He looked around for the man who had been covering him, and bowed to that gentleman with a smile.
“Dear old bloomin’ Bloem, of course,” remarked the Saint sociably. “I knew we’d find you in the thick of the fun. Quite one of the dogs of the dorp, or village, aren’t you? And, just in case of accidents, would you rather be blipped on the jaw or in the solar plexus? A jolt in the tum-tum is more painful; but, on the other hand the cove who stops one just where his face changes its mind is liable to carry a scar around with him for some time. Just as you like, of course—I always try to oblige my customers in these little details.”
“That will do, Mr. Templar,” Bittle’s voice broke in curtly. “I think you’ve talked quite enough for one evening.”
“But I haven’t started yet,” complained the Saint. “I was just going to tell one of my favourite stories. Old Bloem’s heard it before, but it might be a new one on you. The one about an Italian gentleman called Fernando, who double-crossed some of the band-o. They got even for this with the aid of a kris—and that was the end of Fernando. Any applause?”
The Saint looked about him in his mild way, as though he literally expected an outburst of clapping. Nobody moved. Bloem still had his automatic accurately trained on the Saint, and the Boer’s leathery face betrayed nothing. Bittle had gone ashy pale. The butler and a couple of other hard nuts who had followed the party into the library stood like graven images.
“I told you—he knows too much,” said Bloem. “Better not take any chances this time.”
“I’m very upset about this,” said Simon earnestly. “That one usually gets a rousing reception. Poor old Fernando—he used up so much energy cursing Tigers and things that he didn’t live quite long enough to tell me where the spondulicks were. ‘Baycombe, in England, Devonshire,’ gasps Fernando, with the haft of the kris sticking out of him, and the blood choking his throat. ‘The old house . . .’ And then he died. Just like in a story-book, and deuced awkward, with so many old and oldish houses lying about. But Fernando certainly hated Tigers, and you can’t blame him.”
Bloem raised the gun a trifle, and his knuckles whitened under the brown skin of his hand.
“It is easily settled,” he muttered, and the Saint saw death staring him in the face.
“No!” shouted Bittle.