Suddenly he got up and went over to her and took both her hands. The coldness fell out of his voice.
'Valerie, why don't you stop being an idiot and let me get into the firing line?'
She looked at him speculatively for a while, for quite a long while. Her hands were small and soft. He kept still, and heard a taxi rattle past the end of the street. But she shook her head.
'I'd like to,' she said sadly. 'Especially after what you've done for me tonight—although if it comes to that, I expect you simply love dashing about rescuing people and doing your little hero act, so perhaps you ought to be a bit grateful to me for giving you such a good chance to do your stuff. And after all, if I just handed over the papers to you, that wouldn't do much good, would it ? Of course, if you wanted to buy them ——'
'To hell with buying them! Haven't you found out yet thai there are some things in life that you can't measure in money? Haven't you realized that this is one of them? I don't know what there is in those papers—maybe you don't know either. But you must know that things like you've seen tonight don't get organized over scraps of paper with noughts and crosses on them—that men like Bravache and Fairweather and Luker don't take to systematic murder to stop anybody reading their old love letters. These men are big. Anything that keeps them as busy as this is big. Ana I know what kind of bigness they deal in. The only way they can make what they call big money, the only way they can touch the power and glory that their perverted egos crave for, is in helping and schooling nations to slaughter and destroy. What hellish graft is at the back of this show called the Sons of France I don't know; but I can guess plenty of it. However it works, the only object it can have is to turn one more country aside from civilization so that the market can be kept right for the men who sell guns and gas. Or else Luker wouldn't be in it. And he must know that there's an odds-on chance of bringing it off, or else he still wouldn't be in it. This may be the last cog in a machine that will wipe out twenty million lives, and you might have the knowledge that would break it up before it gets going. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'
She stood up slowly. And she freed her hands. 'I think I'll be getting along now,' she said, and her voice was quite steady in spite of the reluctance in it. 'It's been a lovely party, but even the best of good times have to come to an end, and I need some sleep. Do you think you could move those men out of the bedroom while I put on some clothes?'
Simon looked at her.
The fire that had gone into his appeal was a glowing; ingot within him. It was a coiled spring that would drive him until it ran down, without regard for sentiment or obstacles. It was a power transformer for the ethereal vibrations of destiny. Earlier in the evening, the atmosphere of the Berkeley had defeated him; but this was not the Berkeley. He knew that there was only one solution, and there was too much at stake for him to hesitate. He was amazed at his own madness; and yet he was utterly calm, utterly resolute.
He nodded.
'Oh yes,' he said. 'I was going to move them anyway. I didn't think you'd want to keep them for domestic pets.'
He went over and opened the bedroom door.
'Bring out the zoo,' he said.
He stood there while the captives filed out, followed by Peter and Hoppy, and waited until the door had closed again behind the girl. For a few seconds he paced up and down the small room, intent on his own thoughts. Then he picked up the telephone and dialled the number of his apartment in Cornwall House.
Patricia answered the ring.
'Hullo, sweetheart,' he said. His voice was level, too certain of its words to show excitement. 'Yes. . . . No trouble at all. Everything went according to plan, and we're all sitting pretty—except the deputation from the ungodly. Now listen. I've got a job for you. Call Orace and tell him to expect you. Then get out the Daimler, and tell Sam Outrell to pull Stunt Number Three. As soon as you're sure yon aren't followed, come over here. Hustle it. . . . No, I'll tell you when you arrive. There are listeners. . . . Okay, darling. Be seein' ya.'
He put down the phone and turned to Bravache. The pupils of his eyes were like chips of flint.
