"You mean the Sons of France are going to kill Chaulage," she said, "and Luker and Algy and General Sangore know all about it."
"That was my guess. And I still like it."
She seemed a little disappointed, as if she had expected something more sensational than that. Her brief silence seemed to argue that after all there were millions of Frenchmen, and one more or less couldn't matter so much as that.
"I think I saw a picture of Chaulage in the paper once," she said, with almost polite indifference. "A funny little fat man who looks like a retired grocer."
"He is," said the Saint. "He also happens to be prime minister of France. And funny little fat Frenchmen who look like retired grocers often have ideas, particularly when they get to be prime ministers. Of course that would never be allowed in this country, but it happens there. And one of Comrade Chaulage's ideas is a bill to take all the private profit out of war, which is naturally very unpopular with Luker and Fairweather and Sangore and the directors of the Siebel Factory. So that makes Comrade Chaulage a doubly suitable victim. And when the Sons of France seize power his bill will be firmly forgotten, people will march about and wave flags, bigger and better armaments will be the cry, the people will be told to be proud of going without butter to pay for bombs and the people who sell the bombs will be very happy. Hitler and Marteau will scream insults at each other across the frontier like a couple of fishwives, and pretty soon everything will be lined up for a nice bloody war. Some millions of men, women and children will be burned, scalded, blistered, gassed, shot, blown up and starved to death, and the arms ring will sit back on its foul fat haunches and rake in the profits on a turnover of about five thousand pounds per corpse, according to the statistics of the last world war."
"Would that photograph have something to do with it, too?"
"That's probably the most damning evidence of all. It seems to me that there's only one thing it can possibly mean. The half-witted-looking warrior on the right — you remember him? — he must be the martyr who's going to do the job. Some poor crazy fanatic they've got hold of who's been sold on the idea of how glorious it would be to give his life for| the Cause; or else some ordinary moron who doesn't even know or care what it's all about. It must be that, or the photograph doesn't mean anything. God knows how Kennet managed to take it — we never shall. He risked his life when he did it, and the risk caught up with him in the end; but it's still a photograph that might make history. It would probably swing all except Marteau's most fanatical sympathizers against him if it was published; under any government that Marteau wasn't running it could send Luker to the guillotine…"
He went on talking not because he wanted to, but to give her the distraction she had asked for. It grew darker and darker until he could no longer see her at all. The time dragged on, and presently he had nothing new to say. Her own contributions were only short, strained, apathetic sentences which left all the burden of talking to him.
Presently he heard her stirring in an abrupt restless way which warned him that the sedative was losing its effect. He was silent.
She shuffled again, coming closer, until her shoulder touched his. He could feel her trembling. It would have helped if he could have held her. But his wrists were bound so tightly that his hands were already numb; long ago he had tried every trick he knew to release himself, but the knots had been too scientifically tied, and anything with which he might have cut himself free had been taken from him while he was unconscious.
Because there was nothing else he could do, he kissed her, more gently than he had ever done before. For a while she gave herself up hungrily to the kiss; and then she dragged her lips desperately away.
"Oh hell," she sobbed. "I always thought it'd be so marvellous if you ever did that, and now it just makes everything worse."
"I know," he said. "It must be dreadful to feel so safe."
Then she giggled a little hysterically, and presently her head drooped on his shoulder and they were quiet for a long time. He sat very still, trying to strengthen and comfort her with his own calm, and the truth is that his thoughts were very far away.
In the kitchen two men sat smoking moodily. The plate on the kitchen table between them was piled high with ash and the ends of stubbed-out cigarettes.
One of them was Pietri. He was not coloured in tasteful stripes any more, but a certain raw redness combined with an unusually clean appearance about his face testified to the labour with which they had been removed. The shaven baldness of his head was concealed by a loud tweed cap which he refused to take off. The other man was quite young, with close-cropped fair hair and a prematurely hardened face. In his coat lapel he wore the button badge of the British Nazis.
He yawned, and said in the desultory way in which their conversation had been conducted for some hours: "You know, it's a funny thing, but I never thought I'd have the job of putting the Saint out of action. In a way, I used to admire that fellow a bit at one time. Of course I knew he was a crook, but he always seemed a pretty sound chap at heart. When I read about him in the papers, I used to think he'd be worth having in the British Nazis. Of course he deserves what's coming to him, but I'm sort of glad I haven't got to give it to him myself."
Pietri yawned more coarsely. He had no political leanings: he simply did what he was paid to do. To him the British Nazis were nothing but a gang of half-hearted amateur hooligans who got into scraps with the police and the populace without the incentive of making money out of it, which proved that they must be barmy.
"You're new to this sort of thing, ain't you?" he said pityingly.
"Oh, I don't know," said the other touchily. "I've beaten up plenty of bastards in my time." He paused reminiscently. "I was in a stunt last Sunday, when we broke up a Communist meeting in Battersea Park. We gave them a revolution all right. There was an old rabbi on the platform with long white hair and white whiskers, and he was having a hell of a good time telling all the bloody Reds a lot of lies about Hitler. He's having a good time in the hospital now. I got him a beauty, smack in the mouth, and knocked his false teeth out and broke his jaw." He sat up, cocking his ears. "Hullo — this must be Bravache at last."
He got up and went out of the kitchen and across the hall. His feelings were mixed: they were compounded partly of pride, partly of a sort of uneasy awe. He was a picked man, chosen because the leaders of the movement knew that his loyalty and efficiency could be absolutely relied on; he was one of the first to be entrusted with the business of liquidating an enemy. In future he would probably be detailed again for similar deadly errands. He was one of the storm troops, the striking force of the movement, and their duty was to be merciless. As he opened the front door, the young British Nazi saw himself being very strong and merciless, a figure of iron. It made him feel pretty good.
A two-seater sports car had drawn up beside the black Packard that was parked in the drive, and Bravache was already stumping up the steps. Dumaire followed him. Their faces, like Pietri's, looked scoured and tender; and they also kept their hats on. Bravache raised his hand perfunctorily as the British Nazi came to attention and gave a full Fascist salute.