Graner stared at him malevolently, but there was no answer that he could make. The Saint's relentless logic had nailed him up in a corner from which there simply wasn't a back exit. And Simon Templar knew it.
"Well?"
The Saint's crisp monosyllable drove in another nail that made Graner's head jerk back.
"I may have minimised the value of the ticket a little --"
"Or in plain language, you're just a God-damn liar! So now we know where we are. That's the first point. . . . Point two: this predecessor of mine-what did you call him-Joris?-this guy Joris has got the ticket. I can believe that, from the way all of you have been behaving. And it doesn't seem to matter very much to me who it originally belonged to. Having once been pinched, it becomes anybody's boodle; because somebody's got to pinch it back before they can get any profit out of it. That's what you and your precious gang were trying to do. And you were trying to cut me out!"
2 Graner's hand went to his breast pocket and took out his perfumed handkerchief.
"You didn't contribute to buying the ticket."
"I haven't seen any proof yet that you did, either," retorted the Saint. "But I've told you that that isn't the point. That ticket is out on the loose now, and you'd have a job to prove that it didn't belong to anybody who'd got it. The point is that you and your boys are looking for it, and you wanted to save my share."
"It has no connection with your work."
"Nor has opening safes. But Felson told me I came in for a share of everything you did, and I want to know why you were being so smart and cagey about this."
It was a shot in the dark that Simon had to take, although it was a fairly safe one. And it didn't make Graner blink.
"This is something that happened before you joined us," he said.
"But getting hold of the ticket again isn't," said the Saint. "It hasn't happened yet."
Graner went up and down on his toes. The vicious lines around his mouth had deepened; and if his eyes had possessed any lethal power the Saint would have been burned to a cinder by that time.
"In due course," he said, "the subject would probably have been mentioned --"
"Oh, Reuben darling!"
Graner made a brusque gesture.
"It was my idea to do so," he said, "but the others objected."
"I thought all your orders had to be obeyed without question."
"This was a matter of policy, not of organisation."
"So you let them talk you round."
"I had to admit that there seemed to be justice in their arguments --"
"I'll bet that wasn't difficult for you." The Saint rolled over on his elbow to douse his cigarette in an ash tray; and then his relentless blue eyes went back to the other's face. "So once again we know where we stand. You've already given up pretending you aren't a liar. Now you're going to give up pretending you aren't a cheap double-crossing skunk as well."
A dark flush appeared in Graner's sunken cheeks. He took a step towards the bed, and the stick moved in his hand.
Simon watched him without batting an eyelid.
"If you hit me again," he said gently, "I can assure you it'll hurt you more than it hurts me,"
Their stares crossed like swords. Graner's face was twisted with rage, but the Saint was smiling. It was only the shadow of a smile, but it matched the reckless, derision in his eyes.
It did something more. It gave vent to the chortle of delirious ecstasy that was swelling up inside him until his ribs ached with the strain of keeping it under control. He had to use half his muscles to keep himself from laughing in Graner's face. The tables had been turned in a way that thousands of spiritualists would have given their back teeth to achieve, if they had any back teeth. The Saint had bluffed on an empty hand against an opponent who, he knew, held at least three aces; and he was scooping the kitty away from under Graner's long nose. In fifteen or twenty minutes he had slammed Reuben Graner down from dominating the situation to trying feebly to make excuses. The unpredictable suddenness and violence of his attack had swept the other off his feet in the first exchanges, and since then the Saint hadn't let up for an instant. His voice went on, stabbing in blow after blow with the crackling precision of a machine gun, never giving Graner a second's pause in which to recover his wind.
"You thought you saw your chance to cut me out of my share of fifteen million pesetas, and you grabbed at it. That's the truth, isn't it? And that's my introduction to the privileges of joining up with your lousy outfit. I'm supposed to take that home with me and put it in the bank. You couldn't have thought up anything better, Reuben. So next time it's a matter of splitting up any boodle I'll just have to tell myself I don't have to worry. Reuben's a good guy. He's always been a square shooter. He proved it the first day I was with him. I don't have anything more to worry about. Like hell I don't!"
The flush washed itself slowly out of Graner's cheeks and left them pasty. The hand with the stick in it sank down to his side, and his weight settled down on his heels.
He cleared his throat.
"You may have some justification," he said thickly. "But I've told you-I protested about it, and I was overruled. The others have been with me for a good many years, and naturally they have some influence --"
"That's still a lie," said the Saint dispassionately. "But we've already dealt with that. The question you've got to answer is-where do we go from here?"
"Naturally I shall take it up with the others as soon as we get back to the house --"
"And naturally you'll cook up a few more fairy tales as soon as you get the chance. Let's have some more truth before you lose the habit again. Where is this Joris guy?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, what are your ideas?"
"I fail to see --"
"Give your gig lamps a wipe over. Are we through or are we not?"
Graner's stick rattled on the floor, beating a nervous tattoo on the tiles.
"I am beginning to think that that would be the best solution."
"Just as you like." The Saint stood up. "I've told you what I think about that. The door's behind you, and nobody's holding you back. But this girl stays here. If there's a fifteen-million-peseta lottery ticket knocking around Santa Cruz, and she's one of the clues, I'll keep her. I saw her first, anyway. . . . And you can take that hand out of your pocket again. If you emptied two of those little toys into me I'd still wring your skinny neck before I went out."
Graner's finger was itching on the trigger, and Simon Templar had no illusions about it. But his poise didn't waver by so much as a fraction of an inch. He simply stood there, his hands on his hips and his shoulders lined wide and sinewy against the murky sky outside the window, looking down at Graner with careless, unimpressed blue eyes and that shadow of a sardonic smile on his lips. He knew exactly the strength of the new hand he had dealt himself, and he was ready to take a few chances to make it better while the cards were running his way.
"I don't want to do anything like that," Graner said at last. "If you are prepared to let me put this misunderstanding right --"
"I see." Simon's answer came back like a gunshot. "So you've got some good reason for wanting to keep me if you can."
"If you think you are indispensable --"
"If I wasn't something like that, why didn't you shoot me ten minutes ago?"
"Naturally I want you, if it can be arranged. That is why you were sent for."