He listened to the click of the latch, and spilled a quantity of cigarette-ash on to Mr. Elberman's priceless carpet. 'It was tough on your pal being bumped off in Durban,' he continued conversationally, as if he had no other object but to put his victims at their ease. 'Also, in my opinion, unnecessary. I know Frankie was inclined to be cagey, but I think a clever man could have found out what ship he was sailing home on without sending a man out to South Africa to spy on him. . . . Come in, boys, come in. Sit down. Have a drink. I want you to feel happy.'
'Who are you?' snarled Perrigo.
Simon shifted his mocking gaze to Elberman.
'Do you know, Isadore?' he asked.
Elberman shook his head, moistening his lips mechanically.
Simon smiled, and stood up. 'Sit down,' he said.
He ushered the two men forcefully into chairs, relieving Perrigo of a shooting-iron during the process. And then he put his back to. the fire and leaned against the mantelpiece, spinning his gun gently round one finger hooked in the trigger-guard.
'I might deceive you,' he said with disarming candour, 'but I won't. I am the Saint.' He absorbed the reflex ripples of expression that jerked over the seated men, and smiled again. 'Yes—I'm the guy you've been wanting to meet all these years. I am the man with the load of mischief. I,' said the Saint, who was partial to the personal pronoun, and apt to become loquacious when he found that it could start a good sentence, 'I am the Holy Terror, and the only thing for you boys to do is to try and look pleased about it. I'm on the point of taking a longish holiday, and my bank balance is just a few pounds shy of the amount I'd fixed for my pension. You may not have heard anything about it before, but you are going to make a donation to the fund.'
The two men digested his speech in silence. It took them a little time, which the Saint did not begrudge them. He always enjoyed these moments. He allowed the gist of the idea to percolate deeply into their brains, timing the seconds by the regular spinning of his gun. There were six of them. Then—
'What d'you want?' snarled Perrigo.
'Diamonds,' said the Saint succinctly.
'What diamonds?'
Perrigo's voice cracked on the question. The boil of belligerent animosity within him split through the thin overlay of puzzlement in which he tried to clothe his words, and tore the flimsy bluff to shreds. And the Saint's eyes danced.
'The illicit diamonds,' he said, 'which Frankie Hormer was bringing over by arrangement with Isadore. The diamonds for which Isadore double-crossed Frankie and took you into partnership, my pet. The boodle that you've got on your person right now, pretty Perrigo!'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'No? Then perhaps Isadore will explain.'
Again the Saint's bantering attention transferred itself to the owner of the house, but Elberman said nothing.
And Simon shook his head sadly.
'You may be the hell of a bright conspirator, Isadore,' he remarked, 'but you seem to be the odd man out of this conversazione. Pardon me while I do my Wild West stuff.'
He unbuttoned his coat and took a length of light cord from an inside pocket. There was a running bowline ready at one end of it; he crossed to Elberman's chair and dropped the noose over his head, letting it settled down to his waist. With a brisk yank and a couple of twists he had the man's arms pinioned to his sides and the complete exhibit attached to the chair, finishing off with a pair of non-skid knots. He performed the entire operation with his left hand, and the gun in his right hand never ceased to keep the situation under effective control.
Then he returned to Perrigo.
'Where are they, sweetheart?' he inquired laconically; and the man tightened up a vicious lower lip.
'They're where you won't find them,' he said.
Simon shrugged.
'The place does not exist,' he said.
His glance quartered Perrigo with leisurely approbation— north to
