“I think you’d better go, Valmon,” he said tightly.
Valmon picked up his hat and clapped it on at an insolent slant.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll go — while there are three of you telling me. But I’ll be back here after you’ve gone. And then we’ll see who makes the funniest cracks.”
His voice was still soft and well-modulated, but instead of taking the sting out of his words, that incongruous dulcetness gave them the malignance of a snake’s hiss. It whipped a dull flush into Morland’s face, but his lip quivered with the uncertainty of a man unused to violence. Hank Reefe started forward with a low growl, but Simon caught his arm and stepped ahead of him. Very courteously the Saint bowed Valmon towards the steps.
“Good night, Maxie dear,” he cooed, and Valmon gave him a long stare.
“I’ll know more about you before that,” he said.
“Maybe.”
Simon leaned on the porch rail and concluded his improvisation while Valmon strode across to his car and slammed the door.
“Where nothing is heard
But the Razz and the Bird,