“Can it,” said Neumann coldly. “Or I won’t wait till Valmon gets here.”
“Maybe you could fool them by saying ‘Heil Schickelgruber,’ ” Simon suggested helpfully.
The other glowered at him without movement, and Simon smiled faintly and turned to pick himself a seat on a packing case against the wall. He leaned back and enjoyed his cigarette, while Neumann and Eberhardt watched him like wooden sentries. They were certainly not the most convivial company he had ever been with, but he could console himself with the expectation that Max Valmon would soon introduce a brighter note.
The whole picture was complete now, so simply and comprehensively that the only surprise was in the amount of insolent audacity that had laid out its composition. If he had only known just how the disappearance of Don Morland fitted in, he wouldn’t have had one question left to ask. And it wasn’t likely to be much longer before he had that final answer.
The only real problem was, what good his knowledge was going to do him. He hadn’t expected to be caught so suddenly, if at all. And Hank Reefe wouldn’t have had time to ride back with Smoky and drive over to Valmon’s estancia yet. It was a situation that would have been more than slightly discouraging to most men, but to the Saint it was a tightening of nerve and sinew, the firing spark to an unquenchable fighting recklessness that had never yet admitted that any corner was hopeless. At that moment he had no idea what miracle he could possibly perform to equalise the reversal that had so catastrophically placed him where he was, but until that last and perhaps inevitable exception when The End would be written unarguably and for ever, he would always have his ridiculous and magnificent faith that if the tables could be turned once they could be turned again...
There was the sound of a car purring up outside and stopping. Then footsteps. Then the door opened, and Valmon came in.
After him, almost apologetically, came Dr Ludwig Julius.
Simon stood up in his own easy-going time. He gave them a smile so casual and carefree that it was hard to believe that he was not himself the host of the interview, instead of a prisoner at the mercy of four men, a Tommy gun, and a few other items of assorted ordnance.
“Hullo, Maxie dear,” he drawled. “I know you asked me to drop in tonight, but I didn’t think it was going to be such a formal affair. Comrades Neumann and Eberhardt have been frightfully zealous about turning themselves into a guard of honour — in fact, if I wasn’t so well up in these military traditions I might have been afraid I was being kidnapped.”
Valmon stood looking at him with that dark heavy swagger, his thumbs hooked in his carved and jewelled belt, his black brows drawn down unsmilingly.