"Why?"
"Because in any case you're going to have to look for a new chauffeur. He was the only guy I found when I got there, and he was dead."
"Manoel?"
The Saint nodded.
"Shot. Right between the eyes. He was still warm when I found him. The apartment was quite dark. I searched through it, but there wasn't anyone there, I couldn't do any more, because just then the police rolled up. I heard them coming and looked out of the window. Palermo's girl was with them, so I suppose she found Manoel and turned in the alarm. I climbed out of a back window as they came in the door, and beat it over the roofs."
Graner's face registered no emotion. He gripped the amber holder between his teeth and drew the end of his cigar to an even red. His sharp snaky eyes watched Simon intently through the smoke.
"Would you be surprised to hear that Lauber said you had shot him?" he said.
"Su cambio, senior."
The bootblack had returned. He laid five duros on the marble table in front of the Saint. Simon handed him a peseta and looked at him as he did so. Julian's smile was uncertain, and his eyes were troubled: it was enough to tell the Saint that the lad had found his message and read it. He was still afraid that Julian might try to say something to him. about it, and turned his shoulder on him quickly before that disaster could happen.
"No," he answered Graner blandly. "It wouldn't surprise me very much. But it would make me a little more sure that Lauber had done it himself."
"You don't like Lauber?"
The Saint shrugged.
"I expect you've already made up your own mind who did it. I'm just telling you what I think. What was Lauber's story?"
"He told me that when Manoel arrived with the message you were so insistent on going to the Calle San Francisco yourself that he became suspicious. When he tried to prevent you going, you hit him and knocked him out; and then he thinks you shot Manoel when he tried to stop you."
"It's a good story," said the Saint unconcernedly, "even if it is a god-damn lie. Lauber was the bloke who insisted that he wanted to wait there for Aliston. But if you believe him, why don't you call the police?"
"I'll talk about that in a minute," said Graner. He inspected his cigar for a few seconds, then looked up from it to add: "I have already seen Aliston."
A ball of lead formed in the Saint's stomach and made his diaphragm feel as if it was being dragged down out of its rightful place. He had to check himself for a moment before he spoke, to make sure that his voice was under control.
"That's something, anyway," he conceded coolly. "Was he looking pretty fit?"
"He had Christine with him."
Simon knew how Lauber must have felt when he received that shattering jolt in the solar plexus, having seen it coming and yet only having had time to realise that he couldn't possibly move fast enough to ward it off. He had had fair warning, but the shock was none the less deadly for that. He knew that he was hearing the truth-a fabrication that would have fitted so neatly into his own deductions would have been too wild a coincidence. The shock numbed every physical sense he commanded; but somehow it left his brain aloof and unshaken by the chaos of his nerves.
"Better and better," he said, and was amazed at the naturalness of his own voice. "Where was this?"
"At the house."
The third shock was wasted-it had no reactions left to work on.
"When?"
"Aliston was there when I got back with Palermo."
"And who did he say I'd killed?"
"I will tell you exactly what he told me. He told me that he traced your taxi back to the Calle San Francisco. He found Christine there-at the address where Joris' friend went to after you let him go."
"That's impossible," said the Saint, with unruffled assurance. "Unless she got out of the place where I left her. Besides, this was before Joris' pal went there, wasn't it? Well, if he'd gone there expecting to find Christine, and she'd disappeared, would he have calmly gone off on a shopping tour like the one I followed him on ?"
"That is what he did according to your story," Graner reminded him.
"And according to Aliston's story I'm a liar again. You know, I'm taking quite a shine to this outfit of yours, Reuben. It's such a relief to know you're among friends."
Graner nodded.
"I said I would tell you exactly what Aliston told me."
"And I suppose he'd got another bright theory that I snatched Joris and his pal and parked them with Palermo's slut."
"Oh no. Aliston did not deny that he and Palermo had taken them. He was very perturbed when he heard that they had been permitted to escape."
"I'll bet he was," said the Saint grimly. "And how did he make that sound all right-about double-crossing the rest of us?" Graner paused to trim the ash on his cigar; and again his hard, pebbly gaze rested on the Saint with the same unaccountable calculativeness that had been puzzling Simon ever since he sat down.
"I will go on telling you what he told me. He said that it was because he and Palermo were suspicious of you. They were afraid to argue with me because they were too familiar with my objection to having my orders questioned, but they were convinced that for once I was making a mistake. They did not like the way I had accepted you and accepted your terms this morning. They were certain that it would be dangerous to take Joris and the other man back to the house while you were there. They decided to make sure of their ground before they tried to dispute the wisdom of my instructions; meanwhile they felt that Joris and the other man would be quite safe where they had taken them. Then they captured you to see if they could force you to give them any more information. Aliston pointed out that it was absurd to think that they were trying to double-cross me, when he had brought Christine straight to the house as soon as he found her. He said that once he had her in his hands, believing that Joris and the other man and yourself were safely held at the same time, he saw no further need for secrecy, and went to the house at once to tell me the whole story, bringing Christine as evidence of his good faith."
"What about Palermo?"
"He more or less corroborated the story-as much of it as he knew."
"And why didn't he tell it you in the first place?"
"He said that he lost his nerve, that he was dazed by the beating you had given him and did not quite know what he was doing."
The Saint blew a smoke ring and annihilated it with his next gesture.
"I won't bother to point out that that's the story anybody else would probably have told if they were in the same spot," he said. "So it wouldn't be such a fluke if Palermo hit on it as well. I expect you've thought all that out for yourself, and you know what you're going to believe."
"Nevertheless, I should like your opinion."
Simon had to restrain the impulse to stare at him. What the devil could Graner be driving at? Simon had been watching him every instant for the first sign of hostility, racking his brain to try and predict what form it would take so that he could be prepared to forestall it; and he had been baffled from beginning to end. The feeling of unreality came back to him so strongly that the whole interview seemed like a nightmare. Any of the things he had been expecting would have been less disturbing than that precarious fencing in the dark. But he had to make the best of the situation as it stood.
"If you're really asking me," he said slowly, "I should say that Lauber was the first double-crosser. The others seemed to think he had the ticket last night, didn't they? Well, he might have had it. My first guess would be that for some reason or other he was trying to strike some bargain with Manoel to get him in with him, and Manoel turned him down and threatened to tell you, so Lauber shot him to keep his mouth shut."
"And Aliston's story?"
"That's even easier. It's so wet that it takes my breath away. I think that Aliston found Christine all right, and was taking her back to Maria's. Meanwhile you'd got there, and he saw your car outside. That was enough to tell him that something had sprung a leak somewhere. He drove right past without stopping, and I'll bet he had about half an hour's continuous heart failure before he made up his mind what to do. He was on the spot. He had to think of some way to wriggle out, and wriggle out quick, before the rest of us caught up with him. Being rather a weak-kneed bloke, and scared stiff at that, the only thing he could think of was to wriggle backwards-to scuttle back into the fold and try to pretend it was all a joke. I think his story is the feeblest cock-and-bull yarn I ever heard in my life; and if you'd swallow that I guess you'd swallow anything. But that's your funeral. I can't help it if your brain's softening."