18 The Saint Bids Diamonds (Thieves' Picnic)

by Leslie Charteris

  "You talk fast," he said.

  "I think like that," said the Saint easily. "It didn't even take me long to figure out that you aren't only double-crossing me-you're double-crossing Graner as well."

  There was a certain period of silence, during which the girl's knife and fork clinked softly as she contin­ued to eat with wholehearted concentration. Aliston's chair creaked a nervous rhythm as he swayed back­wards and forwards. Palermo went on looking at the Saint for several moments and then continued eating.

  "Graner hasn't done anything much for you, has he?" he said. "I wouldn't have stood for him hitting me like he hit you last night."

  "You'd have had to stand for it if you'd been in my place."

  "Still, did you like it?"

  The Saint shrugged, watching him thoughtfully.

  Palermo went on, with an air of friendly decision: "I'm going to be frank with you, Tombs. You're a good fellow, and I'd rather have it that way. We are double-crossing Graner. You guessed right. He's tried to do things to us like he did to you, and Cecil and me have been getting tired of it. Graner's all right-he's a great organiser and he's done plenty for us. But he's too bossy. Cecil and me, we're what you might call independent. When this lottery-ticket business came along, we thought it was about time to quit. So we had to ditch Graner. See?"

  "And ditch me," added the Saint mildly.

  Palermo was unabashed. He went on cleaning up his plate with hearty thoroughness.

  "Sure. I'm being frank with you, see? That was how it was. We didn't know you much then, and we were just going to split the ticket between us. Well, now it seems you've got Christine and you've been talking to her. We've got to keep her quiet, and we want to know what she's told you. So maybe we have to pay for it. I'm not saying we like it, but business is business and we've got to make the best of it. You've got to look at it the same way. If you stick with Graner you can't collect more than two million pesetas, and you'll lucky if you get that. Come in with us, give us all you know, and we'll give you a square deal that 'll bring you five million. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

  "I think it's a lovely idea," said the Saint slowly.

  Palermo leaned back and shifted his belt with a satisfied gesture.

  "That's fine," he said. "Well, where did you take Christine?"

  Simon pushed his plate away and smiled at him no less complacently.

  "Oh no," he said. "That isn't fine at all."

  "What d'you mean ?" demanded Palermo abruptly. "We're partners now, aren't we?"

  "For the moment."

  "Well, what are you putting in ?"

  "What are you putting in, if it comes to that ?"

  Palermo pointed his cigar at the closed communicat­ing door.

  "You know what we're putting in. That's what you were talking about just now. Christine told you, didn't she? You don't have to play innocent any more."

  "You've got them here ?"

  "Sure we have."

  The Saint eased a short cylinder of ash on to the side of his plate.

  "And I've got Christine-where I've got her," he said equably. "So we're all square. I'm not wanting to take Joris away from you, and you needn't want to take Christine away from me. You've already told me that you've taken up double-crossing for a living, and you don't know much about my morals either. So if we each keep what we've got we can work together without being afraid that we're double-crossing each other. That seems sound enough for a start, anyway. Besides, why put all our eggs in one basket? If Joris managed to get away, he'd take Christine; or if Graner got wise to this place he'd have 'em both; or if Joris' friends got on to you --"

  "You made a stall like that to Graner," Palermo said coldly. "It's not good enough. If you're coming in with us, you come in without any strings. Where's Christine?"

  "I took her to another hotel."

  "Which one?"

  "The Quisisana."

  Palermo made a sign to Aliston. Aliston got up and wilted towards the door. He seemed glad to be relieved from the strain of sitting still.

  "I'll see if I can find the taxi as well," he said.

  Simon turned the cigarette between his fingers.

  "Where's he going?" he rapped.

  "To see if Christine is really at the Quisisana," answered Palermo flatly. "And to look for the taxi you came back to the hotel in and see how much the driver remembers. If you're telling the truth, all right. If not . . ."

  He didn't trouble to finish the sentence.

  "You're wasting your time," said the Saint evenly. "I changed taxis two or three times. And if Christine sees Aliston, it 'll only scare her away."

  "Then why don't you go and fetch her?" suggested Palermo, with his greenish eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Saint.

  "I've told you why," retorted the Saint heatedly. "You're being a couple of suckers and doing the best you can to gum up the whole works. If that's the kind of partners you are, you don't interest me so much. What difference does it make where Christine is? She's safe enough where I put her. If you started talking about where the ticket is, it'd be more to the point."

  Palermo leaned forward a little.

  "I've told you our terms," he said. "If you bring Christine here and tell us what she's told you, the deal is on. Otherwise it's off. Don't you think that's fair?"

  The Saint sent a curling plume of smoke drifting slowly through his half-smiling lips. So Palermo was asking for it. The Saint would have liked to keep him happy, to play him with the same bait that Graner had so successfully been induced to take. He had even less faith in the security of Palermo's partnership than he had in Graner's, and he would have had fewer scruples about lying to him, if possible; but the situation would have had its practical advantages apart from its appeal to his sense of humour. It was a pity that it couldn't have been organised that way. But Palermo was in quite a different frame of mind from the one in which Graner had accepted the Saint's terms; and Simon knew when he was wasting his time.

  Palermo had got him in a corner which left no room for evasions; and it was obvious enough that Palermo meant to keep him there. The immutable fact was registered beyond mistaking in every glitter of Pa­lermo's intent bright eyes, in the whole atmosphere of his expectant stillness. And the Saint knew that every extra moment of hesitation was only hardening Pa­lermo's suspicions, bringing them a degree closer to the crystal sharpness of conviction. ... It was all very sad, but Simon Templar's philosophy held no room for vain regrets.

  "If that's how you put it, I think it stinks," he said pleasantly, and looked into the muzzle of Palermo's gun.

  2 "You're a fool," Palermo said thickly.

  "We can't all have your brains," said the Saint deprecatingly. "Besides, you need a few compensations, with a face like yours."

  The greenish glow darkened in Palermo's eyes, but he made no immediate reply. He beckoned to Aliston with his other hand without looking round.

  "Tie his hands behind his back."

  Aliston detached himself from the door and undulated into the kitchenette. Simon heard him moving about and surmised that he was removing the washing from the line. The Saint went on smoking unconcernedly and measured the distance to Palermo's chin. It was about five feet, with Palermo sitting where he was; and besides that there was the corner of the table to get round. He slipped one hand under the table and tested its weight speculatively, but Palermo felt the infinitesimal movement.

  "Keep your hands on top of the table."

  Aliston came back from his errand; and Palermo took the cigar out of his mouth and put it back again.

  "Put your hands behind the back of the chair," he said.

  Simon took a final pull from his cigarette and put it carefully down before he obeyed. Aliston worked si­lently at tying his wrists together. He used all the rope, and the knots felt tight. When he had finished, Palermo put his automatic away and came round and tested them.

  "How do they feel to you, Art?" Simon enquired genially. "I think he did pretty well-he m
ust have learnt some tricks when he was at crochet school."

  The girl sat on the other side of the table, watching them stupidly. Palermo strolled back and jerked his head at her.

  "Make a spoon hot on the fire," he said. "Make it red-hot. żTú comprendes?"

  The girl stared at him blankly, and Palermo thumped his fist on the table.

  "żTú has oído?" he snarled.

  Aliston's face twitched nervously as the girl hurried out. He had turned several shades whiter, so that the graze that ran up his left cheek showed more vividly against the sickly pallor of his skin. He opened his mouth once or twice, as if he was on the point of protesting, and closed it again without saying anything, as if he had already heard the inevitable answers.

  "I-I think I'd better go and look for that taxi," he said at last. "We don't want to waste any more time."

  "All right," said Palermo contemptuously. "I'll get all we want out of this guy."

  Aliston flushed and went white again. His mouth opened and closed once more, like a fish; and then he swallowed and went quickly to the door. Palermo watched it close behind him and turned back to the Saint with a short laugh.

  "Cecil's a good boy," he said. "But he's too softhearted. That's the trouble with him. Softhearted."

  "I take it that that's one thing you don't suffer from, Art," said the Saint softly.

  Palermo chewed his cigar and looked down at him.

  "Me? No. I'm not that way at all. Don't kid yourself, Tombs. I get what I want, and I don't care who gets hurt while I'm getting it. You can scream all you want while I'm burning you, and it won't worry me a bit. I'm not sentimental. Now why don't you have some sense and open up before I have to do any more to you?"

  "People have tried to make me open up before-as the actress said to the bishop."

  "There's a limit to how much any man can stand --"

  "That was what the bishop said to the actress," murmured the Saint, with undiminished good humour. "Besides, you're going the wrong way about it. You'd be much more likely to make me think twice if you just threatened to stand there and make me go on looking at that nasty little moustache and wondering what your father would think if he knew about you."

  And while he spoke he was twisting his wrists round to try and reach the hilt of the knife under his left sleeve. The cords cut into his flesh with the increased tension, but his finger tips brushed the end of the carved ivory. He relaxed for a second and then strained his muscles again, without letting a trace of the agonising effort show on his face. . . .

  Then he heard the girl coming back. She carried a kitchen spoon with the handle wrapped in a cloth: the other end of it glowed dull red. Palermo took it from her carefully and held it a little way from the palm of his other hand, satisfying himself about the tempera­ture. The girl backed slowly away with wide, fright­ened eyes; but Simon knew from the sound of her footsteps that she stopped at the door of the kitchen­ette. She was directly behind him, and if he got his knife out of its sheath she would see it.

  The Saint's blue eyes settled into a frozen steadiness as he watched Palermo corning towards him. The other's swarthy features were perfectly composed, as if he had been a dentist preparing for a painful operation which had got to be completed for the patient's own good.

  "She's a nice girl," he said in his conversational way. "A bit dumb, but you can't get anything better here. But she's sentimental too."

  "Everybody seems to have that complaint except you," Simon remarked, with an effort to make his voice sound natural.

  Palermo came up on his left side; and the Saint felt the warm radiation of the spoon on his cheek.

  "This is your last chance," said Palermo.

  The Saint spread his legs wider around the seat of the chair and drew his feet back a little, as though he were riding a horse. He bent his elbows and strained his shoulders back so that the circle of his arms loosened as much as possible around the back of the chair.

  "You can go to hell," said the Saint, and stood up.

  The heat on his cheek became scorching as he rose, touched an instant of burning agony as he came upright. His wrists caught on the back of the chair, but he shook them free. And with a lightning turn of his body he swung his right leg round like a flail at the back of Palermo's knees.

  He flung his left leg forward at the same time, in front of Palermo's feet; and as he crashed to the floor his right leg found its mark. Palermo let out an oath as he stumbled forward. His right hand was already diving into his pocket for his gun, but he had to snatch it out again to save his face as he toppled forward. He went down with a thud; and like a flash the Saint rolled over, keeping his legs in the same relative position.

  Palermo gasped. He lay flat on his stomach, with his left leg held in a torturing grip which almost paralysed him. The Saint's right ankle was wedged firmly in behind Palermo's knee, and the heel of the Saint's left foot pressed remorselessly down on Palermo's instep, doubling the lower part of his leg backwards over his thigh.

  The girl screamed. Palermo groped for his gun again, and the Saint put on some more pressure. Palermo screamed too. For a moment he had felt as though his knee joint was being torn out of its socket, while the tendons of his leg seemed to glow red-hot with anguish.

  "Lay off that," said the Saint grittily, "or I'll break your leg in half!"

  He turned his body a little to make another attempt to get at the knife on his forearm, but in the position in which he was lying his weight was on top of his arms. He couldn't shift it off sufficiently to reach his knife without giving Palermo a chance to escape. Meanwhile he had Palermo in a hold in which he might probably break his leg; which was all very well, but not well enough. The Saint's mouth set grimly as he went on trying to reach his knife.

  Palermo pressed his eyes into his clenched fists and groaned.

  "Maria!" he gasped. "So loca-do something!"

  "Maybe she isn't so sentimental after all," said the Saint, and gave Palermo's leg another squeeze for encouragement.

  He spoke a little too soon. Palermo's second yelp of torment seemed to break the spell which had held the girl gaping at them helplessly. She rushed forward and picked up the overturned chair on which the Saint had been sitting. Simon saw it hurtling down towards his head, and rolled desperately sideways. The move­ment would have broken his hold anyway, so the Saint broke it himself. He yanked his right foot free and aimed a savage kick at the back of Palermo's neck as he squirmed frantically out of the way of the falling chair. The chair crashed on the floor beside his ear, and most of its force had been lost when some other part of it caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. Otherwise it would probably have cracked his skull-it was a good solid bourgeois wooden chair, with plenty of weight behind it.

  A whole planetarium of whirling constellations swam before the Saint's vision; but at the same time he felt the toe of his shoe sog exquisitely into Pa­lermo's occiput. Palermo's pained and startled glug! prefaced another and temporarily unaccountable sharp clicking sound by a mere split second.

  Simon got on to his knees and scrambled up to his feet, shaking his head to try and blink the flashing comets and swirling black mists out of his vision. The girl's fists thumped on his face and shoulders. He pushed her up to the wall and held her there by leaning his weight on her. She went on hitting wildly at him, but he paid no attention. He screwed his head round to look for Palermo and found him lying limply on the floor, face downwards. All at once he realised the meaning of that second crisp smack which had followed so closely on the impact of his toe. Palermo must have been raising his head when the kick met him, and it had banged his chin back into violent collision with the tiled floor. He was out to the wide, and he looked as if he was intending to stay out for some time.

  The girl started to scream again hysterically.

  "ĄCalla!" rapped the Saint.

  He saw her take breath for another yell and jerked his head quickly down at her face. It hurt her more than it hurt him, and the
scream was momentarily silenced.

  "You can have five hundred pesetas if you shut up," said the Saint; and she looked at him almost intelligently.

  He took a step back from her, when he saw that the lull was well-established, and turned half round.

  "Cut off these ropes."

  She glanced fearfully at Palermo.

  "He will kill me."

  "Does he look like killing anybody?" asked the Saint. "You can say that you fainted and I cut them off myself."

  She took a knife from the table and sawed at the cords. Simon felt the ropes give, dragged one wrist free and finished the job himself. She stood looking at him anxiously; and the Saint dug into his pocket and peeled five bills off the roll he carried. The anxiety faded out of her face, and she resumed her normal expression of bovine disinterest.

  "Is there anyone in the apartment downstairs?" Simon asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Nobody."

  "That's one consolation, anyway," said the Saint.

  He stood rubbing his wrists tenderly for a moment. Mr Palermo continued to give no signs of life. It was a pity, thought the Saint regretfully-his artistic work on Mr Palermo's facial scenery had gone completely haywire now, and it would probably be the devil of a job to get it into shape again. However, one couldn't have everything; and what had been done was interesting to remember. The Saint turned away and went towards the communicating door. The girl realised his intention and tried to bar his way, but Simon put her firmly aside. He opened the door, and the bulging eyes of Mr Uniatz goggled up at him over the gag which covered half his face.

  3 Simon fetched a knife and went back to the bed. The girl Maria tugged at his arm.

  "You cannot do that!"

  "I'm not going to cut his throat," Simon explained patiently.

  "You cannot do that. They must stay here. He said -Arturo-he said he would kill me if they got away."

  The Saint straightened up wearily.

  "Arturo has made so many promises," he pointed out. "And just look at him. Besides, how could you stop me if you'd fainted, which I thought you were supposed to do. Be a sensible girl and shut up. Have you got a telephone here?"