For several hours he certainly didn’t think much more about any of the three people who had just met at his table, or attach any immediate significance to the meeting — not even when he brought Patricia into his suite at the Ambassador for a nightcap, and switched on the lights and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun in the hand of an unexpected guest who had beat them to it without an invitation.
Simon Templar had looked down the barrels of guns before, and it had ceased to be a surprising experience for him. The turbulent course of his career had left enough survivors to constitute a sizable roster of characters whose principal ambition would always be to view the Saint again from behind the percentage end of a small piece of ordnance. The only remarkable thing about it was that Simon couldn’t at the moment think of any particular person in the vicinity who had reason to be trying to fulfill such a whim at that time.
“Well, well, well,” he murmured. “Look what people are doing now to get a hotel room.”
“Shut the door, bub,” said the man. “But don’t put your hat down. You ain’t staying long.”
He had blue-black hair and a blue chin, and his suit was cut just about the way you would expect a suit behind a gun to be cut. Something about him was vaguely familiar, but Simon couldn’t place it for the moment.
“That’s one way to bring an invitation, anyhow,” said the Saint. “Where is this party we’re going to?”
“You’ll find out when we get there,” said the man. “Just wait till I fix the girl friend so she don’t make a fuss about losing you.”
He took a roll of adhesive tape from his pocket.
“I think I’m going to faint,” said Patricia.
She slumped back against the wall by the door, exactly where the light switch was. As her knees buckled she caught one arm on the switch and the lights clicked out.