She was against the wall at right angles to his, tied to the pipes in exactly the same manner; but she was quite conscious and standing upright. She didn't look trim and sleek as he had last seen her. One of the braids of her coiled hair had broken loose and fallen over her shoulder like a drooping wing, and the demure dark dress she had, been wearing was dishevelled and torn away from one creamy shoulder and the lift of a breast. She was watching the Saint's recovery with eyes like scorched holes in the desperate pallor of her beauty.
It was the shock of recognition as much as anything which helped to clear the rest of the fuzzy cobwebs from his brain. His headache was more bearable now, but he had an idea that he wouldn't want anyone to lay a heavy hand on the place behind his right ear where it seemed to come from.
'To digress a moment from what we were saying,' he managed to remark aloud in a thick voice that grew clearer and stronger with each passing breath, 'what the hell did Joe hit me with--a boomerang? I only took a sip of that drink, and it wasn't any worse than the stuff they served me before.'
'Blatt hit you from behind,' she said. 'He came up behind you while you were talking. I tried to warn you with my eyes. He was very quick, and nobody would have seen it. Then he caught you, and they said you were drunk and passed out. They took you into a back room, and that was the end of it.'
Simon glanced at his surroundings again. They were depress-ingly reminiscent of many similar surroundings that he had been in before. He seemed to have spent a great deal of his life being knocked on the head and tied up in cellars.
'And so, by one easy transfer,' he observed, 'we arrive in th bomb-proof doghouse.'
'This is the cellar of my house. There is a back way out of tin Blue Goose. They took you out and brought you here.'
'Well, well, well. We certainly do lead a hectic life. Never dull moment.'
Her gaze was wondering.
'You jest in the face of certain death. Are you a fatalist, or are you only a fool?'
'I've certainly acted like a fool,' Simon admitted ruefully. 'But as for this death business--that shouldn't lose you any sleep. You didn't have any nightmares over Matson, did you?'
'I have seen too much to have nightmares,' she said wearily. 'But I give you my word that I have never had a hand in any murder. I didn't know they were going to kill Matson. I knew nothing about him, except that he was one of their men, and I was told to amuse him. But after he had been killed--what could I do? I couldn't bring him back to life, or even prove that they did it. And Vaschetti. I thought Vaschetti was safe in jail when I . . .'
'When you what?'
'When I went to his room this afternoon to see if I could find --anything.'
The Saint wondered if the blow on his head had done something to him. He looked at her through a film of unreality.
He said: 'Such as a diary of names and places?'
'Anything. Anything I could find. I thought he might have kept something, and I wanted it.'
'What for--blackmail?'
'To turn over to the FBI, when I had enough.'
He had learned before that he couldn't needle her, but it was a discovery that she could astound him.
'You mean you were planning to sell your own gang down the river?'
'Of course.'
Maybe it was better to occupy his twinging head with material things. On due consideration, he admired the basic ingenuity of the way he was tied up. It was so simple and practical and economical of rope, and yet it completely eliminated all the standard tricks of escape. There was no chance of reaching a knot with the fingertips or the teeth, or cleverly breaking a watch-glass and sawing the cords on a sharp fragment, or employing any of the other devices which have become so popular in these situations. It was one of the most effective systems the Saint had encountered in an exceptionally privileged experience, and he made a mental note to use it on his next prisoner.
Meanwhile he said, without much subtlety: 'But would that have been cricket, tovarich? Do you want me to believe that anyone so beautiful could sink so low?'
For an instant he thought that he actually struck a flash from her green eyes.
'Why do you think I'm here now--tovarich?' .
'I had wondered about that,' he said. 'But I decided you might have a fetish about being crucified.'
'I'm here because they don't trust me any more. I helped to bring you here. I wanted them to believe I was still helping them. I couldn't do anything else. . . . And I was only waiting for a chance to help you. . . . They tied you up. I helped them. And then, suddenly, they took hold of me and tied me up too. I fought them, but it was no use.'
'You have such a sweet honest face--why wouldn't they trust you?'
'That was because of what you said in the Blue Goose,' she told him without resentment. 'You asked me if I had Vaschetti's book. Before that, they thought it was you who had been there first. But when Maris heard you accuse me he was suspicious. They knew that I liked you, and I had seen you. And for Maris, a little suspicion is enough.'
Simon decided that there was not so much profit in standing upright as he had hoped. If he rested his arms, the cords gnawed at his wrists again; if he favored his wrists, the strain of fatigue on his shoulders tautened slowly into exquisite torture. He had had no sensation in his hands and no control of his fingers for some time.
'And you really expect me to swallow that without water?' he asked scornfully.
'It doesn't matter much what you believe now,' she replied tiredly. 'It's too late. We shall both be dead in a little while. We cannot escape; and Siegfried is pitiless.'
'Pardon me if I get a bit confused among all these people, but who is Siegfried?'
'Siegfried Maris. You call him Joe. I think he is the head of the Nazi sabotage organisation in the United States.'
The Saint thought so too. He had had that all worked out before Blatt hit him on the head. It explained why Matson had ever gone to the Blue Goose at all. It explained why Vaschetti had touched there in his travels. It explained why the Blue Goose played such a part in the whole incident--why it was the local focus of infection, and why it could send its tendrils.of corruption into honest local political dishonesty, squeezing and pressing cunningly here and there, using the human failings of the American scene to undermine America. A parasitic vine that used the unassuming and unconscious flaws in its host to destroy the tree. ... It was not incredible that the prime root of the growth should turn out to be Siegfried Maris, whom everyone knew as Joe. Simon had always had it in his mind that the man he was hunting for would turn out to be someone that everybody called Joe. And this was the man. The man who could have anything around and not be part of it; who could always say, whatever happened, that he just happened to be legitimately there. The man nobody saw, in the place nobody thought of ...
'Comrade Maris,' said the Saint, 'has been offstage far too much. It's not fair to the readers. What is he doing now?'
'I expect he's upstairs, with the others. Searching my house.'
'He must like the place. How long have we been here?' 'Not very long. Not long at all.'
'What's he searching for?'
'The book,' she said. 'Vaschetti's little book.'
'Why here?'
'Because I did find it. Because it has half the code names and meeting places in this country listed in it. But Maris will find it. I couldn't hide it very well.'
Simon was able to shrug his left shoulder tentatively. No weight dragged on it. They would have found and taken the gun in his spring holster, of course. It wouldn't have been much use to him if they hadn't. However . . .
'So it was you who tore Vaschetti's room at the Ascot apart,' he said. 'But your mob thought it was me. That's why my room was gone over this evening while we were out together, and a colored friend of mine nearly had colored kittens. You aren't overlooking any bets, are you? And since Vaschetti's indiscreet memoirs are still missing--not to mention Brother Matson's notes and papers----'
'They have those,' she said listlessly. 'They were in the glad-stone bag.'
He was shaken as if he had been jolted in the ribs; but he went on.
'So anyway, we now have a well-staged scene in the old torture chamber, where you trick me into revealing
