Chapter eight
The blue convertible swept up Riverside Drive through the sixties, past seventies, with the sun-drenched wind whispering through Simon Templar’s crisp black hair; it was a clean brisk wind cooled by the majestic mile-wide ribbon of the Hudson which ran parallel on their left, its shining waters stippled by the wind in a million breaking facets that caught the bright sunlight in broad mosaics of burnished gold. All in all, the Saint thought, it was much too gay and lovely a day for exploring spiritual sewers, or delving into the fetid labyrinths of murder.
They were in the eighties before the Saint signalled Hoppy to slow down.
“It’s that house at the end of the block,” he said.
The big car swooped to the curb and drew to a halt before one of the three-storied brownstone buildings which stand along Riverside Drive like autumnal spinsters, their old-fashioned elegance reminiscent of a more sedate and happier era.
“De champ live here?” Hoppy asked with some wonder.
“It says so in the directory.”
“Wit’ his dough, I’d be livin’ on Park Avenue.”
“That’s why you wouldn’t have his dough for long.” Simon got out of the car. “Wait for me, Hoppy. I won’t be long.”
A glance at the letter-boxes revealed that Steve Nelson had an apartment on the second floor. Simon opened the door and went to the foot of the thickly-carpeted stairway. The gloom inside was stygian by contrast with the brightness of the street, but he was able to make out the doorway of Steve Nelson’s apartment at the head of the stairs. From the same direction came the sound of male voices raised in argument.