There was still a brace of guardias de asalto and a brace of guardias civiles mounting guard over the scene of the previous night's outbreak of gangsterismo, although they did not stop the car; and the Saint's mind switched back to the newspaper story he had read. That had at least explained a good many things to him without introducing any new riddles. It explained the way he had been stopped on the road when he was driving up to Graner's, and incidentally also explained the scattered volley which he had heard in the distance sometime earlier when he was driving away with Joris Vanlinden. What else it might lead to he had still to decide; but the humorous thought crossed his mind that he was probably even then riding in the very car for which the whole detective genius of Santa Cruz was at that moment searching. Only, of course, they were considerably handicapped by none of the guardias having remembered the number. . . .
The car stopped at the hotel, and they got out. As they went up to the desk, which was now in charge of a beautiful boy with the sweetest wave in his hair, Graner turned to the Saint.
'You will remember to cancel your luncheon engagement,' he said.
'Of course,' said the Saint, who had never forgotten it since they left the house. 'Would you ask the Fairy Queen to see if he can get me room fifty?-I don't think he speaks English.'
Graner interpreted; and Simon lounged quietly against the counter while the youth went to the telephone switchboard.
His pulses were ticking over like clockwork. Now, if only by some miracle he could make Hoppy grasp the idea . . . He would be able to say nothing that Reuben Graner didn't overhear, and Mr Uniatz' alertness to subtlety and innuendo was approximately as quick-witted as that of a slightly imbecile frog. It was a flimsy enough chance, but it was a chance. He wished he could have called Christine, but he dared not take the risk of drawing attention to a room so close to his own. . . . The youth seemed to be taking a long time. . . .
He came back at last, and what he said made the Saint feel as though he had been jolted under the chin.
'No contestan.'
Simon didn't move. With every trace of emotion schooled out of his face, he looked enquiringly at Graner.
'They don't answer,' Graner translated.
The Saint placed his cigarette between his lips and drew at it steadily. He knew that Graner was watching him, but for once he wasn't worried about his own reaction. He knew that he couldn't be giving anything away, for the simple reason that he had nothing to give. A dull haze seemed to have filled his brain, through which one or two futile questions could only rise blurrily into his consciousness. Could it only have been that Hoppy was sleeping his usual loglike sleep? But the boy must have been ringing the room for a long time. Besides, there was Joris Vanlinden; and there could hardly be two people in the world who slept as heavily as Hoppy Uniatz. What else could have happened? Graner had been agitated before, but none of it had looked for an instant like the kind of agitation that springs from an excess of rejoicing. Besides which, he hadn't batted an eyelid when the Saint mentioned the number of the room, which he would certainly have done if ... Besides which, there wasn't even a flickering indication of triumph in his attitude now. Besides which, there was the telephone call at breakfast time. Besides which . . .
'You had better write them a note,' Graner was saying.
Simon nodded and walked through the lounge like an automaton to one of the writing desks. His mind was reeling under such a disordered inrush of questions that none of them made any individual impression. Presently he would be able to restore some sort of order and tackle them one by one, but that first insane confusion left him in a daze.
He sat down and drew a sheet of paper towards him, aware that Graner had followed him and was standing over him while he wrote. He unscrewed his fountain pen, and gained a few seconds' respite while he addressed an envelope to Miss H. Uniatz-hoping that the wavy-haired boy's knowledge of English was as incomplete as he reckoned it to be. Then he wrote: DEAR MISS UNIATZ : I'm terribly sorry that I shall have to break our appointment for lunch today. As you know, I am not here on a pleasure trip, and the firm I am employed by insists that I must start at once.
I'm sorry, too, that I shan't have time to help you find an apartment as I had promised; although I still think it would be the best thing for you to do. Your best plan would be to ask Camacho's Excursions about it-they are the local Cook's agents, and very useful people. I hope you'll soon be successful, because I quite see that you won't want to stay at a hotel any longer than you have to.
With more apologies, and all good wishes, Sincerely yours, S. Tombs.
He sealed the envelope and gave it to the boy at the desk with a silent prayer that some of its insinuations would percolate into the globe of seasoned ivory on which Mr Uniatz wore his hat-or, if they didn't, that he would ask Christine what she made of it.
'The gentleman is leaving today,' Graner explained in Spanish. 'Will you make out his bill and send someone up for his luggage?'
'En seguida.'
Graner rode up with Simon in the elevator, which had apparently been induced to function again since the previous night. The cigar burned down evenly in the amber holder clipped between his teeth. Simon studied him inconspicuously and found it incredible that, if there was any secret jubilation going on in Reuben Graner's mind, there should be so little sign of it on his face. Besides, if Graner's suspicions had been so aroused, would he be taking the risk of going up alone to a room where he could so easily be silently and efficiently knocked over the head? Or would he have let the Saint come there at all, where he could so easily announce that he intended to stay-where Graner could do nothing to prevent him? But there was still the inexplicable failure of Hoppy Uniatz to answer the telephone. . . . The Saint felt as if his brain was being torn apart with unanswerable questions.
They came to the door of his room, and he turned the handle and walked in-he hadn't even troubled to lock the door when he went out to put the Hirondel away the night before. And he was inside the room before he saw that Christine Vanlinden was sitting on the bed.
IV How Simon Templar Rose to the Occasion, and the Thieves' Picnic Got Further Under Way
