberance.Simon's fingers wereon it in a second.He pulled, then lifted and a section of wall slid upwardto reveal a filing cabinet, a small safe, and a typewriter.The Saint sighed as he saw the aperture revealed no liquid goods.Tensionalways made him thirsty, and breaking and entering always raised his tension anotch [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]