The Saint paused for a moment to remove the potato from the taxicab's exhaust pipe, and as he strode silently down a long narrow yard with high walls on either side he reflected on the absurdity of a mere humble potato rendering impotent one of man's greatest mechanical wonders. And at the same time he reflected on his own remarkable good fortune. Beyond any shadow of doubt, his guardian angel was having a busy day…
VI
He was somewhere in the Cricklewood district, and he found his great cream-and-red Hirondel parked where he had left it. His opportune arrival in the garage cellar a little earlier had been no coincidence. He had allowed Patricia Holm to go to Parkside Court alone, but he had hovered cautiously in the offing himself, and it had been a simple matter to follow the taxi which had started off with such suspicious abruptness.
"The Z-Man — Zeidelmann & Co.," he said to himself as he drove swiftly towards Victoria. "Significant — and yet rather too easy. There's a catch in it somewhere."
Bryerby House stood in a quiet road off Victoria Street. Simon parked his car near by and walked to the office building. He had formulated no plan of action, but doubtless something would occur to him when it was necessary. Direct action, the straightforward and devastatingly simple approach which had always appealed to him, continued to offer tempting possibilities. It looked as if Zeidelmann & Co. had something to do with the Z-Man. Therefore he wanted to feast his eyes on Zeidelmann & Co. The logic of the proposition seemed incontrovertible; and as for its consequences, Simon was cheerfully prepared to let the Lord provide.
There was a wicked glimmer of anticipation in his eyes as he inspected the grubby board in the hall on which was painted a list of the occupants and their various callings. Zeidelmann & Co. apparently did nothing for a living, for beyond stating that their office was situated on the ground floor the board was completely dumb. The Saint wandered down a shabby bare-boarded passage, scanning the names on the doors as he passed them. He met nobody, for Bryerby House was one of those janitor-less office buildings in which one could wander unhindered and unchallenged at any hour of the day; and although the evening was quite young it was still old enough for most businessmen to have paddled off to the discomfort of their suburban homes. The passage took a turn at the end, and Simon Templar found himself facing a glass-topped door. There was a light within, and painted on the glass were the illuminating words:
ZEIDELMANN & CO. Curios
Simon cocked his hat at the sign.
"And indeed they are," he drawled and knocked on the door.
"Vell?" came a familiar thick voice.