"Don't you know you're wasting your time?" he asked. "We aren't going to tell you anything. Why don't you just call the cops?"
"And then?" Simon inquired, smiling and silky.
"Then you'll have to prove that you didn't invite us in here. And you'll have to explain why you were so mad when we found that you had a bag full of stolen indium in your apartment."
The Saint's eyes danced with boreal lights.
"Mr Walsh," he said, "would you be good enough to open the bag that Ricco is talking about?… Go on… I won't shoot you."
In a state of partial hypnosis buffeted between the menace of the Saint's gun and the impudent spear-tips in the Saint's eyes, Mr Walsh slid dubiously off the sofa to obey. He laid the suitcase on its side, and clicked the catch. He raised the lid. He looked.
So did Ricco Varetti.
They beheld what must have been one of the finest collections of assorted spheres that had ever been hastily improvised. It ranged from the ripe solidity of bowls that should have been booming smoothly down polished alleys, down to ball bearings designed to speed the wheels of roller skates, and down from there to buckshot and BB pills for airguns. It included baseballs, cricket balls, billiard balls, and one large sand-packed medicine ball. It was a truly amazing crop of balls.
"All right," said the Saint amiably. "Let's have the showdown on that basis. The cops are on their way already, whether you believe it or not, and they are a couple of tough babies. They'll be crashing in here in a matter of minutes — if they take that long. I'm giving you this one chance to scream everything you can remember about your boss man; and if you don't want to play with me I'm sure that Kestry and Bonacci will just love showing you the town."