The girl was taking a fantastically long time to find a taxi. . . .
Simon found a piece of paper and scribbled on it the address where he had left Christine. He gave it to Hoppy, who had drained the last drops out of his bottle and was edging towards the kitchenette to look for more.
"This is where Christine is," he said. "As soon as we get out of here, I want you to go there and stick around. Your boy friends caught me when I'd just come back from there in a taxi, and they got the number. One of them's gone off already to look for it and see what he can find out. He'd still have a job to get Christine out, but I'm not taking any chances. You're going to park yourself there, and if anybody comes prowling around you give them the works."
"Wit' my Betsy?" said Mr Uniatz, cheering up.
"With the blunt end of it," said the Saint "If you start any shooting around this town they'll turn the army out on you-the police here are very excited about shooting today, from what I read in the paper this morning."
Mr Uniatz sighed.
"Okay, boss," he said dutifully.
"And maybe by this time you'll have learnt a few lessons about who you open doors to. Or do I have to tell you again?"
"Boss," said Mr Uniatz earnestly, "I hoija de foist time. I been a sucker once, but dey won't catch me no more. De foist mug who tries to come in dat door, I'll give him de heat --"
"You won't."
"I mean I'll clop him on de tiles so hard he'll t'ink he walked under an oitquake."
"See you don't forget it," said the Saint grimly. "Because if you do, Mrs Uniatz is going to be sorry about her son."
Hoppy shook his head.
"Dey ain't no Mrs Uniatz," he said reminiscently. "My fader never knew who my ma was." Simon considered this for a moment, and decided it would be safer not to probe further into it. He consulted his watch again and took a quick turn up and down the room. What the hell could the girl be doing? . . . With a sudden resolution, he went back into the bedroom.
Vanlinden hadn't moved. He looked up at the Saint with the same peacefully empty eyes.
"Do you think you could walk a little way?" Simon asked gently.
The old man remained motionless, without any change in his expression.
"Christine wants to see you," said the Saint.
A pale wraith of a smile played momentarily on the other's lips. Presently he raised his head,. then his body. Simon helped him to his feet. He stood holding the Saint's arm.
"Where is she?"
"We'll take you to the hotel and bring her to see you."
Simon led him into the living room, and Hoppy greeted him with a brotherly wave of his hand.
"Hi ya, pal," said Mr Uniatz genially. "Hi ya makin' out?"
Vanlinden smiled at him with the same childish serenity.
"Come on," said the Saint. "We'll be downstairs waiting for that god-damn taxi when it does get here. I want to catch up with your other boy friend."
"What about dis punk?" demurred Mr Uniatz dubiously, indicating the still unconscious Palermo. "Do I give him de --"
"No, you don't. I'll do that myself some other day. Come on."
They helped the old man down the stairs, although he needed less assistance than the Saint had feared. Physically, Vanlinden seemed to have more life than he had had the night before; only now his ability to move was more like that of a sleepwalker. It was his mind which had been drained of strength, which seemed to want nothing but to be left in timeless and effortless passivity.
As they reached the hall, Simon heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. He left Hoppy to look after the old man and went to the front door. There was a small grille in one of the panels, and the slide which should have closed it was partly open. Something made the Saint look through it as he put his hand on the latch to open the door; and that one glance was enough to make him whip his fingers away from the knob again as if it had stung him. For the car outside was not a taxi-it was Graner's Buick.
VII How Mr Palermo Continued to Be Unlucky, and Hoppy Uniatz Obeyed Orders
SIMON DIDN'T WAIT to see any more. He spun round as he heard Hoppy coming up behind him, and his eyes blazed a warning which even Mr Uniatz couldn't misunderstand. Hoppy came to a halt, with his jaw drooping.
The Saint's glance scorched round the hall, dissecting all its possibilities in one sizzling survey. It didn't offer cover for a mouse. Upstairs was a dead end. Outside the door were the new arrivals. Around him there was nothing but the door of the ground-floor apartment. Simon felt the handle. As he had anticipated, it was locked. He drew back to arm's length and flung his weight against it, and the lock ceased to function. . . .
The Saint caught Hoppy by the elbow with one hand and Joris Vanlinden with the other. He almost lifted them up bodily and threw them into the room.
"He'll take you to the hotel to wait for Christine," he said to Vanlinden. Then he looked at Hoppy. "Wait till the coast's clear. Take him to the Orotava, put him in the room next to mine-Christine's. Then go and look after her at the address I gave you. Don't worry about me. I'll get rid of these guys and follow along."
Hoppy's mouth opened wider as the full meaning of these orders for desertion penetrated through his ears.
"Boss --"
"Don't argue!" said the Saint, and pushed him back into the room.
He closed the door in his face and leapt silently to the foot of the stairs as the key rattled in the lock of the front door. He realised what a desperate risk he was taking in every direction, but there was no other way. He couldn't send Vanlinden with Hoppy to Keena's apartment, because Aliston was searching for that hide-out and might already have found it, in which case Hoppy would have his hands full enough without any added encumbrances. The hotel was dangerous enough, with Graner's chauffeur watching it from the other side of the road; but at least he couldn't stop them going in, and Vanlinden would be safe there for a little while-so long as the gang didn't know about Christine's room. And the Saint himself had to stay behind, because apart from the more manifest obstacles to a joint getaway there was the matter of a loud crash when he disarranged the lock of the downstairs apartment which must have been audible outside and would want accounting for.
All these things streaked through his mind like a volley of tracer bullets as he dropped himself on the ground at the foot of the stairway; and as the front door opened he began ostentatiously picking himself up. He heard quick steps coming towards him, and raised his eyes to the figures silhouetted against the light of the open door.
"Put your hands up!"
It was Graner's voice.
Simon completed the job of fetching himself upright and went on brushing the dust off his clothes.
"Oh, it's you," he said calmly, as if it had never occurred to him that the order was caused by anything but a mistake in his identity due to the dim light. "Why the hell can't they put a light on these damn stairs? I nearly broke my neck. Did you ever hear anyone come down with such a thump?"
The other man who had come in was Lauber. He ranged himself at Graner's side; and both of them kept their guns trained in the Saint.
"What are you doing?" said Graner.
Simon continued to ignore the artillery.
"Didn't the girl tell you?" he asked innocently.
He had already formed his own theory about why she had taken such a long time to find a taxi, and the response to the feeler he had put out confirmed his suspicion in the next instant.