The Saint's Getaway

'Not with anything in my outfit. The bloke who made this sardine can knew his job.'

He snapped open one of his valises, and produced a bulging canvas tool-kit which he spread out on the bed. He slid out a small knife-bladed file, tested it speculatively on his thumb, and discarded it. In its place he selected a black vulcanized rubber flask. With a short rod of the same material he care­fully deposited a drop of straw-coloured liquid on one of the links of the chain, while Monty watched him curiously.

'Quieter and easier,' explained the Saint, replacing the flask in his holdall. 'Hydrofluoric acid—the hungriest liquor known to chemistry. Eats practically anything.'

Monty raised his eyebrows.

'Wouldn't it eat through the sardine can?'

'Not in twenty years. They've got the measure of these gravies now, where they build their strong-boxes. But the chain didn't come from the same factory. Which is just as well for us. I can't help feeling it would have been darned em­barrassing to have to wade through life with a strong-box per­manently attached to the bargain basement of a morgue. It's not hygienic.'

He lighted a cigarette and paced the room thoughtfully for a few moments. On one of his rounds he stopped to open the communicating door wide, and stood there listening for a second. Then he went on.

'One or two things are getting clearer,' he said. 'As I see it, the key to the whole shemozzle is inside that there sardine can. The warriors who tried to heave Stanislaus into the river wanted it, and it's also one of the three possible reasons for the present litter of dead bodies. Stanislaus was bumped, either (a) because he had the can, (b) because he might have made a noise, (c) because he might have squealed—or for a combina­tion of all three reasons. The man who knifed him tried to grab the contents of the attache case and was flummoxed by the sardine can within. Not having with him any means of open­ing it or separating it from Stanislaus, he returned rapidly to the tall timber. And one detail you can shunt right out of your minds is any idea that the contents of the said can are respect­able enough to be mentioned in law-abiding circles anywhere.'

'Bank messengers have been known to carry bags chained to their wrists,' Monty advanced temperately.

'Yeah.' Simon was withering. 'At half-past two in the morn­ing, the streets are stiff with 'em. Diplomatic messengers have the same habits. They're recruited from the runts of the earth; and one of their qualifications is to be so nitwitted they don't know a friend when they see one. When they're attacked by howling mobs of hoodlums, they never let out a single cry for help— they flop about in the thickest part of the uproar and never try to get saved. Stanislaus must have been an ambas­sador!'

Monty nodded composedly.

'I know what you mean,' he said. 'He must have been a crook.'

The Saint laughed and turned back to the bed. After one appraising scrutiny of the link on which he had placed his drop of acid, he twisted the chain round his hand and broke it like a piece of string.

With the steel box weighing freely in his hand, he lounged against a chest of drawers; and once again he looked across at Monty Hayward with that mocking half smile on his lips.

'You hit the mark in once, old lad,' he said softly. 'Stan­islaus was a crook. And who bumped him off?'

Monty deliberated.

'Well—presumably it was one of the birds we threw into the river. A rival gang.'

Simon shook his head.

'If it was, he dried himself quickly enough. There isn't one damp spot on the carpet or the bed, except for Stanislaus's gore. No—we can rule that out. It was a rival gang, all right, but a bunch that we haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting. Their representative was obviously on the set the whole time, unbeknownst, only the Water Babies forestalled him. But who were the Water Babies?'

'Do you know?'

'Yes,' said the Saint quietly.