“ New York Herald Tribune, European edition,” said the Saint coolly and mendaciously. “I want an interview. Mind if I sit down?”
He took a seat next to the financier as if he had never considered the possibility of a refusal.
“Why do you think I should have anything to tell you?”
The Saint smiled.
“You’re Bruce Voyson, aren’t you?” He touched the man’s head, then looked at his fingertips. “Yes, I thought so. It’s wonderful what a difference a little powder will make. And those dark glasses help a lot, too.” His fingers patted one of Voyson’s hands. “Besides, if there’s going to be any argument, there ought to be a scar here which would settle it. Take that glove off and show me that you haven’t got a scar, and I’ll apologize and go home.”
‘I’ve no statement to make,” said Voyson coldly, though the ragged edge of his nerves showed in the shift of his eyes and the flabby movement of his hands. “When I have, you’ll get it. Now d’you mind getting out?”
“A bad line,” murmured the Saint reprovingly. “Very bad. Always give the papers a break, and then they’ll see you get a good seat when the fireworks go off.” He put his left arm around the financier’s shoulders, and patted the man’s chest in a brotherly manner with his right hand. “Come along now, Mr Voyson — let’s have the dope. What’s the inside story about your company?”
Voyson shook him off savagely.
“I’ve got no statement to make, I tell you! The whole story’s a rigmarole of lies. When I get back I’ll sue every paper that’s printed it — and that goes for yours too! Now get out — d’you hear?”
“Spoken like a man,” drawled the Saint appreciatively. “We ought to have had a newsreel here to record it. Now about this trip of yours—”