18 The Saint Bids Diamonds (Thieves' Picnic)

sympathetically.

'Let me open it for you.'

He detached the bottle from Hoppy's loving paws with the dexterity acquired from many similar rescues and stripped off the seals. He poured some of the whiskey into a glass before he handed the bottle back.

'Make yourself at home, Hoppy,' he said un­necessarily and returned to the bedroom.

Joris Vanlinden was still lying quietly where the Saint had left him. His eyes were closed, but they opened when Simon came to the bed.

'Have you got a toist too?' Simon enquired with a smile.

The old man's lips moved faintly, but he didn't answer. Simon helped him up again and offered him the drink. He sipped a little and then he shook his head.

Simon let him down again and put the glass on the table. Still the old man didn't speak. He seemed quite happy to lie there with his eyes resting vacantly on the Saint's face, without talking or moving. Once he smiled weakly, as if that said all he wanted to say.

The Saint watched him for a few moments; and then he turned on his heel and went back to the living room.

Mr Uniatz was sitting on the table, with the half-empty bottle, which was tilted up to his lips and rapidly proceeding to contain less and less. He removed it from its target for long enough to say 'Hi-yah, boss,' and replaced it again without any loss of time. Simon performed another of his expert feats of legerdemain and parked the bottle at the other end of the table; and Mr Uniatz wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

'Dis guy,' he said, hooking his thumb backwards at the sleeping Mr Palermo-'where does he come from?'

'He's one of the lads who brought you here.'

'He ain't dead,' said Hoppy, as if he found the fact not only remarkable but also to be deplored.

The Saint grinned and searched for a cigarette.

'No, he isn't dead. He just hit the back of his head on my foot, and then he hit the front of his face on the floor, and what with one thing and another he seemed to decide that that wasn't getting him anywhere, so he gave it up and went to sleep.'

Mr Uniatz thought it over. It was difficult for him to believe that the Saint could have been guilty of any of the lapses of memory to which ordinary mortals were subject, but he could discover no other explana­tion. However, from the sounds he had heard previ­ously, Mr Uniatz was able to deduce that the Saint had been having some trouble; and he presumed that the stress of other preoccupations was responsible. Mr Uniatz' natural courtesy and kindness of heart forbade him to make any comments, especially when the omission could so easily be rectified. Almost bash­fully he fished an automatic out of his pocket.

'Shall I give him de woiks, boss?' he suggested, as if he was apologising for mentioning the matter at all.

'Not just now,' said the Saint decisively. 'And where did you get that thing?'

'Dis is my Betsy,' said Mr Uniatz proudly. 'He must of took it off me while I was in de clouds, because I find it in his pocket. He has a rock on his finger too.'

He exhibited the diamond ring which he had man­aged to squeeze most of the way on to his little finger.

'The sort of rock you need would have R. I. P. on it,' said the Saint. 'How did you get into this mess?'

Mr Uniatz got on to his feet and sauntered airily round the table, cunningly gaining possession of the whiskey bottle on the way.

'Well, boss, it's like dis. I wake up in de morning, an' de old buzzard is still knockin' off de hours, so after a bit I figure I may as well see if I can promote some breakfast. I get hold of a chambermaid, an' I say 'Breakfast.' She looks at me like a parrot, as if I was nuts, so I say 'Breakfast' again. So she says 'Does I you know?' I begin to t'ink she has de bugs herself. 'Does I you know?' she says. 'What de hell kind of a jernt is dis?' I say. 'Have you gotta know me before you can get me some breakfast?' All she does is go on saying 'Does I you know ?' Are all dese spicks screwy, woujja t'ink, boss?'

'Just about all of them,' said the Saint. 'But she was only saying desayuno. It's the Spanish for breakfast.'

Mr Uniatz looked at him admiringly.

'Now woujja believe dat?' he asked of the un-answering world. 'I said dey were screwy, didn't I? So what happens if dey want to say 'Do I know ya'?'

'That's something quite different,' said the Saint hurriedly. 'Anyway, I gathered that you got your breakfast. I saw the tray in your room.'

'Sure. In de end she wakes up an' goes away, an' in about half an hour somebody knocks on de door --'

'Didn't I tell you not to open the door to anybody?'

'I know dat's what you tell me, boss, but how was I to know de waiters were in wit' dese mugs?'

'That wasn't a waiter, you ass! Apart from anything else, you can always tell a Canary Islander on sight because there just aren't any other people in the world who can look so ugly and unwashed and so pleased about it. The bloke who brought you your breakfast was one of what you call the mugs.'

A pleased look of comprehension smoothed the scowl of concentration from Mr Uniatz' brow.

'Ah,' he said. 'Maybe dat's why he hits me on de head.'

'Probably that had something to do with it,' Simon agreed, with powerful restraint. 'What happened after that?'

'I dunno, boss. I dunno what he hits me wit', but when I wake up I'm all tied up on de bed.'