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"They will be found," Quintana reassured him.
"They had better be found. Otherwise this will be the finish. I am not
interested in your country, but I am interested in my living."
The Rebels' representative raised his eyebrows.
"Perhaps you exaggerate. If these forgeries are so perfect "
"Of course they are perfect. No man in the world could have done better. But
they are forgeries. Why are you so stupid? A bond is a work of art. To those
who have eyes it has the signature of the creator in every line. So is a
forgery a work of art. Look at a connoisseur in an art gallery. Without any
catalogue he will study the pictures and he will say, 'That is a Velasquez,
that is a Rembrandt, that is an El Greco.' So there are men in the world who
will look at forgeries of bonds and say, 'That is a So-and-so, that is a
Somebody, that is a Urivetzky.' It makes no difference if the Urivetzky is
most like the original. There are still men who will recognize it."
"It is hardly likely to fall into their hands. And it was to disarm their
suspicion that we had the story sent out that you had been killed."
"And so perhaps you make more suspicion. This man Templar is not a fool I
have heard too much of him."
"He will be taken care of also," said the man known as Pongo. "I have been
working all day "
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. A servant came in as Quintana
answered and turned towards the eliminator of problems.
"There is someone to speak to you on the telephone, sefior," he said.
The square man gestured smugly at Urivetzky.
"You see?" he said. "Perhaps this is the report I've been waiting for."
He got up and went out; and the Saint straightened the kinks out of his neck
and spine. He had done as good a job of eavesdropping as he could have hoped
to do, and he had no complaints. Nearly all the questions in his mind had been
answered.
But on Quintana's own statement there were nearly forty thousand pounds in
ready cash in the safe, and they were forty thousand reasons for some deep and
sober cogitation before he retired from the scene into which he had so
seasonably introduced himself. After all, there was still the outstanding
matter of a tenner which the late Mr Ingleston had owed; and in the light of
what Simon had learned he could sej even less reason than before why it should
not be repaid with interest. . . . And there was also the telephone
conversation to which Senor Pongo had hastened away, which might be worth
listening to.
The voices went on coming through the door while he stood for a while
undecided.
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"Even you take risks," Quintana was saying. "If I had known that you would
drive here "
"That was no risk. There are no policemen looking for me, and taxi drivers
are not detectives."
This might be the best chance he would have to do something about the safe,
while the odds in the study were reduced from three to two. But Pongo might
return at any moment and by the same token his telephone conversation wouldn't
last forever. Whereas the safe and its contents would probably manage to keep
a jump ahead of disintegration for a few minutes more.
Simon made his choice with a shrug. He tiptoed back across the room towards
the door that opened onto the landing. He had no idea what was on the other
side of it, but that was only an incidental gamble among many others.
Even so, he was still destined to be surprised.
The carpet outside must have been very thick or the door very solid, for he
heard nothing until he was a couple of yards from it. And then the door was
flung open and Pongo rushed in.
The light from the landing caught the Saint squarely and centrally as it
streamed in; but Pongo was entering so hastily that he was well inside the
room before he could check himself.
Simon leapt at him. His left hand caught the man by the lapels of#his coat,
and at the same time he sidestepped towards the door, pushing it shut with his
own shoulder and turning the key with his right hand. But the shock had slowed
up his reaction by a fatal fraction, and the other recovered himself enough to
let out a sharp choking yelp before the Saint shifted his grip to his throat.
The Saint smiled at him benevolently and reached for his gun. But his fingers
had only just touched his pocket when light flooded the room from another
direction, and a voice spoke behind him.
"Keep still," rasped Luis Quintana.
VII
The saint let his hand drop slowly and turned round. Quintana and Urivetzky
stood in the communicating doorway, and Quintana held a gun.
"Good evening, girls," said the Saint winsomely.
Urivetzky let out an exclamation as he saw his face.
"The Saint!"
"In person," Simon admitted pleasantly. "But you don't have to stand on
ceremony. Just treat me like an old friend of the family."
Released from the numbing grip on his windpipe, the square man retreated to a
safe distance, massaging his throat tenderly.
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"I mistook the door," he exploded hoarsely. "I opened this one and he was
inside. He must have been listening. How much he has heard "
"Yes," said Quintana with slow significance.
The Saint continued to stand still while Pongo stepped up to him again and
took away his gun. The man's exploring hands also found the cigarette case in
his breast pocket and took it out; and Simon took it gently back from him and
helped himself to a cigarette before returning it with a deprecating bow.
He felt for his lighter in a bland and genial silence which invited the
others to make themselves at home while they selected the next way of breaking
it; and his self-possession was so unshaken that it looked as if his stillness
was dictated less by the steady aim of Quintana's gun than by a wholly urbane
and altruistic desire to avoid embarrassing the company by seeming to rush
them into a decision. What was going on in his own mind was his own secret,
and he kept it decorously to himself.
But it seemed as if he had been somewhat rash in crediting his guardian angel
with the organizing ability of Henry Ford. Certainly a good deal of the system
was there, but somewhere along the moving belt something seemed to have gone
haywire. Simon experienced some of the emotions that a Ford executive would
have experienced if, watching a chassis travelling down the assembly line, at
the point where it should have had its taillight screwed on, he had seen it
being rapidly outfitted with a thatched roof and stained-glass windows.
Perhaps it was really an improvement, but its advantages were not immediately
apparent. Perhaps the fact that Pongo should have chosen to charge through the
wrong door in his excitement was really a blessing in disguise, but to the
Saint it seemed to have created a situation from which a tactful and prudent
man would extract himself with all possible speed. The only question it left
was exactly how the withdrawal should be organized.
It was the square man who first reasserted himself.
"How long has he been here?" he demanded grimly.
The Saint smiled at him.
"My dear Seiior Pongo "
The square man drew himself up.
"My name is not Pongo," he said with dignity. "I am Major Vicente Guillermo
Gabriel Perez, of the Third Division of the army of the Spanish Patriots."
"Arriba Espana,"murmured the Saint solemnly. "But you won't mind if I call
you Pongo, will you? I can't remember all your other names at once. And the
point, my dear Senor Pongo, is not exactly how long I've been here but how
long you've been here."
There was a moment's startled silence, and then Quintana said coldly: "Will
you be good enough to explain?"
Simon gestured slightly with his cigarette.
"You see," he said, "unless you have a very good alibi, Pongo, I shall [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]