18 The Saint Bids Diamonds (Thieves' Picnic)

over the laden shelves, kindled tiny flashes of coloured lightning from the carpets of blazing gems on its stepped terraces, as if the bar of light was a magic wand wakening the jewels to life. ...

'Was it worth waiting for?' said the Saint rap­turously.

She was gasping.

'I didn't know . . . Joris said it was full of jewels, but I couldn't imagine it.'

The Saint glanced at his watch again.

'Twenty-three minutes exactly. I'm not going to try and work out what rate of pay that averages per minute, because it might put ideas into your head. But let's help ourselves. Hold the glim, will you?'

She found herself with the flashlight in her hand, watching him scoop up the jewels in handfuls and pour, them into his pockets. It was like seeing a pantomime come to life, watching somebody empty an Aladdin's cave and yet knowing that the fabulous collection of jewels was not merely a few quarts of pieces of coloured glass. Simon went on until every shelf was bare and his pockets were heavy and swollen. At the last he picked up a lone emerald the size of a bantam's egg.

'Here-you have this for a souvenir. I'll keep the rest, because you'll be able to buy all you want with the Spanish government's money --'

He stopped speaking abruptly, and she saw the grim fighting steel creep back into his averted eyes. An instant later he had taken the torch out of her hand and switched it off. The last thing she saw was that he was smiling again.

Then the darkness was back again, seeming doubly black after the temporary light; and in the darkness she heard what the Saint had heard a few seconds earlier--the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs out­side.

Instinct made her stretch out her hand again for the comforting human contact of the Saint's body; but he was not where he had been when she last saw him. Her hand met nothing but the air.

The Saint was halfway across the room by then.

With hardly a check in his swift silent passing, he lowered himself for a moment to see what light there was under the door. By the brilliance and steady swing of it, he learned that it was not a candle . . . and he went on, with only that minor item of information to prepare him for what might be coming. At any rate, the blow-up was coming now, whichever of the un­godly had been deputed to come and investigate the attic. The men downstairs had had time enough to decide that the prolonged failure of the electrical sys­tem might be due to something more than natural causes-the Saint knew that he was lucky to have been left so long. And the one question in his mind was concerned with how much longer a margin would have to be allowed for Hoppy Uniatz to receive his mes­sage and act upon it.

The footsteps had stopped outside the door-he couldn't be sure yet whether they belonged to one man or more. But somebody was out there, listening.

'I wish they'd hurry up and do something about these lights,' said the Saint, clearly and conversationally; and as if the sound of his voice had reassured the man outside, the handle rattled and the door was flung open.

The searchlight beam of a big torch blazed into the room, covering the open and empty safe before it jerked slightly to the side to catch Christine Vanlinden full in the centre of its light. The Saint was near the door, almost at right angles to the direct beam; and enough of the light was reflected back from the walls and ceiling to show him the shape of the man who held it. It was Palermo; and Simon saw the silhouette of the automatic rising in his hand.

Palermo's guttural exclamation practically coincided with the Saint's spring; and because there was about six feet between them Simon launched his knife ahead of him.

The knife was meant for the wrist behind Palermo's gun, and it flew towards its mark as straight as an arrow. It was unfortunate that the mark moved. Palermo had started to turn, his torch pivoting round, probably with the idea of locating the Saint-but concerning Mr Palermo's mental reactions at that time the historian must remain conscientiously agnostic. The only person who could speak of them with authority would be Mr Palermo himself, and this is not a spiritualistic seance. The only thing we are sure about is that Palermo started to move as the knife left the Saint's hand. He gave a queer little cough; and then Simon's flying tackle caught him around the thighs and brought him down with a thump. Palermo's gun went off at about the same time, like a clap of thunder, and in a flash Simon was grappling for it. He had got hold of the barrel when he realised that Palermo was not fighting, that Palermo was lying quite still and not resisting at all. Simon took the gun away, and held Palermo down with a knee in his stomach while he picked up the torch. He turned the light downwards and understood. . . .

He looked up to see Christine staring at the same thing, reaching the same understanding.

'Is he ... is he dead?'

'Let's say he has been taken from us,' said the Saint piously. He recovered his knife and wiped it quickly and neatly on the late Mr Palermo's shirt before he returned it to its sheath. 'And let's keep moving, because hell will now start to pop.'

He took her hand and rushed her down the stairs. At the bottom he checked her again, before they turned the corner on to the veranda. Beyond the corner someone else was moving, and he saw a dim flicker of light.

He left Christine under cover, and turned the corner alone.

From the range of a yard he looked into the gaping popeyed face of the servant whom he had seen at breakfast, made even more ghoulish by the upward lighting of the candle which the man held in one hand. Simon smiled at him in the friendliest way.

'Buenas noches,' he remarked, remembering the example of dignified politeness which had been shown to him in another place not long before.

The servant was not so ready to take the hint. He let out a bronchial wheeze and turned to run. Simon's foot shot out and tapped the man's heels together, sending him down in a sprawling slide. The candle spilled over and went out. Simon switched on his torch and hit the man twice on the back of the head with Palermo's gun, very hard. . . .

He grasped the man under the arms and hauled him up again, holding him in front of his own body as a shield. As the beam of his flashlight swerved up­wards with the movement, it flashed over the figure of Aliston, rising head and shoulders over the other flight of stairs at the end of the veranda.