Her eyes stared at him in a blind stunned way that said: 'I know. I know. You think I'm a heel. But what could I do ? I didn't have long enough to think. .. .'
And his own cool steady eyes, and that faintly lingering smile, all of his face so strangely free from hatred or contempt, answered in the same silent language: 'I know, kid. I understand. You couldn't help it. What the hell?'
She looked at him with an incredulity that ached to believe.
Kaskin tightened his last knot and came round from behind the chair.
'Well, smart guy,' he said gloatingly. 'You weren't so smart, after all.'
The Saint had no time to waste. Even with his wrists tied behind him, he could still reach the hilt of his knife with his fingertips. They hadn't thought of searching for a weapon like that, under his sleeve. He eased it out of its sheath until his ringers could close on the handle.
'You certainly did surprise me, Judd,' he admitted mildly.
'Thought you were making a big hit with the little lady, didn't you ?' Kaskin sneered. 'Well, that's what you were meant to think. I never knew a smart guy yet that wasn't a sucker for a jane. We had it all figured out. She tipped us off as soon as she left your house this afternoon. We could have hunted out the dough and got away with it then, but that would have still left you running around. It was worth waiting a bit to get you as well. We knew you'd be here. We just watched the house until you got here, and came in after you. Then we only had to wait until Angela got close enough to you to grab your gun. Directly we heard her say you hadn't got one, we walked in.' His arm slid round the girl's waist. 'Cute little actress, ain't she, Saint? I'll bet you thought you were in line for a big party.'
Simon had his knife in his hand. He had twisted the blade back to saw it across the cords on his wrists, and it was keen enough to lance through them like butter. He could feel them loosening strand by strand, and stopped cutting just before they would have fallen away altogether; but one strong jerk of his arms would have been enough to set him free.
'So what ?' he inquired coolly.
'So you get what's coming to you,' Kaskin said.
He dug into a bulging coat pocket.
The Saint tensed himself momentarily. Death was still very near. His hands might be practically free, but his legs were still tied to the chair. And even though he could throw his knife faster than most men could pull a trigger, it could only be thrown once. But he had taken that risk from the beginning, with his eyes open. He could only die once, too; and all his life had been a gamble with death.
He saw Kaskin's hand come out. But it didn't come out with a gun. It came out with something that looked like an ordinary tin can with a length of smooth cord wound round it. Kaskin unwrapped the cord, and laid the can on the edge of the bed, where it was only a few inches both from the Saint's elbow arid Verdean's middle. He stretched out the cord, which terminated at one end in a hole in the top of the can, struck a match, and put it to the loose end. The end began to sizzle slowly.
'It's a slow fuse,' he explained, with vindictive satisfaction. 'It'll take about fifteen minutes to burn. Time enough for us to get a long way off before it goes off, and time enough for you to do plenty of thinking before you go skyhigh with Verdean. I'm going to enjoy thinking about you thinking.'
Only the Saint's extraordinarily sensitive ears would have caught the tiny mouselike sound that came from somewhere in the depths of the house. And any other ears that had heard it might still have dismissed it as the creak of a dry board.
'The only thing that puzzles me,' he said equably, 'is what you think you're going to think with.'
Kaskin stepped up and hit him unemotionally in the face.
'That's for last night,' he said hoarsely, and turned to the others.
