"He must have one sometimes," Simon conceded. "Anyone with his looks has to have some compensation."
"You shut your trap," said Cokey with cold savagery; and the Saint raised one mildly mocking brow at him.
"Well, well, well! What coarse idioms you do use, Cokey, old chum. I didn't think you'd really be sore about our little game of hide-and-seek last night. I thought that would all be under the heading of business as usual."
Varetti flashed him another dental broadside.
"Cokey has his feelings," he said. "You hurt his pride last night. So he's entitled to a little revenge… Go and find your piece of rope, Cokey. We'll try to make Mr Templar take us into his confidence."
Everything had been diverting enough up to that point; but there is always a stage in such situations where the fun can go too far, and Simon Templar was very sensitive to those subtle barometric changes. He could feel this one all the way from his fingertips to his toes.
He said coolly: "While we're all getting so friendly, would you mind very much if I took my hands down from this uncomfortable position and had a cigarette?"
"Go ahead," said Varetti. "But don't try anything clever, because I'd hate to have to deprive Cokey of his entertainment."
The Saint let his hands down and eased his shoulders as he took out his cigarette-case, watching Varetti with thoughtful blue eyes like flakes of sapphire.
He was not, he told himself, a slave to snap judgments. He tried to be broadminded and forbearing; he tried to find in even the most repulsive creatures some redeeming spark that would allow his heart to warm towards them. But even with the most noble effort, it was becoming cumulatively plain to him that he and Mr Varetti could never be as brothers. He did not like any part of Mr Varetti, from his marcelled hair to his pointed shoes. And he particularly disliked Mr Varetti's idea of suave dialogue — no doubt partly because it was too much like a hammy imitation of his own. He was going to enjoy doing something about Comrade Varetti.