But the Saint, with a perfect bird's-eye view, had watched every movement of Raddon's fingers on the dial; his supersensitive ears had listened to every click of the returning disc; he had memorized the number and tucked it securely away in a corner of his retentive brain. Raddon's finger had first jabbed into the PRS hole, then into the ABC, then into the PRS again. This could only mean one exchange — PAR, otherwise PARliament. The numbers were easy, Raddon had called PARliament 5577.
The Z-Man's telephone number! Or, at least, a number he was in the practice of using.
There were ways and means of discovering to whom that number had been allocated. Searching through the London Telephone Directory was one of them, but the Saint had never been able to rave about that particularly tedious occupation. There were easier methods. One of them he tried at once. He dialled PARIiament 5577 himself and blew smoke rings at the mouthpiece while he waited. His connection came quickly, and a thick voice said:
"Vell?"
"The same to you, comrade," said the Saint fraternally. "Kindly put me through to Mr Thistlethwaite—"
"Vot? Der iss nobody named that," said the thick voice.
"You'll pardon me, but there's a very large somebody named that," said the Saint firmly. "Senior partner of the firm of Thistlethwaite and Abernethy—"
"This iss not the firm you say."
"No? Then who is it?" asked the Saint obstinately. "What's the idea of using Thistlethwaite and Abernethy's telephone number? Aren't you Parliament 5577?"
"Yes."