The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“The butler and his wife, a housemaid and a parlourmaid.”

“Then they’re all rounded up and accounted for. How long have you known them?”

“Only about three weeks — since we’ve been here.”

“So that means nothing. I should have had them corralled before, but I didn’t think fast enough.” He brought the drink over and gave it to her. “Anyway, they’re corralled now, under Hoppy’s thirsty eye, so if anything else happens we’ll know they didn’t have anything to do with it. If that’s any help... Which leaves only us — and Quintus.”

“What happened to him?”

“He said he got whacked on the head by our roving bogeyman.”

“Hadn’t you better look after him?”

“Sure. In a minute.”

Simon crossed the room and closed the open window and drew the curtains. He came back and stood by the table to light a cigarette. There had been so much essential activity during the past few minutes that he had had no time to do any constructive thinking; but now he had to get every possible blank filled in before the next move was made. He put his lighter away and studied her with cool and friendly encouragement, as if they had a couple of years to spare in which to straighten out misunderstandings.

She sipped her drink and looked up at him with dark stricken eyes from which, he knew, all pretence and concealment had now been wiped away. They were eyes that he would have liked to see without the grief in them; and the pallor of her face made him remember its loveliness as he had first seen it. Her red lips formed bitter words without flinching.

“I’m the one who ought to have been killed. If I hadn’t been such a fool this might never have happened. I ought to be thrown in the river with a weight round my neck. Why don’t you say so?”

“That wouldn’t be any use now,” he said. “I’d rather you made up for it. Give me the story.”

She brushed the hair off her forehead with a weary gesture.

“The trouble is — I can’t. There isn’t any story that’s worth telling. Just that I was — trying to be clever. It all began when I read a letter that I hadn’t any right to read. It was in this room. I’d been out. I came in through the french windows, and I sat down at the desk because I’d just remembered something I had to make a note of. The letter was on the blotter in front of me — the letter you got. Nora must have just finished it, and then left the room for a moment, just before I came in, not thinking anyone else would be around. I saw your name on it. I’d heard of you, of course. It startled me so much that I was reading on before I knew what I was doing. And then I couldn’t stop. I read it all. Then I heard Nora coming back. I lost my head and slipped out through the window again without her seeing me.”

“And you never spoke to her about it?”

“I couldn’t — later. After all that, I couldn’t sort of come out and confess that I’d read it. Oh, I know I was a damn fool. But I was scared. It seemed as if she must know something dreadful that my father was involved in. I didn’t know anything about his affairs. But I loved him. If he was doing something crooked, whatever it was, I’d have been hurt to death; but still I wanted to try and protect him. I couldn’t talk about it to anybody but Jim. We decided the only thing was to find out what it was all about. That’s why we followed Nora to the Bell, and then followed you to the boathouse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

She shrugged hopelessly.

“Because I was afraid to. You remember I asked you about how much you hated crooks? I was afraid that if my father was mixed up in — anything wrong — you’d be even more merciless than the police. I wanted to save him. But I didn’t think — all this would happen. It was hard enough not to say anything when we found Nora dead. Now that Jim’s been killed, I can’t go on with it any more.”

The Saint was silent for a moment, weighing her with his eyes; and then he said: “What do you know about this guy Quintus?”