She fought his cynical remoteness with wild and desperate black eyes.
'I've never seen them before in my life. I swear I haven't You must believe me!'
'Then how did they get in here?'
'I don't know.'
'I suppose they just broke in,' Simon suggested, ignoring the fact that that was exactly what he had done himself.
'They might have.'
'Or did they have a key?'
'I tell you, I don't know them.'
'Who else has your key?'
It was as if he had hit her under the ribs. All the blood drained out of her face and turned the warm golden glow to a sick yellow. The strength seemed to go out of her with it, so that he felt her weight grow on the arm he was holding. He released her again, and she sank on to the bed as if her knees had turned to water.
'Well?' he said ruthlessly.
'I can't tell you.'
'Meaning you won't.'
She shook her head so that her long hair swirled like a dancer's skirt.
'No . . .' Her gaze was imploring, frantic, yet trying ineffectually to draw back and harden. 'What are you trying to do anyhow, and what right have you got----'
'You know about me. I'm trying to break the iridium black market. And there was robbery and murder tied up with it even before I started. You may have heard that there's a small war in progress. Iridium happens to be a ridiculously vital material. Gabriel Linnet had had dealings with the black market, and I was going to talk to him last night. You were planted there to keep me away while he was having his voice amputated---and incidentally to make sure I wouldn't have an alibi so I could be hung for it.'
'No,' she said.
'If you aren't anything worse, you're just another butterfly trying to throw curves God didn't give her to toss around. Maybe you thought it was all good clean fun--great sport for a pretty girl to play Mata Hari and dip her little fingers into international intrigue----'
'No,' she said. 'It wasn't like that.'
'Then how was it?'
She twisted her hands together between her knees.
'I was planted there last night. That's true.' Her voice was light and strained. 'But that isn't what I was told. I was told it was just business. That Mr Linnet had hired you to try and spoil a business deal that--that this person I was doing it for was interested in. He said I just had to keep you away from Mr Linnet lor a certain time and everything would be all right. I never dreamed it meant any more than that. I still can't believe it.'
'Who is this person?' he asked again.
'How can I tell you? I'd be betraying a trust.'
'I suppose betraying your country and helping to hide a mur-derer seems much more noble.'
Her clenched hands beat at her temples.
'Please don't--please! I've got to think. . . .'
'That might be a great beginning.'
He was as pitiless and implacable as he could be. There was nothing in this that he could afford to be sentimental about. He was deliberately using his voice and personality like a whip.
She turned her face up to him with the mascara making dark smudges under her eyes, and the same pleading held in her voice.
'I'm so mixed up. This is somebody who's been very good to me. . . . But everything I've told you is the truth. I swear it is. You must believe me. You must.'
He knew that at that time he was as unemotional as a lie detector; and yet unsureness tightened the muscles of his jaw. He took a long inhalation from his cigarette while he assessed the feeling.
He had his own extra sense of truth that was like the ear of a musician with perfect pitch. He knew also that even that intuition could be deceived, because he himself had more than once deceived some of the most uncooperative critics. But if Barbara Sinclair was doing that, she had to be the most sensational actress that ever walked, on or off a stage. It simply became easier and more rational to believe that he had met at least some of the truth than that he had met the supreme acting of all time.
His main objectives were unchanged. He had to convict a murderer, track down the stolen iridium that had been diverted into the black market, and uncover, erase, liquidate, or otherwise dispose of the upper case brain that controlled the whole traitor-ous racket. He had to do that no matter who got hurt, including himself.
But there was the slightest change in his tone of voice as he said: 'All right. What about these two creeps?'
'I don't know who they are. Honestly. I can't even think how they got in here.'
'Let's find out.'
He made a rapid search of the two sleepers, and found no burglarious implements. But separate from the bunch of keys on Varetti's gold trouser chain, he found a single key in one waistcoat pocket. He took it to the front door and tried it. It worked.
He came back, showed it to the girl, and put it in his own pocket.
'They had a key,' he said. 'So by your own count, they must be pals of your boy friend. Does that help?'
She didn't answer.
'I might ask them some questions,' he said. 'How would you like that?'
'I'd like that,' she said almost intensely.
He looked at Varetti and Walsh again; but they showed no signs of life whatever, and he regretted a little that he had dealt with them quite so vigorously. But the real motive of his question had been to get her reaction. The two men themselves were obviously dyed-in-the-wool mobsters of an older school, who would endure great persuasion before they opened up their souls and became confidential. And that would take time--quite probably, too much time.
Simon located a closet full of feminine fripperies, and gave it a quick inspection. A suit of masculine pajamas hanging just inside interested him quite a little--even if Barbara Sinclair had a weakness for masculine modes, they would obviously have been too big for her. But he made no remarks about them. He heaved the two mobsters in, one after the other, and locked the door.
'They'll keep for a bit,' he said; and then his eye fell again on the rawhide bag which had damaged his shin.
He pointed to it.
'Were you thinking of going somewhere, or were they moving in?'
She hesitated, fighting another battle with herself before she replied.
'It isn't mine.'
'Who does it belong to--your new boarders?'
'No. It belongs to--the same person. He left it with me some time ago. He said it was a lot of old books that he'd brought in from the country to give to the USO, but he kept forgetting to do anything about it.' Her eyes went back to him with a weak spark of hope. 'Perhaps he just sent those men to fetch it.'
'Perhaps he did,' Simon agreed courteously. 'Do you mind if I have a look at these old books?'
She shook her head.
'I suppose I can't stop you. But the bag's locked.'
He looked at her humorously.
'I should have known that a bookworm like you would have tried to take a peek before this.'
Her face flamed but she made no retort.
Simon started to pick up the suitcase, and was momentarily taken aback by his own lack of strength. It was a little distressing to discover that old age had caught up with him so quickly--in the space of a mere few minutes, to be exact. For he had handled the two limp gangsters without much difficulty.
He took a fresh grip, and heaved the bag on to the bed. Even for a load of books, it was astonishingly heavy
