'Our scale is rather elastic,'' he said, endeavouring to maintain his gravity. 'Sometimes we have done it for nothing. Mostly we charge by the yard------'
'I don't mean that.' She was smoking her cigarette in short nervous puffs, and her hands were still unsteady. 'I mean, if a man wasn't really bad --if he'd just made a mistake and got into bad company------'
Simon nodded and stood up.
'You're rather sweet,' he said humorously. 'But I know what you mean. You're frightened by some of the stories you've heard about me. Well, kid--how about giving your own common sense a chance? I've just lifted you straight out of the hands of the police. They're looking for you now, and before tomorrow morning every flat-footed dick in London will be joining in the search. If I wanted to get tough with you I wouldn't need any third degree--I'd just have to promise to turn you right out into the street if you didn't come through. I haven't said a word about that, have I?' The Saint smiled; and in the quick flash of that particular smile the armour of worldlier women than she had melted like wax. 'But I do want you to talk. Come on, now-- what's it all about?'
She was silent for a moment, tapping her cigarette over the ashtray long after all the loose ash had flaked away; and then her hands moved in a helpless gesture.
'I don't know.'
Her eyes turned to meet his when she spoke, and he knew she was not merely stalling. He waited with genuine seriousness; and presently she said: 'The boy who got into bad company was my brother. Honestly, he isn't really bad. I don't know what happened to him. He didn't need to be dishonest--he was so clever. Even when he was a kid at school he could draw and paint like a professional. Everyone said he had a marvellous future. When he was nineteen he went to an art school. Even the professors said he was a genius. He used to drink a bit too much, and he was a bit wild; but that was only because he was young. I'm eighteen months older than he is, you see. I didn't like some of his friends. That man who was --arrested with me--was one of them.'
'And what's his name?'
'Jarving--Kenneth Jarving. ... I think he used to flatter Tim--make him feel he was being a man of the world. I didn't like him. He tried to make love to me. But he became Tim's best friend. . . . And then--Tim was arrested. For forgery. And it turned out that Jarving knew about it all the time. He was the head of the gang that Tim was forging the notes for. But the police didn't get him.'
'Charming fellow,' said the Saint thoughtfully.
Hoppy Uniatz came in with the coffee, opened his mouth to utter some cheery conversation, sensed the subtle quietness of the atmosphere, and did not utter it. He stood on one foot, leaving his mouth open for future employment, and scratched his head, frowning vaguely. Annette Vickery went on, without paying any attention to him:
'Of course, Tim went to prison. I suppose they really meant to be kind to him. They only gave him eighteen months. They said he was obviously the victim of somebody much older and more experienced. I believe he might have got off altogether if he'd put them onto Jarving, who was the man they really wanted. But Tim wouldn't do it. And he swore he'd never forgive me if I said anything. I suppose--I shouldn't have taken any notice. But he was so emphatic. I was afraid. I didn't know what the others might have done to him if he'd given them away. I--I didn't say anything. So Tim went to prison.'
'How long ago was that?'
'He came out three weeks ago. He was let off some of his sentence for good conduct. I was the only one who knew when he was coming out. Jarving tried to make me tell him, but I wouldn't. I wanted to try and keep Tim out of his way. And Tim said he wouldn't go back. He got a job in a printing works at Dulwich, through the Prisoners' Aid Society; and he was going to take up drawing again in his spare time and try to make a decent living at it. I believed he would. I still believe it.
But--that pound note you changed ... it was part of some money he gave me only yesterday, to pay back some that I'd lent him. He said he'd sold some cartoons to a magazine.'
The Saint put down his cigarette and picked up the coffee pot. He nodded.
'I see. But that still doesn't tell me why you had to go to the Barnyard Club and get pinched.'
'That's what I still don't understand. I'm only trying to tell you everything that happened. Jarving rang me up this evening and asked if he could see me. I made excuses--I didn't want to see him. Then he said there'd be trouble for Tim if I didn't. He told me to meet him at the Barnyard Club. I had to go.'
'And what was the trouble?'
'He'd only started to tell me when the police came in. He wanted to know where he could get hold of Tim. I wouldn't tell him. He said, 'Look here, I'm not trying to get your brother in trouble again. This isn't anything to do with me. It's somebody else who wants to see him.' I still didn't believe him. Then he said he'd give me this man's name and address himself, and I could give it to Tim myself, and Tim could go there on his own. But he said Tim had got to go, somehow.'
'Did he give you the name and address?'
'Yes. He wrote it down on a piece of paper, just before------'
'Have you got it?'
She opened her bag and took out a scrap of paper torn from a wine list. Simon took it and glanced over the writing.
And in that instant all his lazy good humour, all the relaxed and patient quiet with which he had listened to her story, were swept away as if a silent bomb had annihilated them.
'Is this it?' he said aimlessly; and she found his clear blue eyes on her, for that moment absolutely without mockery, raking her face with a blaze of azure light that was the most dynamic thing she had ever seen.
'That's it,' she said hesitantly. 'I've never heard the name before------'
'I have.'
The Saint smiled. He had been marking time since the last gorgeous climax which his reckless impetuosity had given him, feeling his way towards the next move almost like an artist waiting for renewed inspiration; but he knew now where he was going on. He looked again at the scrap of paper on which outrageous fortune had jotted down
