“And because you wanted to disappear, and because you loved the mountains, you thought that the best way for you to hide would be to take his place. No one had ever seen the face of El Rojo, no one ever knew who he was. You took his mask and became El Rojo.”
“ Eso es.”
Alvarez had not moved. Simon could sense the taut nerves of a man who held death in his hands and was only waiting for one word to turn the scale of his decision.
Simon Templar was also waiting for the answer to one question. He said, “And last night?”
“ A usted que más le da? ”
“The answer is in your hands,” said the Saint.
His eyes were as clear and unclouded as the sky over their heads, and there was something as ageless and unchangeable as justice in the even tones of his voice.
“Perhaps in these two years you might have changed,” he said. “Perhaps you were glad that you could never go back to the old life. And perhaps you told that lie to cut the last link with it, and you were glad to set your wife free for the happiness which you never gave her. If that was so, your secret will always be safe with me. But I’ve never seen a man like you change very much, and I wondered why all you asked about your wife’s lover was whether he was rich. I wondered if it had occurred to you that if you let her believe you were dead, so that she would marry this man, you could go back to Mexico City and charge a price for your silence. And if that was so—”
“You will never tell her,” said Alvarez viciously, and the rifle jerked in his hand.
The crack of the shot rattled back and forth, growing fainter and fainter, between the hills, and something like fire struck the Saint’s chest. He smiled, as if something amused him.