VI
About the manner of his dying Simon preferred not to speculate too profoundly. He had actually been strangled by the cord that was still knotted around his throat so tightly that it was almost buried in the flesh of his neck, but other things had happened to him before that.
"I see anudder guy like dis once," said Mr Uniatz chattily. "He is one of Dutch Kuhlmann's mob, an' de Brooklyn mob takes him over to Bensenhoist one night to ask him who squealed on Ike Izolsky. Well, when dey get t'ru wit' him he is like hamboiger wit'out de onions—"
"You have such fascinating reminiscences, Hoppy," said the Saint.
He was laying Pargo's limp body on the settee and arranging the relaxed limbs for the rough examination which he felt had to be made. It was not a pleasant task, and for all the Saint's hardened cynicism it made his mouth set in a stony line as he went on.
In the brightness of the living room the dead man looked even more ghastly than he had looked outside — and that had been enough to make the darkness around the house suddenly seem to be peopled with ugly shadows and to make the soft stir of the leaves sound like cackles of ghoulish laughter. The Brooklyn mob could have learnt very little from whoever had worked on Pargo — Simon did not have to ask himself how they had known where to leave his body.
But when had it been done? There was no sign of rigor mortis, and Simon thought that he could still detect some warmth under the man's clothes. The body certainly hadn't been in the porch when they first arrived at the Old Barn. It might have been there when he went out only a few minutes ago, but it would have been easy not to notice it when going out of the door and moving away from the house. It seemed impossible that it could have been placed there during the short time he had been away; but he had circled around the building for some minutes to make sure, like a prowling cat, with every nerve and sense pricked for the slightest vestige of any lurking intruder, until he had to admit that it was a hopeless quest. If it had not been done then it could only have been done while he was talking to Jopley — or while the girl was there talking to him.
Whatever the answers were to those riddles, the happy-go-lucky irrelevance of the adventure had been brought crashing down to earth as if some vital support in it had been knocked away. There was no longer any question of coming in for the fun of the game: Simon Templar was in it now, up to the neck, and as he went further with his investigation of Pargo's mangled body the steel chilled colder in his eyes.
Hoppy Uniatz, however, having possessed himself of a bottle from the kitchen during the Saint's absence, was prepared to enjoy himself.
"Dat's a funny t'ing now, boss," he resumed brightly. "Dey is a dame wit' de Brooklyn mob what is Izolsky's moll, an' she helps de boys woik on dis guy. She tells him funny stories while dey go over him wit' an electric iron. She had class, too, just like dis dame tonight."