"So our old pal Mr Veil is here," murmured the Saint, turning the door handle and entering. "Good evening, Z-Man," he added affably as he closed the door and lounged elegantly against it. "This is the Saint calling. And how's the trade in old pots and pans?"
One hand rested carelessly in his pocket, and the other flicked a cigarette into his mouth and then snapped a match head into flame. His languidly mocking eyes had missed nothing in the first quick survey of the room. The office was small and barren. It contained nothing but a shabby flat-topped desk, a couple of chairs, a table lamp and a telephone. At the desk sat a big shadowy man — the Saint could only see him indistinctly, for the lampshade was tilted over so that, the light shone towards the door and left the man at the desk in semigloom. It seemed to be a popular lighting system among the clan.
"Himmel! You are the crazy fool who telephoned, yes?"
"Well, I did telephone," Simon admitted. "But I don't know if I'd answer to the rest of it." His gaze swept coolly over the room again. "You must do a thriving business here," he drawled. "I see your stock's pretty well sold out. Or do you mostly keep it in old cellars?"
"Vot you vant mit me?" demanded the other. "Vot iss tiss 'Saint' nonsense? I am Mr Otto Zeidelmann, und you I do not know."
"That's a condition which will be remedied from now onwards, brother," said the Saint pleasantly. "You'll get to know me better every minute. I dropped in this evening to have a look at you, and I must say you're not very obliging. That lampshade — excuse me."
Thud!
Something like a streak of silver lightning hissed across the desk and buried its point in the arm of the chair a fraction of an inch from Mr Zeidelmann's hand, which had been edging towards the centre drawer of the desk.
"I'm getting out of practice," said the Saint regretfully. "I meant that knife to pin your sleeve to the chair."
Mr Zeidelmann looked down at the still quivering ivory hilt and sat as still as a mummified corpse.