The Saint Closes the Case

8. How Simon Templar entertained his guest and broke up the party

Then, slowly, the Saint straightened up.

No one would ever know what an effort his calm and smil­ing imperturbability cost him; and yet, as a matter of fact, it was easier than the calm he had previously maintained before Roger Conway when there was really nothing to be calm about.

For this was something that the Saint understood. He had not the temperament to remain patient in periods of enforced inaction; he could never bring his best to bear against an enemy whom he could not see; subtleties were either above or beneath him, whichever way you like to look at it.

In Simon Templar there was much of his celebrated name­sake, the Simple One. He himself was always ready to confess it, saying that, in spite of his instinctive understanding of the criminal mind, he would never have made a successful detec­tive. His brain was capable of it, but his character wasn't. He preferred the more gaudy colours, the broader and more clean-cut line, the simple and straight-forward and startling things. He was a fighting man. His genius and inspiration led him into battles and showed him how to win them; but he rarely thought about them. He had ideals, and he rarely thought about those: they were laid down for him by an authority greater than himself, and remained apart and unquestionable. He disliked any sort of thought that was not as concrete as a weapon. To him, any other sort of thought was a heresy and a curse, an insidious sickness, sapping honesty and action. He asked for different things—the high heart of the happy warrior, the swagger and the flourish, the sound of the trumpet. He had said it himself; and it should go down as one of the few statements the Saint ever made about himself with no sug­gestion of pose. 'Battle, murder, and sudden death,' he had said.

And now, at last, he was on ground that he knew, desperate and dangerous as it might be.

'Take over the pop-gun, Roger.'

Cool, smooth, mocking, with a hint of laughter—the voice of the old Saint. He turned again to Marius, smiling and debo­nair.

'It's nice of you,' he said genially, 'to give us a call. Have a drink, Tiny Tim?'

Marius advanced a little further into the room.

He was robed in conventional morning coat and striped trousers. The stiff perfection of the garb contrasted grotesquely with his neolithic stature and the hideously ugly expressionlessness of a face that might have been fashioned after the model of some savage devil-god.

He glanced round without emotion at Roger Conway, who leaned against the door with his commandeered automatic comfortably concentrating on an easy target; and then he turned again to the Saint, who was swinging his little knife like a pendulum between his finger and thumb.

Thoughtful was the Saint, calm with a vivid and violent calm, like a leopard gathering for a spring; but Marius was as calm as a gigantic Buddha.

'I see you have some servants of mine here,' said Marius.

His voice, for such a man, was extraordinary soft and high-pitched; his English would have been perfect but for its exag­gerated precision.

'I have,' said the Saint blandly. 'You may think it odd of me, but I've given up standing on my dignity, and I'm now a practising Socialist. I go out into the highways and byways every Sunday evening and collect bits and pieces. These are to-night's bag. How did you know?'

'I did not know. One of them should have reported to me a long time ago, and my servants know better than to be late. I came to see what had happened to him. You will please let him go—and his friend.'

The Saint raised one eyebrow.

'I'm not sure that they want to,' he remarked. 'One of them, at least, is temporarily incapable of expressing his views on the subject. As for the other—well, we were just starting to get on so nicely together. I'm sure he'd hate to have to leave me.'

The man thus indirectly appealed to spat out some words in a language which the Saint did not understand. Simon smoth­ered him with a cushion.

'Don't interrupt,' he drawled. 'It's rude. First I have my say, then you have yours. That's fair. And I'm sure Dr. Marius would like to share our little joke, particularly as it's about himself.'

The giant's mouth formed into something like a ghastly smile.

'Hadn't you better hear my joke first?' he suggested.

'Second,' said the Saint. 'Quite definitely second. Because your joke is sure to be so much funnier than mine, and I'd hate mine to fall flat after it. This joke is in the form of a little song, and it's about a man whom we call Tiny Tim, whom I once had to kick with some vim. He recovered, I fear, but fox­hunting this year will have little attraction for him. You haven't given us time to rehearse it, or I'd ask the boys to sing it to you. Never mind. Sit right down and tell me the story of your life.'

The giant was not impressed.

'You appear to know my name,' he said.

'Very well,' beamed the Saint. 'Any relation to the cele­brated Dr. Marius?'

'I am not unknown.'

'I mean,' said the Saint, 'the celebrated Dr. Marius whose living was somewhat precarious, for his bedside technique was decidedly weak, though his ideas were many and various. Does that ring the bell and return the penny?'

Marius moved his huge right hand in an impatient gesture.

'I am not here to listen to your humour, Mr.——'

'Templar,' supplied the Saint. 'So pleased to be met.'

'I do not wish to waste any time——'

Simon lowered his eyes, which had been fixed on the ceiling during the labour of poetical composition, and allowed them to rest upon Marius. There was something very steely and savage about those eyes. The laughter had gone out of them utterly. Roger had seen it go.

'Naturally, we don't want to waste any time,' said the Saint quietly. 'Thank you for reminding me. It's a thing I should hate very much to forget while you're here. I may tell you that I'm going to murder you, Marius. But before we talk any more about that, let me save you the trouble of saying what you were going to say.'

Marius shrugged.

'You appear to be an intelligent man, Mr. Templar.'

'Thanks very much. But let's keep the bouquets on ice till we want them, will you? Then they might come in handy for the wreath. . . . The business of the moment interests me more. One: you're going to tell me that a certain lady named Patricia Holm is now your prisoner.'

The giant bowed.

'I'm sorry to have had to make such a conventional move,' he said. 'On the other hand, it is often said that the most con­ventional principles have the deepest foundations. I have always found that saying to be true when applied to the time-honoured expedient of taking a woman whom a man loves as a hostage for his good behaviour —particularly with a man of what I judge to be your type, Mr. Templar.'

'Very interesting,' said the Saint shortly. 'And I suppose Miss Holm's safety is to be the price of the safety of your—er —servants? I believe that's also in the convention.'

Marius spread out his enormous hands.

'Oh, no,' he said, in that thin, soft voice. 'Oh, dear me, no! The convention is not by any means as trivial as that. Is not the fair lady's safety always the price of something more than mere pawns in the game?'

'Meaning?' inquired the Saint innocently.

'Meaning a certain gentleman in whom I am interested, whom you were successful in removing from the protection of my servants last night.'

'Was I?'

'I have reason to believe that you were. Much as I respect your integrity, Mr. Templar, I fear that in this case your con­tradiction will not be sufficient to convince me against the evidence of my own eyes.'

The Saint swayed gently on his heels.

'Let me suggest,' he said, 'that you're very sure I got him.'