'To see if Christine is really at the Quisisana,' answered Palermo flatly. 'And to look for the taxi you came back to the hotel in and see how much the driver remembers. If you're telling the truth, all right. If not . . .'
He didn't trouble to finish the sentence.
'You're wasting your time,' said the Saint evenly. 'I changed taxis two or three times. And if Christine sees Aliston, it 'll only scare her away.'
'Then why don't you go and fetch her?' suggested Palermo, with his greenish eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Saint.
'I've told you why,' retorted the Saint heatedly. 'You're being a couple of suckers and doing the best you can to gum up the whole works. If that's the kind of partners you are, you don't interest me so much. What difference does it make where Christine is? She's safe enough where I put her. If you started talking about where the ticket is, it'd be more to the point.'
Palermo leaned forward a little.
'I've told you our terms,' he said. 'If you bring Christine here and tell us what she's told you, the deal is on. Otherwise it's off. Don't you think that's fair?'
The Saint sent a curling plume of smoke drifting slowly through his half-smiling lips. So Palermo was asking for it. The Saint would have liked to keep him happy, to play him with the same bait that Graner had so successfully been induced to take. He had even less faith in the security of Palermo's partnership than he had in Graner's, and he would have had fewer scruples about lying to him, if possible; but the situation would have had its practical advantages apart from its appeal to his sense of humour. It was a pity that it couldn't have been organised that way. But Palermo was in quite a different frame of mind from the one in which Graner had accepted the Saint's terms; and Simon knew when he was wasting his time.
Palermo had got him in a corner which left no room for evasions; and it was obvious enough that Palermo meant to keep him there. The immutable fact was registered beyond mistaking in every glitter of Palermo's intent bright eyes, in the whole atmosphere of his expectant stillness. And the Saint knew that every extra moment of hesitation was only hardening Palermo's suspicions, bringing them a degree closer to the crystal sharpness of conviction. ... It was all very sad, but Simon Templar's philosophy held no room for vain regrets.
'If that's how you put it, I think it stinks,' he said pleasantly, and looked into the muzzle of Palermo's gun.
2 'You're a fool,' Palermo said thickly.
'We can't all have your brains,' said the Saint deprecatingly. 'Besides, you need a few compensations, with a face like yours.'
The greenish glow darkened in Palermo's eyes, but he made no immediate reply. He beckoned to Aliston with his other hand without looking round.
'Tie his hands behind his back.'
Aliston detached himself from the door and undulated into the kitchenette. Simon heard him moving about and surmised that he was removing the washing from the line. The Saint went on smoking unconcernedly and measured the distance to Palermo's chin. It was about five feet, with Palermo sitting where he was; and besides that there was the corner of the table to get round. He slipped one hand under the table and tested its weight speculatively, but Palermo felt the infinitesimal movement.
'Keep your hands on top of the table.'
Aliston came back from his errand; and Palermo took the cigar out of his mouth and put it back again.
'Put your hands behind the back of the chair,' he said.
Simon took a final pull from his cigarette and put it carefully down before he obeyed. Aliston worked silently at tying his wrists together. He used all the rope, and the knots felt tight. When he had finished, Palermo put his automatic away and came round and tested them.
'How do they feel to you, Art?' Simon enquired genially. 'I think he did pretty well-he must have learnt some tricks when he was at crochet school.'
The girl sat on the other side of the table, watching them stupidly. Palermo strolled back and jerked his head at her.
'Make a spoon hot on the fire,' he said. 'Make it red-hot. zTu comprendes?'
The girl stared at him blankly, and Palermo thumped his fist on the table.
'zTu has oido?' he snarled.
Aliston's face twitched nervously as the girl hurried out. He had turned several shades whiter, so that the graze that ran up his left cheek showed more vividly against the sickly pallor of his skin. He opened his mouth once or twice, as if he was on the point of protesting, and closed it again without saying anything, as if he had already heard the inevitable answers.
'I-I think I'd better go and look for that taxi,' he said at last. 'We don't want to waste any more time.'
'All right,' said Palermo contemptuously. 'I'll get all we want out of this guy.'
Aliston flushed and went white again. His mouth opened and closed once more, like a fish; and then he swallowed and went quickly to the door. Palermo watched it close behind him and turned back to the Saint with a short laugh.
'Cecil's a good boy,' he said. 'But he's too softhearted. That's the trouble with him. Softhearted.'
'I take it that that's one thing you don't suffer from, Art,' said the Saint softly.
Palermo chewed his cigar and looked down at him.
'Me? No. I'm not that way at all. Don't kid yourself, Tombs. I get what I want, and I don't care who gets hurt while I'm getting it. You can scream all you want while I'm burning you, and it won't worry me a bit. I'm not sentimental. Now why don't you have some sense and open up before I have to do any more to you?'
