His soft incisiveness floated like a white-hot filament across the other’s babble of speech, and suddenly Voyson saw the coldness of his eyes, and went silent.
“You’re reminding me of things that I haven’t remembered for a long time,” said the Saint soberly.
His cigarette-end dropped beside his heel, and was trodden out. The blue eyes never looked down at it.
“You’re right — the Saint has been something of a crook sometimes, even if that didn’t hurt anybody but specimens like you. And since I reformed I’ve become rather sophisticated. Maybe it’s a pity. One loses sight of some simple elementary things that were very good. It wasn’t always like that. Since you know my name so well, you may remember that I once had only one cure for creatures like you. I was judge and executioner.”
The train thundered south, perfected machinery roaring on its unswerving lines through a world of logic and materialism forged into wheels. And in one compartment of it Bruce Voyson sat mute, clutched in an eerie spell that drove like a clammy wind through the logic on which he had based his life.
“Romantic, wasn’t it?” went on that incredible voice. “But the law has so many loopholes. Before it can hang you for murder you’ve got to beat your victim’s brains out with a club. And yet you are a murderer, aren’t you? Just a few minutes ago, a friend of ours would have committed suicide on your account if I hadn’t spotted him in the nick of time. For all I know, others may have done the same thing already. Certainly some of your victims will. And while that’s going on, you’re on your way to Batavia to enjoy at least two million dollars of their money — two million which would do a little towards helping them to a fresh start. And all those dollars would be available for the receivers if you met with an unfortunate accident. There doesn’t seem to be any obvious reason why you should go on living, does there?”
Simon Templar put his hand in his pocket and took out the folder of tickets. Deliberately, he tore it across twice and scattered the pieces out of the window. Voyson started forward with a strangled gasp, and looked into the muzzle of his own gun.
“You’ve reminded me of days that I like to remember,” said the Saint. “There is a justice above the law, and it seems just that a man like you should die.”
Voyson’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed, and then he flung himself across the short space.