“But suppose something goes wrong. And if Rick ever finds out—”
“How can he? And if anything ever does go wrong, the Saint gets it in the neck. Don’t forget we’ve got that piece of paper now with his signature and his fingerprints all over it. We can type anything we like over his name and plant it where it’ll do the most good.”
Simon Templar gently released Patricia and strolled out onto the stage. He was cool and unhurried, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it as he moved, so easy and natural that the shock of his entrance only held the other two in a kind of misty trance.
“That’s a great idea, children,” he murmured, “only it doesn’t solve any of my problems.” His voice sharpened suddenly as Belden started to come out of his freeze. “Don’t try anything, Mark. I want you to be able to talk when Lieutenant Kearney gets here. Pat, do you think you could find a phone?”
“Don’t bother,” Kearney said.
His angular figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the stage, and Mark Belden watched him approach in a new and even deeper trance from which even the click of a handcuff on his wrist did not arouse him.
Iris Freeman was less ready to give up. She struggled furiously for one hectic moment before Kearney snapped the other cuff on her wrist, where it made a tasteful contrast with her jewel bracelets.
“You can’t do this to me,” she panted.
“I can try my best,” said the detective. “From what I heard, it sounds like a clear case of conspiracy to me.”
“Don’t let it get you down, darling,” said the Saint. “Cross your legs on the witness stand, and the jury will probably see everything your way. On the other hand, I’m afraid Rick may not be so easy.”