The Saint Bids Diamonds (10 page)

I’m sorry, too, that I shan’t have time to help you find an apartment as I had promised; although I still think it would be the best thing for you to do. Your best plan would be to ask Camacho’s Excursions about it-they are the local Cook’s agents, and very useful people. I hope you’ll soon be successful, because I quite see that you won’t want to stay at a hotel any longer than you have to.

With more apologies, and all good wishes,
Sincerely yours,
S. Tombs.

He sealed the envelope and gave it to the boy at the desk with a silent prayer that some of its insinuations would percolate into the globe of seasoned ivory on which Mr Uniatz wore his hat-or, if they didn’t, that he would ask Christine what she made of it.

“The gentleman is leaving today,” Graner explained in Spanish. “Will you make out his bill and send someone up for his luggage?”

“En seguida.”

Graner rode up with Simon in the elevator, which had apparently been induced to function again since the previous night. The cigar burned down evenly in the amber holder clipped between his teeth. Simon studied him inconspicuously and found it incredible that, if there was any secret jubilation going on in Reuben Graner’s mind, there should be so little sign of it on his face. Besides, if Graner’s suspicions had been so aroused, would he be taking the risk of going up alone to a room where he could so easily be silently and efficiently knocked over the head? Or would he have let the Saint come there at all, where he could so easily announce that he intended to stay-where Graner could do nothing to prevent him? But there was still the inexplicable failure of Hoppy Uniatz to answer the telephone… . The Saint felt as if his brain was being torn apart with unanswerable questions.

They came to the door of his room, and he turned the handle and walked in-he hadn’t even troubled to lock the door when he went out to put the Hirondel away the night before. And he was inside the room before he saw that Christine Vanlinden was sitting on the bed.

IV
How Simon Templar Rose to the Occasion,
and the Thieves’ Picnic Got Further
Under Way

IT WAS SO UNEXPECTED that the Saint had no chance to do anything. He was too far into the room to draw back; and Graner was so close behind him that he knew Graner must have seen. He wondered if there was still time to pretend he had blundered into the wrong room-but then, there was his luggage. And Graner wouldn’t leave it at that, anyhow, whether it was the wrong room or the right one.

Simon stared at the girl blankly.

“What are you doing here ?” he demanded.

It was simply the first thing that came into his head; but the instant he had said it he knew that his instinct must have worked faster than his brain.

“I think you must have lost your way,” he said coldly.

He heard the door close softly behind him, and was aware that Graner had moved up to his side. He felt something round and hard jab into his waist, and knew exactly what it was. But for the moment he pretended not to notice it.

Christine had stopped looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Graner, and they were growing wider with terror.

“Yes, Christine.” There was a catlike purr in Graner’s precious accents. “You did lose your way, didn’t you?”

Simon swung round on him.

“Do you know her?”

The other barely glanced at him.

“An excessively stupid question,” he said drily.

“Then what’s the game?” Simon shot back at him raspily. “Did you send her here?”

Graner looked at him a second time, swinging his thin little malacca cane in his left hand. His right hand bulged in the side pocket of his coat. But this time his small beady eyes didn’t switch away again at once. The Saint read something in them that even Graner’s self-control couldn’t conceal; and at that instant he knew that nothing less than his own overworked guardian angel could have put into his head the wild inspiration on which he had acted. His unhesitating comeback had thrown Graner completely off his balance. For the first time since they had met, the other was actually at a disadvantage.

Simon drove on into the breach that his counterattack had opened up in Graner’s guard.

“Is she supposed to be seeing what I’ve got in my luggage, or what’s she doing?” he insisted furiously. “I’m telling you, Graner-there are too damn many fishy things about this job to suit me. I’ll put up with a lot; but if you’re not playing square with me, we’re through!”

Graner’s stick swung a little more jerkily.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he replied harshly, as if that was intended to dismiss the subject; but the bluff lacked force,
“Well, what’s she doing?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how did you know she’d lost her way?”

“That is not your business.”

“Then why d’you have to stick that gun in my ribs when you find her here ?”

“Be quiet!”

Simon leaned one shoulder on the wall and looked down contemptuously at the gun that was still stretching Graner’s pocket out of shape.

“What are you playing with it for?” he jeered. “If you want it to shut me up, you’ve got to use the trigger. Of course you’re not at home now, so it might be a bit awkward for you.”

“I’m trying to prevent you making a scene,” said Graner, and his voice was not as steady as it had been. “If you will stop making so much noise, we shall be able to get this straightened out.”

He turned away abruptly; and Christine Vanlinden’s eyes flashed from one face to the other like the eyes of a hunted animal. Her lips were parted, and one hand was crushed against her breast as if it hurt her.

Graner began to step towards her.

“It is fortunate that we found you so soon,” he said silkily. “Santa Cruz is not a good place for you to be put on your own. I trust you are ready to come home now?”

She sprang suddenly to her feet.

“No!”

“My dear Christine! You must not let yourself get hysterical. Where is Joris? Perhaps we can take him as well.”

“No!” she sobbed. “I won’t go back! I’m never going back. You can’t take me —”

His clawlike hand made a snatch and caught her wrist.

“Perhaps you have Joris’ ticket?” he snarled.

She shrank back until the wall stopped her, staring at him as if she had been hypnotised by a snake, with the breath labouring in her throat. And at that moment there was a knock on the door.

Involuntarily her eyes turned towards the sound. Simon saw her take a quick breath that could have only one purpose, and flung himself off the wall against which he had been lounging as if a spring had been released behind him.

In three strides he was across the room and between Graner and the girl. He clapped one hand over her mouth and spun her round. His other arm whipped round her waist and lifted her off her feet. The bathroom door was ajar, and he moved on towards it almost without a check.

“Tell ‘em to come back presently,” he snapped over his shoulder.

In another second he was inside the bathroom and kicking the door shut behind him.

He still held the girl, but the feel of her slim young body under his arm pressed against him fought a duel with his resolution that she could never have been aware of. He bent his head so that his lips touched her ear, and the smell of her hair filled his nostrils.

“For heaven’s sake don’t give me away!” he whispered. “This is a gag-d’you understand?”

He had no idea how much she understood or believed, but he had no chance to say more. He heard the closing of the outer door of the room, and a moment later the bathroom door opened.

“All right,” said Graner.

Simon carried the girl out and let her go. He straightened his coat and opened his cigarette case.

“Now, Graner,” he said, “we’ll hear from you.”

Graner looked at him unblinkingly. His right hand still rested in his jacket pocket, but the Saint’s keyed-up senses registered every fraction of the change in his manner. The man was still intrinsically the same, but for the time being, at any rate, he had been bluffed over one point in the game. The Saint’s trick of hitting back at a catastrophe with a riposte of such incredible audacity that his opponent could never make himself believe that it was nothing but the last desperate resource of a cornered man had worked for the latest of countless similar occasions in his life; even if it really provided no more than a spidery tightrope on which the abyss had still to be crossed. But it had worked; and his swift, decisive action in silencing the girl must have driven it home.

“There is nothing more to say,” Graner rapped at him. “We shall take the young lady back with us-that is all.”

“Why?”

“I thought we settled that last night,” answered Graner stonily. “While you’re working for me you will obey all my orders-without argument.”

The Saint smiled at him.

“And suppose I don’t?”

Graner’s hand came out of his pocket.

Simon gazed at the gun with blue eyes full of mockery. He flicked his lighter and held the flame placidly under the end of his cigarette.

“I thought we’d arranged all that,” he murmured. “But if you want to go over it again I suppose I can’t stop you.” He sauntered over to the bed, where he lay down and settled himself comfortably. “If I fix myself like this I shan’t hurt myself when I fall down,” he explained. “Oh, and there’s just one other thing. Before you let off that little popgun and fetch all the hotel in, you must tell me the name of your tailor. I couldn’t bear to die without knowing that.”

Graner stared down at him without expression.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I was born that way,” said the Saint regretfully.

“If you intend to go on like this,” Graner said curtly, “we had better consider our arrangement at an end.”

The Saint closed his eyes.

“Okay, Reuben. But leave the damsel here when you go out. I could use her.”

Graner put the gun back in his pocket. The yellow cane twirled between his fingers for a few seconds’ deathly silence. His eyes glistened like moist marbles behind the lenses of his spectacles.

“I am not accustomed to answering impertinent questions,” he said grittily, “but on this occasion I will make an exception to save unnecessary trouble. I told you last night that your predecessor had been foolish. I might have explained that the others had been unsuccessful in bringing him back. He still has some property of ours, and we are still looking for him. This girl is his daughter, and she may help us to find him. That is the whole explanation.”

“Yeah?” drawled the Saint. “And how much is this ticket worth?”

A new silence blanketed the room, so complete that with his hands clasped behind his head the Saint could hear the ticking of his watch, at the same time as he could hear the girl breathing and the faint rustle of Graner’s fingers sliding over his cane. Simon lay still and let the silence spread itself around and have its fun. He might have been asleep.

“What ticket?”

Graner’s voice jarred gratingly into the quiet; and Simon opened one eye at him.

“I don’t know. But you mentioned it just now.”

“That is quite a different matter. It really has nothing to do with what I was telling you.”

“It seemed to be pretty important when Lauber was talking about it last night!”

The silence fell back again, almost substantial in its intenseness, as though the room were filled with some deadening material through which a few slight and insignificant sounds penetrated from a great distance. And then, as if to give the lie to the illusion, it was horribly shattered-not by any noise from inside the room, but by the ear-piercing shriek of the locomotive which runs through Santa Cruz between the quarries and the mole, dragging rocks to a breakwater that never gets any nearer to completion.

“In a way that is true.” Graner’s delayed response cut into a momentary hiatus in the din. “When he ran away, Joris also took with him a lottery ticket which we had all subscribed to buy —”

“That’s a lie!”

Christine flung the accusation at him while he was still speaking; and Graner’s gaze turned to her with an icy malignance.

“My dear girl —”

The locomotive, coming nearer, let out another eldritch screech which might have come from a soul in torment that was being tormented conveniently close to a powerful microphone. The Saint covered his ears.

Graner was saying: “The ticket won quite a small prize, but naturally we had no wish to lose it —”

“He’s lying —”

“My dear Christine, I should advise you to be more careful of your tongue —”

“He’s lying, he’s lying!” The girl was shaking Simon’s shoulder. “You mustn’t believe him. It won the first prize-it won fifteen million pesetas —”

The engine seemed to be almost under the window; and the engineer, warming to his work, was letting out a series of toots with scarcely a second between them. If the makers of the whistle had set out to create a synthetic reproduction of the nerve racking squeak of a knife blade on a plate amplified fifty thousand times, they couldn’t have succeeded more brilliantly. It was a screaming, torturing, agonising, indescribably fiendish cacophony that seemed to tear the flesh and drive stabbing needles through the eardrums. Perhaps it was just loud enough to attract the attention of a Canary Islander and induce him to move out of the way.

“Don’t all talk at once,” said the Saint. “I can’t hear the music.”

“He’s lying!” Christine’s voice was broken and incoherent. “Oh God-can’t you see it? He’d lie to anybody!”

The Saint opened both eyes.

“Are you lying, Graner?” he asked quietly.

“The exact amount of the prize isn’t material —”

“In other words, you are lying.”

Graner licked his lips.

“Certainly not. Why should I be? I should think it was more obvious that this girl is lying to try and win your sympathy.”

Simon sat up. The locomotive was puffing away down the mole, its ear-splitting squeals growing mercifully fainter as they receded into the distance.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. “I heard on the boat coming down here that the Christmas lottery had been won in Tenerife, and when I was knocking about the town yesterday somebody told me that no one had been able to find out who had got it. That makes Christine’s story sound more likely than yours-not to mention that I can’t see why everybody should be in such a stew about this ticket if it wasn’t worth much. In this room, about the first thing you wanted to ask her was where the ticket was. You didn’t seem half so excited about the stones that this predecessor of mine is supposed to have knocked off. Lauber wasn’t worried about them, either-all he was talking about last night was the ticket. And the others must have been pretty worked up about it, too, or he wouldn’t have been talking about it to them in that tone of voice. In fact, you want to tell me that this ticket that everybody’s turning handsprings about is really just chicken feed. Which just smells like good ripe sausage to me. So that makes you a part of a liar, anyway.”