"No."
"Well, go out and find me a taxi. Bring it here." He took a couple more notes out of his pocket and tore them in half. "Here. You get the other half when I get my taxi."
She pulled up her skirt, exposing an area of beefy and black-haired thigh, and tucked the money into the top of her stocking.
"Does the seńor want a large taxi or a small taxi?"
"I don't care if you bring a truck," said the Saint. "But get moving and fetch something."
He turned back to the bed and rapidly cut off the cords with which Hoppy was trussed up like a silkworm in its cocoon. He left him to remove the gag himself, and passed on to Joris Vanlinden, who lay on the other side of the bed. Mr Uniatz unwound the towel from his head and proceeded to pull a yard or two of what looked like dishcloth out of his mouth. He threw it on the floor and stood panting.
"Chees, boss," he croaked. "Anudder hour of dat an' I should of died. Have I got a toist?"
"You used to have one," said the Saint. "Did anything happen to it?"
Mr Uniatz licked his dry lips.
"Chees!" he repeated piously; and Simon heard him moving stiffly out of the door.
Joris Vanlinden still lay inertly on the bed after he had been cut loose. Simon removed the gag and took out the cloth with which his mouth was stuffed in the same way that Hoppy's had been. He gazed up at the Saint with dull and curiously apathetic eyes. Simon glanced round the room and saw a jug of water; he filled a glass and brought it to the bed, supporting the old man's head while he drank.
"How d'you feel?" he asked.
Vanlinden took his mouth from the glass and lay back again. His mouth worked once or twice before he could speak.
"Where's Christine?" he got out at last.
"She's all right."
"Did they get her?"
"No, they didn't find her. I sent her to a friend's apartment. She's quite safe."
Vanlinden was silent again. There had been vague crashing sounds emanating from the kitchenette for some little while past; and the Saint went out and found Mr Uniatz at the end of a triumphant search, with a bottle of whiskey grasped in his hand. Mr Uniatz' mouth, which could never have been likened to a rosebud, spread even wider under the influence of the broad beam of contentment that was lighting up his face.
"Lookit what we got, boss," he said, hospitably including the Saint in the great moment; and Simon nodded sympathetically.
"Let me open it for you."
He detached the bottle from Hoppy's loving paws with the dexterity acquired from many similar rescues and stripped off the seals. He poured some of the whiskey into a glass before he handed the bottle back.
"Make yourself at home, Hoppy," he said unnecessarily and returned to the bedroom.
Joris Vanlinden was still lying quietly where the Saint had left him. His eyes were closed, but they opened when Simon came to the bed.
"Have you got a toist too?" Simon enquired with a smile.
The old man's lips moved faintly, but he didn't answer. Simon helped him up again and offered him the drink. He sipped a little and then he shook his head.
Simon let him down again and put the glass on the table. Still the old man didn't speak. He seemed quite happy to lie there with his eyes resting vacantly on the Saint's face, without talking or moving. Once he smiled weakly, as if that said all he wanted to say.
The Saint watched him for a few moments; and then he turned on his heel and went back to the living room.
Mr Uniatz was sitting on the table, with the half-empty bottle, which was tilted up to his lips and rapidly proceeding to contain less and less. He removed it from its target for long enough to say "Hi-yah, boss," and replaced it again without any loss of time. Simon performed another of his expert feats of legerdemain and parked the bottle at the other end of the table; and Mr Uniatz wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
"Dis guy," he said, hooking his thumb backwards at the sleeping Mr Palermo-"where does he come from?"
"He's one of the lads who brought you here."
"He ain't dead," said Hoppy, as if he found the fact not only remarkable but also to be deplored.
The Saint grinned and searched for a cigarette.
"No, he isn't dead. He just hit the back of his head on my foot, and then he hit the front of his face on the floor, and what with one thing and another he seemed to decide that that wasn't getting him anywhere, so he gave it up and went to sleep."
Mr Uniatz thought it over. It was difficult for him to believe that the Saint could have been guilty of any of the lapses of memory to which ordinary mortals were subject, but he could discover no other explanation. However, from the sounds he had heard previously, Mr Uniatz was able to deduce that the Saint had been having some trouble; and he presumed that the stress of other preoccupations was responsible. Mr Uniatz' natural courtesy and kindness of heart forbade him to make any comments, especially when the omission could so easily be rectified. Almost bashfully he fished an automatic out of his pocket.
"Shall I give him de woiks, boss?" he suggested, as if he was apologising for mentioning the matter at all.
"Not just now," said the Saint decisively. "And where did you get that thing?"
"Dis is my Betsy," said Mr Uniatz proudly. "He must of took it off me while I was in de clouds, because I find it in his pocket. He has a rock on his finger too."
He exhibited the diamond ring which he had managed to squeeze most of the way on to his little finger.
"The sort of rock you need would have R. I. P. on it," said the Saint. "How did you get into this mess?"
Mr Uniatz got on to his feet and sauntered airily round the table, cunningly gaining possession of the whiskey bottle on the way.
"Well, boss, it's like dis. I wake up in de morning, an' de old buzzard is still knockin' off de hours, so after a bit I figure I may as well see if I can promote some breakfast. I get hold of a chambermaid, an' I say 'Breakfast.' She looks at me like a parrot, as if I was nuts, so I say 'Breakfast' again. So she says 'Does I you know?' I begin to t'ink she has de bugs herself. 'Does I you know?' she says. 'What de hell kind of a jernt is dis?' I say. 'Have you gotta know me before you can get me some breakfast?' All she does is go on saying 'Does I you know ?' Are all dese spicks screwy, woujja t'ink, boss?"
"Just about all of them," said the Saint. "But she was only saying desayuno. It's the Spanish for breakfast."
Mr Uniatz looked at him admiringly.
"Now woujja believe dat?" he asked of the un-answering world. "I said dey were screwy, didn't I? So what happens if dey want to say 'Do I know ya'?"
"That's something quite different," said the Saint hurriedly. "Anyway, I gathered that you got your breakfast. I saw the tray in your room."
"Sure. In de end she wakes up an' goes away, an' in about half an hour somebody knocks on de door --"
"Didn't I tell you not to open the door to anybody?"
"I know dat's what you tell me, boss, but how was I to know de waiters were in wit' dese mugs?"
"That wasn't a waiter, you ass! Apart from anything else, you can always tell a Canary Islander on sight because there just aren't any other people in the world who can look so ugly and unwashed and so pleased about it. The bloke who brought you your breakfast was one of what you call the mugs."
A pleased look of comprehension smoothed the scowl of concentration from Mr Uniatz' brow.
"Ah," he said. "Maybe dat's why he hits me on de head."
"Probably that had something to do with it," Simon agreed, with powerful restraint. "What happened after that?"
"I dunno, boss. I dunno what he hits me wit', but when I wake up I'm all tied up on de bed."
"Didn't you hear anything?"
"No, I don't hear nut'n or see nobody, only de skoit. She comes in an' takes a gander at us an' goes out again. Den I hear you talkin' when you get here, an' dat's all."
Simon slid back his sleeve to examine his watch. It seemed that the girl had been a long time finding
a taxi. . . . Hoppy Uniatz tilted his bottle again and allowed the refreshing fluid to gurgle freely down his parched throat. When he paused for breath, he made an indicative movement of his head towards the bedroom.
"De old buzzard," he said. "How's he makin' out?"
The Saint shrugged.
"He'll be all right," he said shortly.
He knew that it would only be a waste of time to attempt to explain his diagnosis of Joris Vanlinden's condition to the audience he had at his disposal. But the reminder creased two thin lines of anxiety between his brows.
Joris Vanlinden was slipping away-that was all there was to it. It wasn't from any definite physical injury; although the beating he had taken the night before, and the crack on the head which had doubtless followed the one which Hoppy's skull had received with so much less effect, had contributed their full share to his present condition. The fundamental injury was the injury to Vanlinden's mind. He was an old man, and he had already been well worn down by the things that had happened to him in the years before: now, he was simply ceasing to fight. The drive of hope and will which any man must have to survive disaster, which the instinct of self-preservation gives to nearly every man in a greater or less degree, had been exhausted in him. Simon could recognise the state even though he had never actually encountered it before. Vanlinden was sinking into the state of inert despair in which men of earlier days are said to have turned their faces to the wall and died for no other reason than that the will to live had dried up within them. And Simon knew that it was only one added reason why he must lose no time.
The girl was taking a fantastically long time to find a taxi. . . .
Simon found a piece of paper and scribbled on it the address where he had left Christine. He gave it to Hoppy, who had drained the last drops out of his bottle and was edging towards the kitchenette to look for more.
"This is where Christine is," he said. "As soon as we get out of here, I want you to go there and stick around. Your boy friends caught me when I'd just come back from there in a taxi, and they got the number. One of them's gone off already to look for it and see what he can find out. He'd still have a job to get Christine out, but I'm not taking any chances. You're going to park yourself there, and if anybody comes prowling around you give them the works."
"Wit' my Betsy?" said Mr Uniatz, cheering up.
"With the blunt end of it," said the Saint "If you start any shooting around this town they'll turn the army out on you-the police here are very excited about shooting today, from what I read in the paper this morning."
Mr Uniatz sighed.
"Okay, boss," he said dutifully.
"And maybe by this time you'll have learnt a few lessons about who you open doors to. Or do I have to tell you again?"
"Boss," said Mr Uniatz earnestly, "I hoija de foist time. I been a sucker once, but dey won't catch me no more. De foist mug who tries to come in dat door, I'll give him de heat --"
"You won't."
"I mean I'll clop him on de tiles so hard he'll t'ink he walked under an oitquake."
"See you don't forget it," said the Saint grimly. "Because if you do, Mrs Uniatz is going to be sorry about her son."
Hoppy shook his head.
"Dey ain't no Mrs Uniatz," he said reminiscently. "My fader never knew who my ma was." Simon considered this for a moment, and decided it would be safer not to probe further into it. He consulted his watch again and took a quick turn up and down the room. What the hell could the girl be doing? . . . With a sudden resolution, he went back into the bedroom.
Vanlinden hadn't moved. He looked up at the Saint with the same peacefully empty eyes.
"Do you think you could walk a little way?" Simon asked gently.
The old man remained motionless, without any change in his expression.
"Christine wants to see you," said the Saint.
A pale wraith of a smile played momentarily on the other's lips. Presently he raised his head,. then his body. Simon helped him to his feet. He stood holding the Saint's arm.
"Where is she?"
"We'll take you to the hotel and bring her to see you."
Simon led him into the living room, and Hoppy greeted him with a brotherly wave of his hand.
"Hi ya, pal," said Mr Uniatz genially. "Hi ya makin' out?"
Vanlinden smiled at him with the same childish serenity.
"Come on," said the Saint. "We'll be downstairs waiting for that god-damn taxi when it does get here. I want to catch up with your other boy friend."
"What about dis punk?" demurred Mr Uniatz dubiously, indicating the still unconscious Palermo. "Do I give him de --"
"No, you don't. I'll do that myself some other day. Come on."
They helped the old man down the stairs, although he needed less assistance than the Saint had feared. Physically, Vanlinden seemed to have more life than he had had the night before; only now his ability to move was more like that of a sleepwalker. It was his mind which had been drained of strength, which seemed to want nothing but to be left in timeless and effortless passivity.
As they reached the hall, Simon heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. He left Hoppy to look after the old man and went to the front door. There was a small grille in one of the panels, and the slide which should have closed it was partly open. Something made the Saint look through it as he put his hand on the latch to open the door; and that one glance was enough to make him whip his fingers away from the knob again as if it had stung him. For the car outside was not a taxi-it was Graner's Buick.
VII How Mr Palermo Continued to Be Unlucky, and Hoppy Uniatz Obeyed Orders
SIMON DIDN'T WAIT to see any more. He spun round as he heard Hoppy coming up behind him, and his eyes blazed a warning which even Mr Uniatz couldn't misunderstand. Hoppy came to a halt, with his jaw drooping.
The Saint's glance scorched round the hall, dissecting all its possibilities in one sizzling survey. It didn't offer cover for a mouse. Upstairs was a dead end. Outside the door were the new arrivals. Around him there was nothing but the door of the ground-floor apartment. Simon felt the handle. As he had anticipated, it was locked. He drew back to arm's length and flung his weight against it, and the lock ceased to function. . . .
The Saint caught Hoppy by the elbow with one hand and Joris Vanlinden with the other. He almost lifted them up bodily and threw them into the room.
"He'll take you to the hotel to wait for Christine," he said to Vanlinden. Then he looked at Hoppy. "Wait till the coast's clear. Take him to the Orotava, put him in the room next to mine-Christine's. Then go and look after her at the address I gave you. Don't worry about me. I'll get rid of these guys and follow along."
Hoppy's mouth opened wider as the full meaning of these orders for desertion penetrated through his ears.
"Boss --"
"Don't argue!" said the Saint, and pushed him back into the room.
He closed the door in his face and leapt silently to the foot of the stairs as the key rattled in the lock of the front door. He realised what a desperate risk he was taking in every direction, but there was no other way. He couldn't send Vanlinden with Hoppy to Keena's apartment, because Aliston was searching for that hide-out and might already have found it, in which case Hoppy would have his hands full enough without any added encumbrances. The hotel was dangerous enough, with Graner's chauffeur watching it from the other side of the road; but at least he couldn't stop them going in, and Vanlinden would be safe there for a little while-so long as the gang didn't know about Christine's room. And the Saint himself had to stay behind, because apart from the more manifest obstacles to a joint getaway there was the matter of a loud crash when he disarranged the lock of the downstairs apartment which must have been audible outside and would want accounting for.
All these things streaked through his mind like a volley of tracer bullets as he dropped himself on the ground at the foot of the stairway; and as the front door opened he began ostentatiously picking himself up. He heard quick steps co
ming towards him, and raised his eyes to the figures silhouetted against the light of the open door.
"Put your hands up!"
It was Graner's voice.
Simon completed the job of fetching himself upright and went on brushing the dust off his clothes.
"Oh, it's you," he said calmly, as if it had never occurred to him that the order was caused by anything but a mistake in his identity due to the dim light. "Why the hell can't they put a light on these damn stairs? I nearly broke my neck. Did you ever hear anyone come down with such a thump?"
The other man who had come in was Lauber. He ranged himself at Graner's side; and both of them kept their guns trained in the Saint.
"What are you doing?" said Graner.
Simon continued to ignore the artillery.
"Didn't the girl tell you?" he asked innocently.
He had already formed his own theory about why she had taken such a long time to find a taxi, and the response to the feeler he had put out confirmed his suspicion in the next instant.
"She said you had had a fight with Palermo."
"That's right," said the Saint coolly. "I beat the hell out of him too. Come upstairs and I'll show you."
He turned and started up the stairs so confidently that he heard the other two following him without protest.
Mr Palermo still slept. The Saint turned him over and raised him by his collar to examine him. Palermo's head lolled back limply. The new bruise on his chin was coming along nicely. He moaned in his sleep as though he might be wondering whether it was time to wake up. Simon let him flop down so that the back of his head cracked heavily on the tiles, and hoped that that would discourage the idea for a while.
Graner and Lauber kept their guns in their hands while they studied Palermo in his slumber. Graner was the first to turn back to the Saint.
"What is this about?" he demanded in his aloof sneering way.
"I told the girl to give you a message."
"She rang up for Aliston and gave the message for him."
"For sheer half-wittedness give me a spick any day. I told her to tell you that Aliston was in it, in case you knew where he was!"
18 The Saint Bids Diamonds (Thieves' Picnic) Page 14
