Simon surveyed the two men humorously.
'The two arms of the law,' he commented reverently. 'The guardian of the peace and the dispenser of justice. You could pose for a tableau. The pea-green incorruptibles.'
Fernack frowned, and the judge squirmed slightly in his chair. There was a strained silence in the room, broken by the inspector's rough voice:
'Know any more fairy tales?'
'Plenty,' said the Saint. 'Once upon a time there was a great city, the richest city in the world. Its towers went up through the clouds, and its streets were paved with golden-backed Treasury notes, which were just as good as the old-fashioned fairy-tale paving stones and much easier to carry around. And all the people in it should have been very happy, what with Macy's Basement and Grover Whalen and a cathedral called Minsky's. But under the city there was a greedy octopus whose tentacles reached from the highest to the lowest places—and even outside the city, to the village greens of Canarsie and North Hoosick and a place called Far Rockaway where the Scottish citizens lived. And this octopus prospered and grew fat on a diet of blood and gold and the honour of men.'
Fernack's bitter voice broke in on the recitation:
'That's too true to be funny.'
'It wasn't meant to be—particularly. Fernack, you know why I'm here. I did a job for you this afternoon—one of those little jobs that Brother Nather is supposed to do and never seems to get around to. Ionetzki was quite a friend of yours, wasn't he?'
'You know a lot' The detective's fists knotted at his sides. 'What next?'
'And Nather seems to have been quite a friend of Jack Irboll's. I'm doing your thinking for you. On account of this orgy of devotion, I blew along to see Nather; and I haven't been here half an hour before you blow in yourself. Well, a little while back I asked you why you were here, and I wasn't changing the subject'
Fernack's mouth tightened. His eyes swerved around to the judge; but Nather's blotchy face was as inexpressive as a slab of lard, except for the high-lights of perspiration on his flushed cheekbones. Fernack looked at the Saint again.
'You want a lot of questions answered for you,' he stated flatly.
'I'll try another.' Simon drew on his cigarette and looked at the detective through a haze of outgoing smoke. 'Maybe you can translate something for me. Translate it into words of one syllable—and try to make me understand.'
'What?'
'The Big Fellow says you'd better stay home tonight. He may want you!'
Simon flipped the quotation back hopefully enough, without a pause. It leapt across the air like the twang of a broken fiddle string, without giving the audience a half-second's grace in which to brace themselves or rehearse their reactions. But not even in his moments of most malicious optimism had the Saint expected the results which rewarded him.
He might have touched off a charge of blasting powder at their feet Nather caught his breath in a gasping hiccough like a man shot in the stomach. Fernack rose an inch from his chair on tautened thighs: his grey eyes bulged, then narrowed to glinting slits.
'Say that again!' he rasped.
'You don't get the idea.' The Saint smiled, but his sapphire gaze was as quiet as the levelled gun. 'I was just asking you to translate something. Can you tell me what it means?'
'Who wants to know?'
Nather scrambled up from his chair, his fists clenched and Ms face working. His face was putting in a big day.
'This is intolerable!' he barked hoarsely. 'Isn't there anything you can do, Fernack, instead of sitting there listening to this—this maniac?'
Fernack glanced at him.
'Sure,' he said briefly. 'You take his gun away, and I'll do it.'
'I'll report you to the commissioner!' Nather half screamed. 'By God, I'll
