"You certainly have thought of everything, haven't you?" he said lightly. "All the same, if I beetle up herefirst thing in the morning --"
"You will stay here tonight." The Saint frowned.
"A couple of girls that I met on the boat are staying at the hotel, and I made a date to give them lunch tomorrow," he pointed out. "They'll think it odd if I don't turn up."
"You can make your excuses."
"But --"
"You will stay here tonight."
Graner's tone was flat and expressionless, and yet it had a smug insolence that brought the blood to the Saint's head. He stood up, and Graner stood up also.
"That's all very well, dear old bird," Simon said gently. "But what is this-a job or a prison? Even with your beauty --"
Without the flicker of an eyelash, Graner brought up his left hand and slapped the Saint sharply across the face. Almost in the same movement a gun appeared in his right, levelled quite steadily at the centre of the Saint's chest.
Simon felt as if a sudden torrent of liquid fire poured along his veins, and every muscle in his body went tense. The fingernails cut into his palms with the violent contraction of his fists. How he ever managed to hold himself in check was a miracle beyond his understanding.
"There are one or two things you had better make up your mind to understand, Tombs," Graner was saying, in the same flatly arrogant tone. "In the first place, I dislike flippancy-and familiarity."
He made a slight movement with the automatic.
"Also-apart from this-it is impossible for anybody to leave this house without my permission."
His gaze did not shift from the Saint's face, where the marks of his fingers were printed in dark red on the tanned skin.
"If you intend to work for me, you will accept any orders I give-without question."
Simon looked down at the gun. Without knowing how quick the other was with the trigger, he estimated that he had a sporting chance of knocking the gun aside and landing an iron, fist where it would obliterate the last traces of any beauty that Graner might ever have had, before anyone else could move. But there were still the other three men who were behind him now-besides the dogs outside, and however many more discouraging gadgets there might be outside the house.
That moment's swift and instinctive reckoning of his chances was probably what helped to save him. And in that time he also forced himself to realise that the fleeting pleasure of pushing Graner's front teeth through the back of his neck would ring down the curtain on his only hope of doing what he had come there to do.
The liquid fire cooled down in his veins-cooled down below normal until it was like liquid ice. The red mist cleared from before his eyes and was absorbed invisibily but indelibly by the deepest wellsprings of his will. Reuben Graner would live long enough to be dealt with. The Saint could wait; and the waiting would only make the reckoning more enjoyable when the time came.
"If you put it like that," he said, with as much sheepishness as he could infuse into his voice, "I guess you're probably right."
Slowly the tension that had crept into the room relaxed. Simon almost fancied he could hear the other three draw the first breaths they had taken since the incident started. Only Graner did not need to relax, because he had never been gripped in the same tension. He put the gun away and fanned himself again with his scented handkerchief, as if nothing had happened, with his cold, unblinking eyes still fixed on the Saint.
"I will show you to your room," he said. "In the morning I will drive you down to the hotel to collect your luggage."
2 Which, looked at upwards or downwards or sideways, was just about as jolly a complication as one could imagine, Simon Templar reflected when he was left alone.
He sat on the side of the bed and lighted another cigarette, considering the situation.
After all, he had asked for it. If he had waited a little longer to think what his impulse might lead to, he might have realised that it was open for something like that to happen. He could see Graner's point of view with the greatest clarity. To leave a new and untried recruit to go wandering about Santa Cruz, talking to anyone he might pick up, was a fairly obvious error to avoid. And thinking it over, the Saint feared that in his conversation with Graner he hadn't exactly given the impression that he was a man who could be relied on to guard his tongue.
But that was done, and it wasn't much use worrying about it. Anyway he was in the house, which was where he had wanted to be-only he had got there about twelve hours too early. And the only thing left was to decide what he was going to do about it.
Presently he got up and walked over to the window. It was shuttered in the Spanish style, but as far as he could discover the shutters were not made to open. The louvres could be turned up or down, to let in as much air or daylight as the inhabitant wanted; but the inhabitant would have had to slice himself into rashers to get himself out through the openings.
Simon looked around the room. It was furnished comfortably enough, although the optical effect was shattered by the same dreadful conflict of colour schemes that characterised the room downstairs. But it contained nothing which could have been used to open the shuttering-unless one heaved the bed through it, which would be difficult to do without causing a certain amount of commotion.
He moved very softly to the door and turned the handle without a sound. Somewhat to his surprise it was not locked: it opened without a creak of the hinges, and he slipped noiselessly out on to the veranda that ran round the patio. Down below he could hear a muffled mutter of voices, but it was so faint that it seemed impossible that the men who were speaking could have heard anyone moving about upstairs, even with a normal tread. The Saint didn't even take that risk. He could move as silently as a cat, and the tiled flooring ruled out the possibility of any squeaking boards that might have given him away. He stood looking at the veranda. It was enclosed from top to bottom with fine-meshed fly-netting which was almost as effective an obstacle as the window shutters. Whether he could open some of it up with his knife -- "Wanting anything?"
The voice made him spin round. He had not heard anyone come up the stairs; but Aliston was there, standing at the head of them with his hands in his pockets.
"I was just looking for the bathroom," answered the Saint calmly.
"Second door down."
The Saint went on and let himself in. He was there long enough to note that the bathroom window was also closed with a similar shutter to the one in his own room. He was ready to believe that all the windows in the house were the same; and he realised that besides making it difficult to get out, the arrangement was also another difficulty in the way of getting in.
When he came out of the bathroom Aliston was still standing at the head of the stairs. The Saint said good night to him, and Aliston answered conventionally.
Simon sat on his bed again and gazed sourly at the heliotrope-distempered walls. He was inside, all right -he didn't have to worry about that any more. And he knew now why Graner hadn't locked him up. There was nothing about the door to indicate it, but he was certain that it contained some device which gave a warning when it was opened. Graner seemed to have a weakness for electrical gadgets, and very effective the Saint had to admit they were. . . . He also knew why Aliston had spoken to him instead of remaining hidden to watch him. They had let him use up the only plausible excuse he had for leaving the bedroom, so that any future excursions would want much more explaining.
And that made him wonder if they were only waiting for a chance to trap him. Simon faced the possibility cold-bloodedly. From the beginning he had known that he was gambling on the darkness and the hat that had been pulled down over his eyes during the fight, as much as on the psychological fact that by walking straight into the lion's den immediately afterwards he was giving himself as good an alibi as he could hope to have. But one of the three men might have had suspicions, although nothing had been said when he was downstairs. Even now they might be talking about it.