“Not until I count to three, I wouldn’t. It’s a superstition with me. One... two...”
“Very well,” Esteban said.
Little beads of sweat stood on his olive brow as he went to the wall safe and twirled the dial.
Simon handed his gun to Pat.
“Cover him. If he tries anything, shoot him in his posterity.” He added to Esteban, “She will, too.”
Esteban stood to one side as the Saint emptied the safe of bundles of currency, account books, and sheaves of business-like papers. He was pleased to find that Esteban was a neat and methodical man. It made the search so much quicker and easier. He had known before he started what kind of thing he was looking for, and there were not too many places to look for it. He was intent and efficient, implacable as an auditor, with none of the lazy flippancy that normally glossed his purposes.
Another voice spoke from the doorway behind him.
“So we’re havin’ a party. Put that gun down, Miss Holm. What would this all be about, son?”
“Come on in, daddy,” Simon said. “I was just deciding who you were going to arrest.”
Esteban’s sudden laugh was sharp with relief. “I think, my friend, the sheriff knows that already. Mr Haskins, I shall be glad to help you with my evidence. They stick me up in my own club, bring me in here, and force me to open the safe. Fortunately you catch them red-handed.”