"The door wasn't locked?"
"No, boss. I toin de handle and I walk right in."
"It didn't look as if there had been a fight?"
"No, boss." Mr Uniatz scratched his ear. "Maybe dey wasn't no fight, at dat," he suggested brilliantly.
"Maybe there wasn't," admitted the Saint.
He went back and examined the door, but it showed none of the signs of violence or skilful wangling which would have stood out a mile to his professional eye.
He turned to David again.
"You didn't see anything when you got here?"
"I didn't have a chance to see anything-except him."
"But you didn't see anything outside, anything the least bit out of the ordinary? A crowd, or people staring-or anything?"
"Not a thing that I noticed."
Simon smoked silently for a little while and made up his mind.
"We can't do any good by staying here," he said. "Apart from which, it isn't too healthy. At least one other member of the major ungodly and a nasty specimen of the minor know this address. I just hit both of them very hard, but I don't know what they'll do when they recover. We'd better be on our way."
"That's an idea," Keena assented. "I don't like your friends. Besides, we could get some more medicine."
"You'll have to get that by yourself, old lad. I'll pay for it, but Hoppy and me are going to be busy. Besides, I'd rather not get you any more mixed up in this party than you are already."
Keena nodded.
"I don't want to be mixed up in it any more," he remarked with profound sincerity. "But when can I use my apartment again?"
"When I've cleaned up the opposition. I'll let you know. Till then, if you see us anywhere, you'd better pretend you don't know us. I'll send you enough of the boodle one day to make you think it was all worth while. . . . Conque andando. You toddle along, and we'll give you five minutes start."
David turned at the door and pointed at Hoppy.
"I only hope he gets bopped next," he said.
Mr Uniatz watched the door close with a pained expression on his homely face. Himself a frank and openhearted soul, anxious to be friends with all the human race, it grieved him to find himself rebuffed.
"Boss," said Mr Uniatz plaintively, "dat guy don't seem to like me."
"Did you expect him to love you after you'd bopped him on the dome?" said the Saint.
Mr Uniatz relapsed into injured silence. It was all quite incomprehensible to him. A guy had to take the breaks. Suppose a guy did get shot or bopped on the dome ? If it was all done in the friendliest spirit, what had he got to bear a grudge about? He took a crumpled cigar from his pocket and chewed it ruminatively over the problem.
The Saint left him to it. He himself was fully occupied with the problem of Lauber's and the chauffeur's reactions to a similar incident, although he was unable to view them in the same naive light which would presumably have illuminated them to Hoppy Uniatz' complete satisfaction. By this time, presumably, those two would be on their feet again and restored to comparatively normal functioning; and Simon did not expect them to be forgiving.
What form their vindictiveness might take was something else again. So far as whining to Graner was concerned, Lauber had no authority to give the Saint orders, and the Saint had no particular obligation not to hit him in the stomach; although an imaginative man might invent a story to justify the former and misinterpret the latter. But that still left out the chauffeur, who could relate certain inexplicable happenings which had preceded the aforesaid massage of the Stomach. Lauber would have to deal with him in some way first. But if Manoel had made the quicker recovery he might have decided to do some dealing on his own-and there would be nothing to prevent him telling Graner the whole truth as he knew it. It just introduced a few more incalculable factors into the jumble -and all of them had to be straightened out before the equation could be solved.
The Saint looked at his watch.
"Let's waft," he said.
He closed the door of the apartment and went down the stairs, with Hoppy at his heels, The street below was still undisturbed. It had stopped raining at last, and the wet cobbles glistened in the grey light of the late afternoon. A few ragged and dirty children splashed in the rivers that still coursed through the gutters and lapped the top of the pavement. Two or three sloppy-looking young men stood in a near-by doorway and laboured energetically at the traditional local occupation of doing nothing. A toothless and wrinkled hag in a black shawl leaned against a wall and scratched herself philosophically. The sordid, ineffectual and time-ignoring life of Santa Cruz pursued the unimportant tenor of its way, as it had done for the last four hundred years and would probably continue to do for the next four hundred.
They got into the Saint's taxi. As it started off, Simon looked back at the street scene. Nothing changed in it. He was certain they were not being watched or followed.
"Hotel Orotava," he said.
He had nothing to say during the journey; and Mr Uniatz, who was still brooding over the mysteries of human psychology, made no efforts to draw him into conversation. Mr Uniatz knew by experience that conversation with the Saint usually involved intense mental concentration, an affliction which he never went out to seek. He had enough troubles already, what with one thing and another. . . .
As they reached their destination, Simon scanned the square with the same alert and penetrating survey as he had given the Calle San Francisco (which is officially designated the Calle Doctor Comenge, although nobody in Tenerife except the map makers knows it). But that also was unchanged. The usual group of loafers propped up the statue of the Virgin of Candelaria, the usual buses were picking up their usual unsavoury passengers, the usual urchins were bawling the evening newspaper, the usual taxis were unnecessarily tooting their unusually offensive horns; the only unusual circumstance-if the divine inspiration of the guide books was to be accepted-was the river of muddy yellow water which poured down the street like a miniature Yangtze Kiang from the upper reaches of the town. But there was nobody in sight whom the Saint could recognise.
Nevertheless, his heart was in his mouth as the antique elevator bore him uncertainly upwards to the top floor of the hotel. When he went through the communicating door and found Joris Vanlinden lying peacefully asleep on the bed, he felt that that at least was almost too good to be true.
Simon studied him for a few moments, and one part of his threadbare plan crystallised in his mind. He tiptoed back to his own room and unhooked the telephone.
2 Presently Graner's voice answered him-there was no mistaking the delicately poisonous accents which survived even the tinny reverberations of the Spanish instrument.
"This is Tombs," said the Saint.
"Yes?" Graner's answer came back without hesitation.
"Your chauffeur came round with the message. I went to the address. It seems to be a house with a couple of apartments, but I haven't seen my man or anybody else. Of course, he may have gone again by now-I can't find out without knocking on the doors. I'd rather not make a fuss if I can avoid it, for fear of scaring him off."
"Had you heard anything of Aliston when you left Lauber?"
"Not a word. Have you?"
"He has not been in touch with the house."
"Well, what do we do?" asked the Saint. "Why did you want someone to chase this other guy, anyway?"
"I thought it would be safer to watch him. Where are you telephoning from?"
"I'm in a shop near by."
"What is the number?"
"Three nine eight six," said the Saint, hoping that Graner didn't know anyone with that number.
"You had better wait for a while-say half an hour. If he comes out, follow him. If he has not come out in that time, try to enter the apartments and see what you can find out. If there is no trace of him, go back to Lauber. If I have any other instructions I will call you. You will tell the shop that you are expecting a call."