Lauber stood and glared sombrely after it until it turned the next corner and disappeared. Simon tapped him on the shoulder.
“Now,” he said, “we will go upstairs and have a little chat.”
Lauber transferred the same sultry glare to the Saint. And then, with a renewed clamping of his thick lips, he turned abruptly, thrust past him without a word and stumped heavily back up the stairs.
Simon drifted into the room after him and returned to his favourite perch on the edge of the table. He opened his cigarette case and held it out, but Lauber ignored it. He seemed to be labouring under the stress of some great emotion.
“You might as well make the best of it,” said the Saint amiably. “After all, I’ve done you a good turn.”
“You have?” Lauber ground out.
“Sure. I hope you’re not going to try and kid me now, sweetheart. You’ll only be wasting your breath. Christine told me you’d taken the ticket, and Joris told me the same thing—quite independently. And you just about admitted it when you stopped calling me a liar just now. I know you’ve got it, so you might as well come clean. Be a big-business man and take it philosophically. That’s what I’m doing. I started as one of the crowd with an eighth share. Then Christine offered a fifth, so I went for that. Palermo and Aliston bid a third, which might have been even better if they’d behaved themselves. Now you’re going to come through with a half, which will knock all the opposition back on their heels. You ought to be congratulating yourself.”
“I ought to be congratulating myself, did I?”
The Saint nodded placidly.
“I don’t know about your grammar, but your ideas are right. What did you do with the ticket, Lauber?”
Lauber’s face seemed to be turning purple. The veins stood out on his forehead, and his eyes started to look as if they had been recently boiled.
“What did I do with the ticket?” he almost shouted.
“That’s all I want you to tell me,” said the Saint comfortably. “So you’d better get used to the idea. You’ve got to let me in with you, Lauber. Because I’ve got Christine, and I’ve got Joris, and I’ve got the other guy, and if I let them loose they can raise such a shindy about the ticket being stolen that you’d find yourself in the calaboose the minute you tried to cash it. You haven’t any choice, my lad, so you’d better talk fast. And if you don’t, I’ll make you.”
The last words made no visible impression on Lauber at all. He appeared to be paying too much attention to trying to prevent himself choking to hear what he was listening to very clearly.
“I haven’t got the ticket,” he groaned, and the Saint’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ll have to think faster than that—”
“I haven’t got it, I tell you.” Lauber’s voice exploded in a hoarse roar through the obstruction in his throat. “You fool—it was in the car!”
The Saint dropped off the table as if he had been swept off it. It didn’t take him the fraction of an instant to convince himself that Lauber could never have put over a lie like that. Everything led up to it. The Saint’s awakened eyes glinted like chips of ice.
“What?”
“I hid it in the car last night,” Lauber said suffocatingly. “It was the only thing I could do. I’ve been trying to get at it all day. And you let Graner go off with it!”
3
Simon took hold of himself with an effort.
“You left it in the car?”
“What else could I do? One of those swine last night hit me on the back of the head and knocked me out. I woke up in the car going home. It was the first thing that came into my head. I knew there’d be trouble about it, and I had to do something.”
“How d’you know it’s still there?”
“It must be. Nobody else would look for it where I put it.”
“What about the chauffeur?”
“He only cleans the car once a week—on Mondays. Even then, he only washes the outside. He’s one of these local men. He wouldn’t think of turning out the inside until it was too filthy to sit in.”
“But suppose he had found it.”
“He’d have said something. I’ve been afraid of that all day, but I couldn’t find an excuse to go to the garage or take the car out. Graner watches everything you do. When that girl rang up I tried to make him let me come here alone, but he had to come as well. I could have got the ticket back if he’d sent me to the house with Palermo, but you didn’t help me and I couldn’t go on arguing.”
The Saint remembered his cigarette and inhaled with a quiet concentration which he achieved with difficulty. He didn’t by any means share Lauber’s conviction that anyone who had found the ticket would have talked about it—the competition in double-crossing and double-double-crossing was getting too intense on every side for anything to be certain.
“Palermo and Aliston had some other old car when they picked me up,” he said. “Which car did they use this morning when they came down to look for Joris?”
“I don’t know.”
Simon didn’t remember either. He was trying to recall if anything had happened which might have given him a clue. But whichever car they had used, they would have gone to the garage, and it might have occurred to them to make a hurried search.
“Which car did the chauffeur use when he went out again last night?”
“I think that was the Buick.”
Still there was nothing definite enough to found an assumption on, either way. Even Graner himself…
“Where did you hide the ticket?” Simon asked.
Lauber was getting control of himself again. He might even have been starting to regret having said so much. A glitter of cunning twisted across his eyes.
“That’s my business. You find a way to get at the car, and I’ll find the ticket.”
“Couldn’t you have found it while you were putting Palermo in?”
“Would I have left it there if I could?”
Simon considered him dispassionately. It seemed unlikely, but he didn’t care to leave anything to chance.
“We’ll just look you over and make sure,” he said.
“You’d better not try,” replied Lauber belligerently.
His hand went to the pocket where he had put away his gun, and a comical expression of disbelief and dismay warped itself over his face when his hand came out empty again. His gaze returned furiously to the Saint: Simon was lazily twiddling the gun around by the trigger guard, and he was smiling.
“I forgot to tell you I used to be a pickpocket,” he apologised solemnly. “Put your hands up and be a good boy while I run you over.”
Lauber had no useful argument to offer. He stood scowling churlishly while the Saint’s practised hands worked over him with an efficiency that wouldn’t have left even a postage stamp undiscovered. If Lauber had had the ticket on him, Simon would have found it, but it wasn’t there. When the Saint stepped back from his examination he was assured of it.
“D’you want your toy back?” he asked carelessly when he had finished, and held out the automatic.
Lauber took it gingerly, as if he half expected it to sting him. The brazen impudence of the gesture left him nonplussed, as it had left Graner.
But the Saint wasn’t even paying any attention to Lauber’s reception of it. All the mental energy he possessed was taken up with this new angle on the ticket. But there was no process of logic by which the angle could be defined—or if there was, he couldn’t find it. The only certain fact was that Lauber hadn’t got the ticket. None of the other possibilities could be ruled out. Palermo might have it. Or Aliston might have it. Or Manoel might have it. Or Graner might have it, or find it at any moment, if he suspected enough to make him search for it and decided to join in the popular movement and paddle his own canoe in the buccaneers’ regatta. Or it might still be in the car and stay there—a possibility which made the Saint’s hair stand on end when he thought how completely and catastrophically the problem might be solved if Grane
r had an accident on the way home and the car caught fire.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Lauber demanded.
The Saint shrugged.
“Palermo and Graner have gone back to the house, anyway. So’s the car. We’ve got to get Aliston and the chauffeur back there. Then when we’ve got them all rounded up together—”
He broke off abruptly, listening. They had not closed the door completely when they re-entered the room, and the Saint’s keen ears caught the first sound of someone walking into the hall below. Lauber listened also in the silence which followed and they both heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
The Saint smiled again and stepped noiselessly round the table. He gripped Lauber by the arm and pushed him into the centre of the room, where he would be seen first by anyone coming through the door.
“Stay there,” he breathed. “I’ll get behind him.”
Before Lauber could protest against this doubtful honour it was too late for him to move. The Saint had retired with the same soundless speed, and when the door was pushed open he was behind it.
A moment later he emerged again, for the man who came in was Graner’s chauffeur. Simon recognised him even from his back view with the assistance of the odour of garlic and perspiration that came in with him.
“Don Reuben sent me,” he explained.
“What for?” growled Lauber, with his voice edged by the reaction.
“I have been watching the Hotel Orotava. A little while ago the Señor Vanlinden and another man came there. The Señor Vanlinden stayed inside, but soon afterwards the other man came out. He got in a taxi to go to San Francisco 80. I heard the driver repeat the address.”
“What else?”
“Don Reuben said one of you must go there and watch him. I am to stay here and help the other.”
Lauber looked at the Saint, and Simon stepped quietly forward and pinioned the man’s arms deftly behind his back. The chauffeur let out a squawk of startlement and screwed his head round until he saw the Saint. Simon grinned at him and averted his nose.
“Hurry up and go through him,” he said. “I’m being gassed.”
Lauber made the search, while the man squirmed ineffectually in the Saint’s expert grip. He was longer and clumsier over it than the Saint would have been, but when it was over the Saint was satisfied that at least the chauffeur hadn’t got the ticket on him.
“What was he saying?” Simon remembered to enquire, as he released the spluttering captive.
Lauber translated the message. He was still watching the chauffeur suspiciously.
“He might have hidden the ticket somewhere else,” he concluded, reverting to his main preoccupation.
Simon thought rapidly. His own judgment was that the chance was a remote one. If the chauffeur had really found the ticket at all, it was unlikely that he would have been there. Since he was a native of the island, it was stretching plausibility a long way to credit him with sufficient intelligence and imagination to cover himself by outwardly continuing his normal life, or to have been delayed from trying to cash the ticket by any fear of Joris having communicated with the police. Simon was almost ready to rule the chauffeur out of the lists of suspects, but he saw no harm in letting Lauber keep his suspicions.
“That’s quite likely,” he agreed. “You’d better see if you can make him talk while I go and keep track of this other guy.”
The scowl came slowly back to Lauber’s face.
“We’ll see if we can make him talk,” he retorted heavily. “And then I’ll go and keep track of the other guy.”
Simon faced him crisply.
“Try not to be a bigger fool than God made you! Why d’you think Graner wants one of us to watch this fellow?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care—”
“Then it’s time you started. You heard what I told Graner. He thinks this guy knows where the ticket is—and we know he doesn’t. Graner just wants to take care they don’t double-cross me—and I know they can’t. They won’t get scared if they see me, but they’ll get scared if they see you. And this is the important place to be—this is where Aliston will be coming back—”
“But you said you’d got Joris and his friend!”
The Saint almost fell backwards. That was what he felt like doing, but by some miracle of will he kept himself standing there and looking Lauber in the eye without the flinch of a muscle.
“So I have got them,” he asserted steadily. “But they think I’m in with them. I don’t have to lock them up. Don’t you see that by letting them think they’re still in the running I’m making sure that they won’t go squealing to the police about the ticket having been stolen?”
“All the same,” Lauber said stubbornly, “you aren’t going out of here alone.”
His hand was sliding down to his pocket. He meant business—there wasn’t a doubt of that. The Saint regretted having given him back his gun, but there it was. Regrets wouldn’t take it away again. But the Saint also meant business. He had left Christine and Hoppy alone for too long already; whereas Lauber’s usefulness was temporarily exhausted.
Lauber was less than a yard away as the Saint faced him; he was not the same intellectual type as Graner. There was only one argument that would really make an impression on him.
Simon sized up the situation and the man in one of the swiftest calculations he had ever had to make in his life. He had already hit Lauber’s jaw once and had discovered what it was made of. But Lauber’s body had the solid paunchiness to which men of his build are subject when they begin to lead idle lives. Simon chose his mark for the second experiment with greater care.
“Tell me about it some other time, brother,” he murmured, and his fist jolted out like a piston.
A kick like the piston of a locomotive went into it, built up from the shift of the Saint’s weight and the scientific turning of his body and the supple muscles of his back and shoulders. Every ounce of his weight and strength from the tips of his toes up to his wrist went into the job of impregnating the punch with the power of dynamite. Simon wanted no more delays: he knew how much it took to affect Lauber’s constitution and generously gave him everything that he had. The blow sogged into Lauber’s stomach, just below the place where his ribs parted, with a force that drove the flesh back four inches before Simon’s knuckles had finished travelling.
Lauber gave a queer sharp cough, and his knees melted. Simon jarred his right fist up under the jaw as Lauber’s head came forward, just for luck; he didn’t wait to see any more.
The chauffeur, who couldn’t have been at all sure which side he was on by that time, made a half-hearted attempt to grab him as he ducked for the door. Simon detonated a brisk jab squarely on his nose and tripped him neatly as he staggered back. A second later he was taking the first flight of stairs at one leap.
He dodged round a couple of corners and found a taxi rank. He tossed a coin in his mind as he jerked open the door of the nearest cab.
“San Francisc’ ochenta,” he ordered, as the driver started his engine.
He lighted a cigarette as he settled back, and calmly considered what he had done in the last few seconds. He had dealt violently with both Lauber and Manoel: what did that lead to? Unless he ran up the skull and crossbones and declared open war on the whole gang, that interlude of entertainment would have to be accounted for somehow. And yet he had had no choice. Lauber’s skull was too dense and obstinate for any other methods to have been effective—the chauffeur’s nose was a minor detail. Whatever happened, Lauber had to be prevented from going where Christine was. And even now he still knew the address. Simon wondered whether he ought to have taken over the gun again and finished the job, but that opportunity had also passed by, and it was no use worrying about it…Already the Saint’s brain was wholly occupied with the problems of the future.
The house where David Keena had his apartment looked just the same. There were no suspicious-looking vehicles parked outside or near it, none of the
symptoms of recent commotion which the Saint had been half expecting to see. Simon wondered if he could allow himself to breathe again.
He left the taxi waiting and ran up the stairs. The door of the apartment was locked, of course. He knocked impatiently, and after a while the door opened a couple of inches. Simon looked through the crack, over the barrel of Mr Uniatz’s Betsy, into the haunting face of Mr Uniatz.
“Oh, it’s you, boss,” said Mr Uniatz, unnecessarily but with simple satisfaction. “I hoped ya might be comin’ dis way.”
He stepped back from the door to let the Saint in. Simon took two paces into the room and stopped dead, staring at the figure which lay sprawled in the centre of the carpet.
“What happened to him?” he asked shakily.
“Aw, he ain’t hoit much,” said Hoppy confidently. “He tries to come in de door just after I get here, so I let him in an’ bop him on de dome like ya said for me to do, boss. Ja know de guy?”
“Do I know him?”
The Saint swallowed speechlessly. After a moment he moved forward and picked David Keena up and laid him on the settee.
“Where’s Christine?” he demanded. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“She ain’t got here yet,” began Mr Uniatz untroubledly and the Saint stood very still.
“My God,” he said. “Then Aliston did find that taxi!”
CHAPTER EIGHT:
HOW MR UNIATZ WAS BEWILDERED ABOUT BOPPING AND SIMON TEMPLAR WAS POLITE TO A LADY
1
To say that this was Greek to Mr Uniatz would be misleading. He would not have been quite sure whether a Greek was a guy who kept a chop house, something you got in your neck, a kind of small river, or the noise a door made when the hinges needed oiling. It would have involved a great many additional problems, all of which would have been very painful. Taking the line of least resistance, Mr Uniatz simply looked blank.
The Saint Bids Diamonds (The Saint Series) Page 17