He was still smiling when he ran down the hill into Lark-stone and cut his engine before swinging round to glide up to the garage beside the inn. Even after that minor miscalculation he remained the blithest of optimists-he hadn't once caught sight of the face of the man to whom he had spoken, but he would know that dry pedantic voice anywhere, and he had found men before with less to identify them than that.
He had his next surprise when he turned his wheels towards the garage and prepared to repeat his earlier strenuous performance by manhandling the car back into its berth, for as his dimmed lights panned round he saw that he had an unobstructed run in. The lorry that had blocked his way before, which Jeffroll had told him was out of action with a broken propeller-shaft, had vanished.
VII So had Garthwait-he discovered that when he went indoors and opened the door of the manager's office. The mere fact that the door opened without any manipulation reminded him that he had not turned the key from the outside when he left; and then he remembered that he had also left behind the pliers with which he had turned it in the first place-they were still lying on the floor where Garthwait had been, and he recollected that he had put them down when he loosened the gag and had forgotten to pick them up again. The pliers, like most similar instruments, were also wire-cutters; and there were four severed strands of wire lying near them to show how they had been used.
For a man who had made so many mistakes in one night, the Saint went to bed very light-heartedly. He heard the same queer subterranean rumbling twice more before he fell asleep, but he did not allow it to disturb his rest.
The faithful Mr. Uniatz had been snoring serenely in his chair when Simon turned in, and he was still snoring on the same majestic note when the Saint woke up. He leapt up like a startled hippopotamus when the Saint shook him; and then he blinked sheepishly and lowered his gun.
'Sorry, boss ... I guess I must of fell asleep.'
'After all, a brain like yours must rest sometimes,' said the Saint handsomely.
It was eight o'clock, and the morning was clear and bright. Sitting squeezed up in the diminutive bath of the hotel's one rudimentary bathroom, he told the story of his night's adventure in carelessly effervescent sentences-at least, the tale bubbled on exuberantly enough, in the flamboyant inconsequential idiom which was his own inimitable language, until he noticed that his audience was not following him with all the rapt breathlessness which he felt his narrative deserved. He stopped, and regarded Mr. Uniatz speculatively. Mr. Uniatz coughed.
'Boss,' said Mr. Uniatz, waking out of his reverie as if the whole tedious business of noises in the night, gagged men in locked rooms, pedagogues with pop-guns, and disappearing lorries had now been satisfactorily disposed of, and the meeting was free to pass on to more spiritual pursuits-'what rhymes wit' 'goil'?'
' 'Boil,'' suggested the Saint, after a moment's poetic reflection.
Mr. Uniatz pondered the idea for a while, his lips moving as if in silent prayer. Then he shook his head dubiously.
'I dunno, boss-it don't sound quite right.'
'What doesn't sound quite right?'
'Dis voice of mine.'
'I shouldn't let that prey on my mind, Hoppy,' said the Saint encouragingly, although he was finding the train of thought more and more obscure. 'After all, you can't have everything. Maybe Caruso wasn't so hot with a Roscoe.'
Hoppy Uniatz frowned.
'I don't mean de verse I talk wit', boss; I mean de voice I'm makin' up when I fall asleep last night. It starts dis way: 'You're so beautiful, you're like a rose, I'm tellin' ya, an' I'm a guy who knows: Your eyes are like de shinin' stars, Dey remind me of my Ma's; I t'ink you are a swell kind of goil'
He hesitated.
'I bet a neck like yours never had a berl,'
he concluded, scratching his head. 'It don't sound right, somehow, but I never had no practice makin' up pomes.'
Simon dried and dressed himself in stunned silence.
He strolled out into the road in the strengthening sunshine, and found his steps leading him almost automatically down towards the harbour, although he had no need of the walk to sharpen his appetite for breakfast. Down on the quay he found a blue-jerseyed old salt smoking his pipe on a bollard and gazing out to sea with the faraway bright blue eye which is popularly supposed to express the sailor's unquenchable yearning for the great open waters, but which can actually be quenched with the most perfunctory dilution of water. It was a very conventional politeness to exchange good mornings, easy enough to pass on to some more explicit appreciations of the weather, and from there to a broader discussion of life in those parts. The man had the easy garrulousness of his kind, and perhaps he also scented a future customer for fishing expeditions.
'Aye, there was more life here when I wurr a boy. Fordy ships there wurr in the fishing fleet then-now, there ain't 'aardly a dozen. What with the 'aarbour fillin' up now an' everything, it do zeem as if we'll all have to take up vaarm-ing afore long.' He poked the stem of his pipe towards the horizon. 'That dredger out yonder, she been workin' here for three months gone, tryin' to keep us open, but it keeps fillin' up.'
Simon gazed out at the thread of smoke rising from the dredger's funnel against the pale blue sky.
'You mean the sea's going back on you?'
'Aye, it do zeem that way zometimes. You zee that channel down there where the boats lay-down there by the causeway? That's where she's woorst. Seems to come up with the tide, like, every night, an' it gets caught there like it would by a breakwater; or else the river brings it down an 'the tide catches it an' throws it back. It's all we can do to keep 'er clear.' The man's voice held a certain personal pride, as if he himself had gone out with a spade and established the enormity of the disaster at first hand. 'It's due to the world goin' round the sun, that's what it is-just as you could walk across on dry land once from here to Fraance. . . .'
