the spot—an' you're the only guy in the world who might get me off of it. ... Yeah, I took that sock at you last night—but that was different. You can take a sock back at me any time—you can take twenty! I wouldn't stop you. But what the hell, you wouldn't see a guy rubbed out just because he took a sock at you—'
Simon pondered gently; but beneath his benign exterior it was apparent that he regarded the Greek with undiminished suspicion and distaste.
'I don't know, Pappy,' he said reflectively. 'Blokes have been rubbed out for less—much less.'
'I was just nervous, Saint. It didn't mean a thing. I guess you might of done the same yourself. Lookit, I could help you a lot if you forgot last night an' helped me ——'
'In exchange for what?' asked the Saint, and his voice was even less reassuring than before.
Papulos licked his lips.
'I could tell you things. Say, I ain't the only guy in the racket. I know you were waitin' to take me for this ride when I came out, but ——'
For the first time since he had been there the Saint laughed. There was no comfort for Papulos in that laugh, no more than there had been in his soft voice or his pleasant smile; but he laughed.
'You flatter yourself, Pappy,' he said. 'You aren't nearly so important as that. We step on things like you on our way, wherever they happen to wriggle out—we don't make special appointments for 'em. I thought this car belonged to Dutch. But since you happen to be here, Pappy, I'm afraid you'll have to do. As you kindly reminded me, we have one or two slight arguments to settle—'
'You want Dutch, don't you? You want Dutch more'n you want me—ain't that right? Well, I could help you to get Dutch. I can tell you everything he does, an' when he does it, an' where he goes, an' how he's protected. I could help you to get the whole mob, if you want 'em. Listen, Saint, you gotta let me talk!'
Simon smiled pleasantly. His face was tolerant and kindly, but Papulos did not see that. Papulos saw only the cold blue steel in his eyes—and a vision of death that had come to Irboll and Voelsang and Ualino. Papulos heard the hard ring behind the gentle tones of his voice and knew that he had yet to convince the Saint of his terrible sincerity.
The Saint gazed at him through a wreathing screen of smoke; and his left hand did not stir from his coat pocket, where it had rested ever since he had been in sight.
A checkered and perilous career had done much to harden that tender trustfulness in which Simon Templar's blue eyes had first looked out upon the light of day. Regretfully, he admitted that the gross disillusionments of life had left their mark. It is given to human faith to survive just so much and no more; and a man who in his time has been scarred to the core by the bitter truth about fairies and Santa Claus cannot be blamed if a certain doubt, a certain cynicism, begins in later life to taint the virgin freshness of his innocence. Simon had met Papulos before and had taken his measure. He did not believe that Papulos was a man who could be driven by the fear of death to betray the unwritten code of his kind.
What he forgot was the fact that most men live in frightful fear of death—frightful fear of that black oblivion which will snatch their lusts and their enjoyments from them in a single tortured instant. He forgot that though a man like Papulos would fight in the battles of gangland like a maniac, though he would stand up brutally unafraid under the hails of hot death that come whistling through the open streets, he might become nothing but a cringing coward in the threat of coldblooded unanswerable obliteration. Even the stark panic that showed in the Greek's eyes did not convince him.
'I wouldn't lie to you,' Papulos was babbling hoarsely. 'This is on the level. I got nothin' to gain. You don't have to promise me nothin'. You gotta believe me.'
'Why?' asked the Saint callously.
Papulos swung the car round Columbus Circle and headed blindly to the east. His face was haggard with utter despair.
'You think this is a stall—you don't believe I'm on the level?'
'Yes,' said the Saint, 'and no.'
'What d'ya mean?'
'Yes, brother,' said the Saint explicitly, 'I do think it's a stall. No, brother, I don't believe you're on the level. ... By the way, Pappy, which cemetery are you
