Then someone had told Ravenna about Paul Galen. So Ravenna had bought things. Things which were small, light in weight, easy to smuggle, and very valuable; things moreover which a man in his position could acquire without attracting undue attention. And he had brought them to Switzerland to convert back into hard money — with an introduction to Paul Galen, who had made an international business out of cooperating in such evasions, whose reputation in such tricky-minded circles was doubtless a guarantee of comparatively fair dealing and absolute discretion.
All that part of it was dazzlingly clear; and the other part was starting to grow clearer — some of it, at least.
The Saint found himself saying: “I left the other things at the hotel. You understand... I thought we should get acquainted first.”
“I hope I have made a good impression,” Galen said with lively good humor. “What else did you bring?”
“I have a small Botticelli,” said the Saint slowly. He was stalling for time really, while his mind raced ahead from the knowledge it now had to fit together the pieces that still had to tie in. “It is a museum piece. And a first edition of Boccaccio, in perfect condition—”
There were suddenly angry voices in the corridor outside. The door behind him burst open as if a tornado had struck it.
It was Mrs. Ravenna, with her breasts heaving and her dark eyes afire. Behind her followed the manservant, protesting helplessly.
“Go on,” she said. “What else was there?”
Galen was on his feet quickly. He glanced warily at the Saint as Simon stood up more leisurely.
“Do you know this lady?”
“Certainly,” said the Saint calmly. “She is Signora Ravenna.”
Galen almost relaxed.
“A thousand pardons. You should have told me your wife—”
“I am not his wife,” the young woman said. “My husband was murdered last night, by robbers who stole his briefcase with the things be brought to sell. This impostor is an American who calls himself Tombs — he is probably the employer of the men who killed my husband!”
Galen moved easily around the couch, without haste or apparent agitation.
“That is quite an extraordinary statement,” he said. “But no doubt one of you can at least prove your identity.”
“I can,” said Signora Ravenna. She fumbled in her handbag. “I can show you my passport. Ask him to show you his!”
“I’ll save you the trouble,” said the Saint amiably, in English. “I concede that this is Signora Ravenna, and it’s true that she’s been a widow for about twelve hours.”
“Then your explanation had better be worth listening to,” Galen said in the same language.
It was produced so smoothly and casually that Simon never knew where it came from, but now there was an automatic in Galen’s hand, the muzzle lined up with Simon’s midriff. The melancholy manservant remained in the doorway, and somehow he no longer looked quite so helpless.
Simon’s gaze slid languidly over the barrel of the gun and up to Galen’s coldly questioning face. It was no performance that he scarcely seemed to notice the weapon. He was too happy with the way the other fragments of the puzzle were falling into place to care.
“I happened to see Signor Ravenna jumped on last night by the two thugs who stole his briefcase,” he said. “I imagine he was on his way to see you then. I tried to catch them, but I didn’t do so well. There’s an independent witness, a local citizen, who saw me try, and he’s on record with the police... This morning Signora Ravenna came to my room and asked me about the briefcase. She said she had no idea what was in it and couldn’t imagine why anyone would attack her husband. I told her that so far as I knew the thieves had gotten away with it.”
“A bluff, to try and make it look as if they weren’t working for you.” Mrs. Ravenna said vehemently. “You had it all the time!”
“I didn’t,” said the Saint steadily. “But after you left, I went on thinking. It occurred to me that there was just an outside chance that the fellow I nearly caught had dropped it, and then nobody had thought of looking for it — everybody taking it for granted that somebody else had got it. I went back to the spot and looked. Sure enough, there it was in the bushes. I took it back to my room.”
“You see, he admits it! I saw him again after that, and he didn’t say anything about finding it. He meant to steal it all the time. The only thing he doesn’t confess is that the whole thing was planned!”
“While Signora Ravenna was asking me questions,” Simon continued evenly, “I also asked her a few. And I knew damn well she was lying. That made me curious. So I opened the briefcase. I found the painting, the book, the necklace which you have — and, of course, that letter of introduction to you. It was just too much for my inquisitive nature. So I came here, using Ravenna’s name, to try and find out what was going on. You’ve been kind enough to explain the background to me.
“I know now that Ravenna was simply trying to turn his assets into American money which he could use when he emigrated — which, you’ve explained to me, isn’t a crime here, whatever they think of it in Italy. So now I’m satisfied about that — but not about why Signora Ravenna told me so many lies.”
“I leave that to you. Monsieur Galen,” said the beautiful young woman. “I would not even tell the police, still less a perfect stranger.”
Galen’s eyes shifted to the Saint.
“And what is your business, Mr. Tombs?”
“Just think of me,” said the Saint, “as a guy with a weakness for puzzles, and as an incorrigible asker of questions. I have a few more.” He looked at the woman again. “Are you positive your husband couldn’t have discussed this deal with anyone?”
“Only with his best friend, who gave him the introduction to Monsieur Galen.”
“And you’re sure you never mentioned it to anybody?”
“Of course not.”
“But as I said this morning, the jokers who waylaid your husband knew he was carrying something valuable, and even knew it was in his briefcase. How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know how crooks like you find out these things,” she said. “Why don’t you tell us?”
Simon shook his head.
“I suggest,” he said, “that those killers could only have known because you told them — because you hired them to get rid of your husband and bring you back his briefcase.”
The servant in the doorway was pushed suddenly aside, and a short round man elbowed his way past him into the room.
“I am Inspector Kleinhaus, of the police,” he said, “and I too should like to hear the answer to that.”
5
“You sec,” he explained, “we had a friendly tip from Italy that two known Italian criminals had bought tickets to Switzerland. It was my job to keep an eye on them. I’m afraid they gave me the slip last night, for long enough to attack and rob Signor Ravenna. When I met you at the scene of the crime, Mr. Tombs, I didn’t know if you might be associated with them, so I didn’t introduce myself completely. But we kept watch on you. We saw you find the briefcase and take it to your room — incidentally, we recovered it as soon as you went out, with its interesting contents.”
Galen put the automatic in his pocket and took out the necklace.
“Except this,” he said conscientiously.