'You can have five hundred pesetas if you shut up,' said the Saint; and she looked at him almost intelligently.
He took a step back from her, when he saw that the lull was well-established, and turned half round.
'Cut off these ropes.'
She glanced fearfully at Palermo.
'He will kill me.'
'Does he look like killing anybody?' asked the Saint. 'You can say that you fainted and I cut them off myself.'
She took a knife from the table and sawed at the cords. Simon felt the ropes give, dragged one wrist free and finished the job himself. She stood looking at him anxiously; and the Saint dug into his pocket and peeled five bills off the roll he carried. The anxiety faded out of her face, and she resumed her normal expression of bovine disinterest.
'Is there anyone in the apartment downstairs?' Simon asked.
She shook her head.
'Nobody.'
'That's one consolation, anyway,' said the Saint.
He stood rubbing his wrists tenderly for a moment. Mr Palermo continued to give no signs of life. It was a pity, thought the Saint regretfully-his artistic work on Mr Palermo's facial scenery had gone completely haywire now, and it would probably be the devil of a job to get it into shape again. However, one couldn't have everything; and what had been done was interesting to remember. The Saint turned away and went towards the communicating door. The girl realised his intention and tried to bar his way, but Simon put her firmly aside. He opened the door, and the bulging eyes of Mr Uniatz goggled up at him over the gag which covered half his face.
3 Simon fetched a knife and went back to the bed. The girl Maria tugged at his arm.
'You cannot do that!'
'I'm not going to cut his throat,' Simon explained patiently.
'You cannot do that. They must stay here. He said -Arturo-he said he would kill me if they got away.'
The Saint straightened up wearily.
'Arturo has made so many promises,' he pointed out. 'And just look at him. Besides, how could you stop me if you'd fainted, which I thought you were supposed to do. Be a sensible girl and shut up. Have you got a telephone here?'
'No.'
'Well, go out and find me a taxi. Bring it here.' He took a couple more notes out of his pocket and tore them in half. 'Here. You get the other half when I get my taxi.'
She pulled up her skirt, exposing an area of beefy and black-haired thigh, and tucked the money into the top of her stocking.
'Does the senor want a large taxi or a small taxi?'
'I don't care if you bring a truck,' said the Saint. 'But get moving and fetch something.'
He turned back to the bed and rapidly cut off the cords with which Hoppy was trussed up like a silkworm in its cocoon. He left him to remove the gag himself, and passed on to Joris Vanlinden, who lay on the other side of the bed. Mr Uniatz unwound the towel from his head and proceeded to pull a yard or two of what looked like dishcloth out of his mouth. He threw it on the floor and stood panting.
'Chees, boss,' he croaked. 'Anudder hour of dat an' I should of died. Have I got a toist?'
'You used to have one,' said the Saint. 'Did anything happen to it?'
Mr Uniatz licked his dry lips.
'Chees!' he repeated piously; and Simon heard him moving stiffly out of the door.
Joris Vanlinden still lay inertly on the bed after he had been cut loose. Simon removed the gag and took out the cloth with which his mouth was stuffed in the same way that Hoppy's had been. He gazed up at the Saint with dull and curiously apathetic eyes. Simon glanced round the room and saw a jug of water; he filled a glass and brought it to the bed, supporting the old man's head while he drank.
'How d'you feel?' he asked.
Vanlinden took his mouth from the glass and lay back again. His mouth worked once or twice before he could speak.
'Where's Christine?' he got out at last.
'She's all right.'
'Did they get her?'
'No, they didn't find her. I sent her to a friend's apartment. She's quite safe.'
Vanlinden was silent again. There had been vague crashing sounds emanating from the kitchenette for some little while past; and the Saint went out and found Mr Uniatz at the end of a triumphant search, with a bottle of whiskey grasped in his hand. Mr Uniatz' mouth, which could never have been likened to a rosebud, spread even wider under the influence of the broad beam of contentment that was lighting up his face.
'Lookit what we got, boss,' he said, hospitably including the Saint in the great moment; and Simon nodded
