'Put 'em high,' he said harshly.
Simon put them high. Aliston got up and undulated round the table to get behind him. His hands slid over the Saint's pockets.
The Saint grinned at Graner with conspiratorial glee.
'Is this the way you always receive your guests, Reuben?' he drawled.
Graner's eyes gave back no answering gleam of sympathy.
'I am not receiving a guest, Mr Tombs,' he said, and there was just something about the way he said it that made the Saint's heart stop beating.
Graner might have been going to say something more, but whatever might have been on the tip of his tongue was cut off by Aliston's sudden exclamation.
The Saint looked round, and his heart started off again. It started so violently that his pulses raced.
Aliston was backing away from him, and he held an envelope in his hand. Simon recognised it at the first glance. It was the belated letter which had been handed to him at the hotel, which he had stuffed carelessly into his pocket and completely forgotten under the pressure of the other things that were on his mind. Aliston was gaping at it with dilated eyes, and his face had gone even whiter. With an abrupt jerky movement he flung it on the table in front of the others.
'Tombs!' he said hoarsely. 'His name isn't Tombs! Look at that. His name's Simon Templar. You know what that means, don't you? He's the Saint!'
3 Simon could feel the ripple of electricity that quivered through the room, and was philosophical enough to recognise that there were advantages as well as disadvantages in possessing a reputation like his. Palermo and Lauber seemed to be clinging to their chairs as if the revelation had brought them a stronger feeling of apprehension than of triumph. Aliston was frankly trembling.
Graner stepped forward and peered closely into the Saint's face.
'You!' he barked.
Even he was shaken by the shock which had hammered the others back to silence. The Saint nodded imperturbably.
'That's right.' He knew that it would be a waste of time to try and deny it. 'I don't mind letting you in on the secret-I was getting tired of being called Tombs, anyway.'
A moment went by before Graner recovered himself.
'In that case,' he said, with his voice smooth and sneering again, 'it only makes our success more satisfying.'
'Oh yes,' said the Saint. 'Nobody's going to stop you collecting your medals. It was a nifty piece of work, Reuben-very nifty.'
He needed no further confirmation of that. The intuitive comprehension of Graner's cunning which had cramped his intestines a few seconds ago was now settled into his understanding as one of the immutable facts of life.
He had been caught-very niftily. Graner had opened his parlour door, and the fly had walked in on its toes. Simon realised that he had underrated Reuben Graner's talents as a strategist. If he had been a little less sure of himself, he would have stopped to admit that a man whose plotting had amassed the collection of jewels which he had seen in the safe upstairs couldn't be the complete sucker which Graner had sometimes appeared to be. Graner had been on the wrong track, that was all. When he got moving in the right direction, he had a beautiful style. The Saint admitted it. Only a consummate tactician, a past master of the arts of psychology and guile, could have thought up the story which had led him so neatly into the trap-the one story in all the realms of unwritten fiction which could possibly have hooked an old fish like the Saint. It had been so adroitly put together that Graner hadn't even suggested going to the house, If he had shown the least sign of eagerness for that move, the Saint might have been put on his guard. But Graner hadn't needed to. The Saint had proposed the visit himself, which was exactly what a consummate psychologist and tactician would have known he would do; and Graner had even been able to raise a few halfhearted objections to the proposal. . . . Oh yes; Graner was entitled to help himself to his medal. Simon bore no malice about it. It had been a grand story, and he still liked it.
After which perfunctory raising of the mental hat,.he passed rapidly on to consider the next move. And nothing was more obvious than that it would have to be made quickly.
Graner's recovery was having a restorative effect on the others. Simon could feel their relaxation in the diminishing tension of the atmosphere. Aliston was regaining control of his jittered nerves. Palermo was pulling again at his unsavoury cigar, and the red lights in his one good eye were burning hotter. Only Lauber was still hunched stiffly over his gun, as though he could not quite convince himself that the alarming situation was well in hand.
'Perhaps you would like to sit down, Mr Templar,' Graner said softly.
'That's quite an idea, Reuben, since we're booked for a conference. This position does get a bit tiring --'
'You can quit that line of talk, see ?'
Palermo jumped out of his chair, with one clenched fist raised. Graner checked him.
'Wait a minute.'
'I'll knock that grin off his face'
'I said wait a minute. There will be plenty of time for that.'
'That's right, Art,' said the Saint kindly. 'Sit down and save what's left of your nasty little face. It's the only one you've got, and if you hit me I shall certainly hit you again.'
'If you try to hit anyone,' grated Lauber,'I'll --'
'You'll put your gun away and hope for the best. You're not going to shoot me if you can possibly help it, because you still want to ask me too many questions.'
