“Yeah,” the driver said, laughing again. “This guy’s gonna be a smart apple, though, ain’t he, Frankie?”
“Shut up,” Frankie said without rancour. “Sure he is. But nobody’s asking you.”
His hands worked over the Saint, efficiently exploring every inch from head to foot where a weapon could have been concealed.
Simon said pleadingly, “I don’t understand this. Where are we going?”
“It’s like a lodge, see?” Frankie told him. “You gotta be introduced and sworn in, see?”
Simon tried to keep up with their route by ear, but even a man born and bred in Chicago would have been finally baffled by the turns and back-tracks the car took. He could only hope that they would not be confusing enough to shake off Hoppy in spite of the trained blood hound talents which, like his celerity on the draw, were among the few useful legacies of his vocation during the Volstead Era.
A little more than half an hour later, as near as the Saint could judge, the car stopped and the door clicked open. Simon put up a hand to his blindfold, but Frankie slapped it down. The same cruelly probing fingers gripped his arm again and guided him out of the sedan and across a paved area where the wind blew mildly against his face. There was very little noise of traffic now, and the air had the cleaner smell of a residential district.
A door opened and shut. Simon could hear his footsteps echoed, and presently another latch clicked, and he was guided down a steep flight of steps.
“Okay, turn on the lights,” Frankie said. The guiding hand let go. Frankie said, “Stay where you are.”
The Saint stood still, and in the hushed pause that followed he was aware of tiny scuffs and rustles of movement, such as would come from a small group of people waiting in conscious silence.