The Saint regarded him pityingly.
"I've always approved of these birds who want to strangle imbecile children at birth," he said. "And now I think I shall send them a donation. You ineffable fathead — what do these assorted gangs amount to? It doesn't matter if there are four of them or forty. They're only stooges, like poor old Pargo. Knock the kingpin out, and they all fall apart. Take one man in, and they all go for the same ride. All we want is Lasser, and we can call it a day."
"Just like poor old Pargo," said Peter, sotto voce. He looked up from manipulating the siphon. "What happened to him, by the way?"
"We took him down to Lymington and borrowed a boat while the tide was going out. If he ever gets washed up again anywhere he'll be another headache for Chief Inspector Teal; but we had to do something with him."
"Probably that's one reason why he was left here," said Peter intelligently.
Simon was kindling the latest cigarette in a chain that had already filled an ash tray. He saw that it was burning evenly and crushed the preceding fag end into the heap of wreckage.
"That was one obvious motive — bodies being troublesome things to get rid of," he said. "The other, of course, was pour encourager les autres. I've been expecting some more direct encouragement all day, but it hasn't materialized yet. I don't suppose it'll be long now, though."
Mr Uniatz, who had been silent for a long time except for intermittent glugging noises produced by the bottle beside him, stirred himself abruptly and consulted his watch with the earnest air of a martyr who realizes that he is next in line for the lions. His intrusion after such a long absence seemed so portentous that both Peter and the Saint turned towards him with what must have been a disconcerting expectancy. Mr Uniatz blinked at them with his nightmare features creased in the grooves of noble self-abnegation.
"Boss," he said, with some embarrassment, "what's de next train to London?"
"Train?" said the Saint blankly.