The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“Here.”

She gave Simon a commonplace Kodak print that showed two men standing on the steps of a house. One of them was apparently of medium height, a little flabby, grey-haired in the small areas of his head where he was not bald. The other was a trifle shorter and leaner, with thick smooth black hair and metal-rimmed glasses.

The Saint touched his forefinger on the picture of the older man.

“Your father?”

“Yes.”

It was a face without any outstanding features, creased in a tolerant if somewhat calculating smile. But Simon knew how deceptive a face could be, particularly in that kind of reproduction.

And the first thought that was thrusting itself forward in his mind was that there were two people dead, not only one — two people who had held similar and closely associated jobs, who from the very nature of their employment must have shared a good deal of Marvin Chase’s confidence and known practically everything about his affairs, two people who must have known more about the intricate details of his business life than anyone else around him. One question clanged in the Saint’s head like a deep jarring belclass="underline" Was Nora Prescott’s killing the first murder to which that unknown swindle had led, or the second?

All through dinner his brain echoed the complex repercussions of that explosive idea, under the screen of superficial conversation which lasted through the meal. It gave that part of the evening a macabre spookiness. Hoppy Uniatz, hurt and frustrated, toyed halfheartedly with his food, which is to say that he did not ask for more than two helpings of any one dish. From time to time he washed down a mouthful with a gulp from the bottle which he had brought in with him, and put it down again to leer at it malevolently, as if it had personally welshed on him; Simon watched him anxiously when he seemed to lean perilously close to the candles which lighted the table, thinking that it would not take much to cause his breath to ignite and burn with a blue flame. Forrest had given up his efforts to protest at the whole procedure. He ate most of the time in sulky silence, and when he spoke at all he made a point of turning as much of his back to the Saint as his place at the table allowed: plainly he had made up his mind that Simon Templar was a cad on whom good manners would be wasted. Rosemary Chase talked very little, but she spoke to the Saint when she spoke at all, and she was watching him all the time with enigmatic intentness. Dr. Quintus was the only one who helped to shoulder the burden of maintaining an exchange of urbane trivialities. His reverberant basso bumbled obligingly into every conversational opening, and said nothing that was worth remembering. His eyes were like pools of basalt at the bottom of dry caverns, never altering their expression, and yet always moving, slowly, in a way that seemed to keep everyone under ceaseless surveillance.

Simon chatted genially and emptily, with faintly mocking calm. He had shown his claws once, and now it was up to the other side to take up the challenge in their own way. The one thing they could not possibly do was ignore it, and he was ready to wait with timeless patience for their lead. Under his pose of idle carelessness he was like an arrow on a drawn bow with ghostly fingers balancing the string.

Forrest excused himself as they left the dining room. Quintus came as far as the drawing room but didn’t sit down. He pulled out a large gold watch and consulted it with impressive deliberation.

“I’d better have another look at the patient,” he said. “He may have settled down again by now.”

The door closed behind him.

Simon leaned himself against the mantelpiece. Except for the presence of Mr. Uniatz, who in those circumstances was no more obtrusive than a piece of primitive furniture, he was alone with Rosemary Chase for the first time since so many things had begun to happen. And he knew that she was also aware of it.

She kept her face averted from his tranquil gaze, taking out a cigarette and lighting it for herself with impersonal unapproachability, while he waited. And then suddenly she turned on him as if her own restraint had defeated itself.

“Well?” she said with self-consciously harsh defiance. “What are you thinking, after all this time?”

The Saint looked her in the eyes. His own voice was contrastingly even and unaggressive.

“Thinking,” he said, “that you’re either a very dangerous crook or just a plain damn fool. But hoping you’re just the plain damn fool. And hoping that if that’s the answer, it won’t be much longer before your brain starts working again.”

“You hate crooks, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard about you,” she said. “You don’t care what you do to anyone you think is a crook. You’ve even — killed them.”

“I’ve killed rats,” he said. “And I’ll probably do it again. It’s the only treatment that’s any good for what they’ve got.”

“Always?”

Simon shrugged.

“Listen,” he said, not unkindly. “If you want to talk theories we can have a lot of fun, but we shan’t get very far. If you want me to admit that there are exceptions to my idea of justice, you can take it as admitted; but we can’t go on from there without getting down to cases. I can tell you this, though. I’ve heard that there’s something crooked being put over here, and from what’s happened since, it seems to be true. I’m going to find out what the swindle is and break it up if it takes fifty years. Only it won’t take me nearly as long as that. Now if you know something that you’re afraid to tell me because of what it might make me do to you or somebody else who matters to you, all I can say is that it’ll probably be a lot worse if I have to dig it out for myself. Is that any use?”