"We want to get him," the detective said. "If he's in your room already you can't do a thing. Why not be sensible? You're sailing on the Empress of Britain today, and that suits us. We'll turn a blind eye on your new passport. We won't even ask why the Saint wants to rob you. All we ask is for you to help us get that man."
Max Kemmler swallowed. That knowledge of his secret plans was only the second blow that had come to him. He was a tough guy in any circumstances, but he knew when the dice were loaded against him. He was in a cleft stick. The fact that he had promised himself the pleasure of giving the Saint an unwholesome surprise if they ever met didn't enter into it.
"What shall I do?" he asked.
"Let him get on with it. Let him stick you up. Don't fight or anything. I'll have a squad of men outside your door in thirty seconds."
"Okay," said Max Kemmler expressionlessly. "I'll see to it."
He put down the receiver and looked into the muzzle of Simon Templar's automatic. With the detective's warning still ringing in his ears, he let his mouth fall open in well-simulated astonishment and wrath.
"What the hell —"
"Spare my virginal ears," said the Saint gently. "It's been swell helping you to rake in the berries, Max, but this is where the game ends. Stick your hands right up and feel your chest expand!"
He turned over the pillow and put Kemmler's gun in a spare pocket. The envelope of notes went into another. Max Kemmler watched the disappearance of his wealth with a livid face of fury that he could hardly control. If he had not received that telephone call he would have leapt at the Saint and chanced it.
Simon smiled at him benevolently.