'Didn't you hear anything?'
'No, I don't hear nut'n or see nobody, only de skoit. She comes in an' takes a gander at us an' goes out again. Den I hear you talkin' when you get here, an' dat's all.'
Simon slid back his sleeve to examine his watch. It seemed that the girl had been a long time finding a taxi. . . . Hoppy Uniatz tilted his bottle again and allowed the refreshing fluid to gurgle freely down his parched throat. When he paused for breath, he made an indicative movement of his head towards the bedroom.
'De old buzzard,' he said. 'How's he makin' out?'
The Saint shrugged.
'He'll be all right,' he said shortly.
He knew that it would only be a waste of time to attempt to explain his diagnosis of Joris Vanlinden's condition to the audience he had at his disposal. But the reminder creased two thin lines of anxiety between his brows.
Joris Vanlinden was slipping away-that was all there was to it. It wasn't from any definite physical injury; although the beating he had taken the night before, and the crack on the head which had doubtless followed the one which Hoppy's skull had received with so much less effect, had contributed their full share to his present condition. The fundamental injury was the injury to Vanlinden's mind. He was an old man, and he had already been well worn down by the things that had happened to him in the years before: now, he was simply ceasing to fight. The drive of hope and will which any man must have to survive disaster, which the instinct of self-preservation gives to nearly every man in a greater or less degree, had been exhausted in him. Simon could recognise the state even though he had never actually encountered it before. Vanlinden was sinking into the state of inert despair in which men of earlier days are said to have turned their faces to the wall and died for no other reason than that the will to live had dried up within them. And Simon knew that it was only one added reason why he must lose no time.
The girl was taking a fantastically long time to find a taxi. . . .
Simon found a piece of paper and scribbled on it the address where he had left Christine. He gave it to Hoppy, who had drained the last drops out of his bottle and was edging towards the kitchenette to look for more.
'This is where Christine is,' he said. 'As soon as we get out of here, I want you to go there and stick around. Your boy friends caught me when I'd just come back from there in a taxi, and they got the number. One of them's gone off already to look for it and see what he can find out. He'd still have a job to get Christine out, but I'm not taking any chances. You're going to park yourself there, and if anybody comes prowling around you give them the works.'
'Wit' my Betsy?' said Mr Uniatz, cheering up.
'With the blunt end of it,' said the Saint 'If you start any shooting around this town they'll turn the army out on you-the police here are very excited about shooting today, from what I read in the paper this morning.'
Mr Uniatz sighed.
'Okay, boss,' he said dutifully.
'And maybe by this time you'll have learnt a few lessons about who you open doors to. Or do I have to tell you again?'
'Boss,' said Mr Uniatz earnestly, 'I hoija de foist time. I been a sucker once, but dey won't catch me no more. De foist mug who tries to come in dat door, I'll give him de heat --'
'You won't.'
'I mean I'll clop him on de tiles so hard he'll t'ink he walked under an oitquake.'
'See you don't forget it,' said the Saint grimly. 'Because if you do, Mrs Uniatz is going to be sorry about her son.'
Hoppy shook his head.
'Dey ain't no Mrs Uniatz,' he said reminiscently. 'My fader never knew who my ma was.' Simon considered this for a moment, and decided it would be safer not to probe further into it. He consulted his watch again and took a quick turn up and down the room. What the hell could the girl be doing? . . . With a sudden resolution, he went back into the bedroom.
Vanlinden hadn't moved. He looked up at the Saint with the same peacefully empty eyes.
'Do you think you could walk a little way?' Simon asked gently.
The old man remained motionless, without any change in his expression.
'Christine wants to see you,' said the Saint.
A pale wraith of a smile played momentarily on the other's lips. Presently he raised his head,. then his body. Simon helped him to his feet. He stood holding the Saint's arm.
'Where is she?'
'We'll take you to the hotel and bring her to see you.'
Simon led him into the living room, and Hoppy greeted him with a brotherly wave of his hand.
'Hi ya, pal,' said Mr Uniatz genially. 'Hi ya makin' out?'
Vanlinden smiled at him with the same childish serenity.
'Come on,' said the Saint. 'We'll be downstairs waiting for that god-damn taxi when it does get here. I want to catch up with your other boy friend.'
'What about dis punk?' demurred Mr Uniatz dubiously, indicating the still unconscious Palermo. 'Do I give him de --'
'No, you don't. I'll do that myself some other day. Come on.'
They helped the old man down the stairs, although he needed less assistance than the Saint had feared.
