The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

Simon actually looked away. But he had no idea what he looked at. The whole of his faculties were concentrated on the features which were still pinned in the borders of his field of vision, watching with every sense in his body for the answer to the question that he could not possibly ask. That one thing had to be known before anything else could be done, and there was only one way to know it. He bluffed, as he had bluffed once before, without a tremor of his voice or a flicker of his eyes. ...

And the most expressive thing about the big man's expression was that it did not change. The big man took the Saint's casual assertion into his store of knowl­edge without the slightest symptom of surprise. It signified nothing more to him than one more super­fluous blow on the head of a nail that was already driven deep enough. He glared at the Saint, and the gun in the Saint's hand, without any movement beyond a mechanical moistening of his lips, intent only on watching for the chance to fight that seemed infinitely improbable. . . . And the Saint tapped the ash from his cigarette and looked at the big man again.

"I got nearly everything out of Dr. Quell before you interrupted us," he said, clinching the assertion for utter certainty. "It was clever of you to wheedle Quell's process out of him bit by bit - and very useful that you had enough scientific knowledge to understand it. I suppose Quell's sphere of service was running out about this time, anyway - you'd have got rid of him yourself even if there'd been no accident. A very sound and prudent policy for a Master Mind, Jones, but just a shade too dangerous when the scheme springs a leak like me."

"Cut it short," snarled the big man. "What more d'you want? The gold's there-"

"Yes, the gold's certainly there," said the Saint dis­passionately. "And in about ten minutes the police will be here to gape at it. I'm afraid that can't be helped. I'd like to get rich quick myself, but I've realized tonight that there's one way of doing it which is too dangerous for any man to tackle. And you don't realize it, Jones - that's the trouble. So we can't take any risks."

"No?"

"No." Simon gazed at the big man with eyes that were very clear, and hard as polished flints. "You see, that secret's too big a thing to be left with you. There's too much dynamite tied up in it. And yet the police couldn't do anything worth a damn. They're bound by the law, and it's just possible you might beat a murder rap. I don't know how the evidence might look in front of a jury; and of course my reputation's rather shopsoiled, and you may be a member of parliament for all I know. . . . Are you following me, Jones? The police couldn't make you part with your secret --"

"Neither could you."

"Have your own way. As it happens, I'm not trying. But with a reputation like mine it'd be bad business for me to shoot you. On the other hand, there could always be another accident-before the police arrived."

The man called Jones stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, staring at the Saint unblinkingly. In those last few minutes he had gone suddenly quiet: the snarl had faded out of his voice and left a more re­strained level of grim interrogation. His chin was sunken tensely on his powerful chest, and under the thick black eyebrows his eyes were focussing on the Saint with the stony brightness of brown marbles.

He hunched his muscular shoulders abruptly-it was the only movement he made.

"Is that a threat?" he asked.

"No." Simon was just as quiet. "It's a promise. When the police arrive they're going to find that there's been another accident. And the fact will be that you, Jones, also fell against that machine."

CHAPTER VIII THE BIG MAN leapt forward as he finished speaking. Simon knew that that was coming-he was ready and waiting for it. There was no other way about it; and he had been prepared for it ever since one question had been answered. He had never intended to shoot after they returned to the laboratory, whatever hap­pened; but he snatched his gun away out of range of the wild grab that Jones made for it, and tossed it neatly across to Patricia. She caught it at her knees; and the Saint slipped under the big man's arms and jammed him against the door. For an instant they strained against each other face to face; and the Saint drew a deep breath and spoke over his shoulder.

"Don't shoot, Pat," he said. "Get over in the corner and stay out of the way. The gun's for you to get out with if anything goes wrong."