The Saint shrugged. He knew that this fat man, though butter-voiced, had a heart of iridium. His eyes were the pale expressionless orbs of a killer. His mouth was thin with determination, his hand steady with purpose. But Simon had faced all those indications before.
“I hate to disappoint you, comrade,” he said lightly, “but that line has a familiar ring. And yet I’m still alive.”
Appopoulis appraised and dismissed the Saint, though his eyes never wavered. He spoke to Holbrook.
“The opal. Quickly!”
The butter of his voice had frozen into oleaginous icicles, and Holbrook quailed under the bite of their sharp edges.
“I haven’t got it, Appopoulis. The Saint has it.”
Simon was astonished at the change in the fat man. It was subtle, admittedly, but it was there nonetheless. Fear came into the pale gray eyes which had been calmly contemplating murder as a climax to unspeakable inquisitions. Fear and respect. The voice melted butter again.
“So,” he said warmly. “Simon Templar, the Robin Hood of Modern Crime, the twentieth century’s brightest buccaneer, the... ah... devil with dames. I had not anticipated this.”
Once more it struck the Saint that the descriptive phrases were an exact repetition of Holbrook’s. And once more it struck him that the quality of fear in this weird quintet was not strained. And once more he wondered about Holbrook’s fantastic tale...
“You are expecting maybe Little Lord Feigenbaum?” Simon asked. “Or what do you want?”