"Tombs!" he said hoarsely. "His name isn't Tombs! Look at that. His name's Simon Templar. You know what that means, don't you? He's the Saint!"
3 Simon could feel the ripple of electricity that quivered through the room, and was philosophical enough to recognise that there were advantages as well as disadvantages in possessing a reputation like his. Palermo and Lauber seemed to be clinging to their chairs as if the revelation had brought them a stronger feeling of apprehension than of triumph. Aliston was frankly trembling.
Graner stepped forward and peered closely into the Saint's face.
"You!" he barked.
Even he was shaken by the shock which had hammered the others back to silence. The Saint nodded imperturbably.
"That's right." He knew that it would be a waste of time to try and deny it. "I don't mind letting you in on the secret-I was getting tired of being called Tombs, anyway."
A moment went by before Graner recovered himself.
"In that case," he said, with his voice smooth and sneering again, "it only makes our success more satisfying."
"Oh yes," said the Saint. "Nobody's going to stop you collecting your medals. It was a nifty piece of work, Reuben-very nifty."
He needed no further confirmation of that. The intuitive comprehension of Graner's cunning which had cramped his intestines a few seconds ago was now settled into his understanding as one of the immutable facts of life.
He had been caught-very niftily. Graner had opened his parlour door, and the fly had walked in on its toes. Simon realised that he had underrated Reuben Graner's talents as a strategist. If he had been a little less sure of himself, he would have stopped to admit that a man whose plotting had amassed the collection of jewels which he had seen in the safe upstairs couldn't be the complete sucker which Graner had sometimes appeared to be. Graner had been on the wrong track, that was all. When he got moving in the right direction, he had a beautiful style. The Saint admitted it. Only a consummate tactician, a past master of the arts of psychology and guile, could have thought up the story which had led him so neatly into the trap-the one story in all the realms of unwritten fiction which could possibly have hooked an old fish like the Saint. It had been so adroitly put together that Graner hadn't even suggested going to the house, If he had shown the least sign of eagerness for that move, the Saint might have been put on his guard. But Graner hadn't needed to. The Saint had proposed the visit himself, which was exactly what a consummate psychologist and tactician would have known he would do; and Graner had even been able to raise a few halfhearted objections to the proposal. . . . Oh yes; Graner was entitled to help himself to his medal. Simon bore no malice about it. It had been a grand story, and he still liked it.
After which perfunctory raising of the mental hat,.he passed rapidly on to consider the next move. And nothing was more obvious than that it would have to be made quickly.
Graner's recovery was having a restorative effect on the others. Simon could feel their relaxation in the diminishing tension of the atmosphere. Aliston was regaining control of his jittered nerves. Palermo was pulling again at his unsavoury cigar, and the red lights in his one good eye were burning hotter. Only Lauber was still hunched stiffly over his gun, as though he could not quite convince himself that the alarming situation was well in hand.
"Perhaps you would like to sit down, Mr Templar," Graner said softly.
"That's quite an idea, Reuben, since we're booked for a conference. This position does get a bit tiring --"
"You can quit that line of talk, see ?"
Palermo jumped out of his chair, with one clenched fist raised. Graner checked him.
"Wait a minute."
"I'll knock that grin off his face"
"I said wait a minute. There will be plenty of time for that."
"That's right, Art," said the Saint kindly. "Sit down and save what's left of your nasty little face. It's the only one you've got, and if you hit me I shall certainly hit you again."
"If you try to hit anyone," grated Lauber,"I'll --"
"You'll put your gun away and hope for the best. You're not going to shoot me if you can possibly help it, because you still want to ask me too many questions."
Graner drew up a chair.
"I should not advise you to rely too much on that," he remarked sleekly. "If you attempt to fight anybody you will certainly be shot."
Palermo subsided slowly into his chair. He was still shaking with passion. The Saint opened his cigarette case on the table and continued to smile at him.
"That's something for you to look forward to, Art. And believe me, It does the heart good to see you so full of virtue and esprit de corps again." He glanced back at Graner. "In a way, you disappoint me, Reuben. I told you I thought you'd be a mug to swallow all the tales these birds have been telling you, and I'm still thinking it."
"Seems to me that this proves we did the right thing," Aliston contradicted him aggressively.
Graner giggled-a queerly incongruous sound that was not at all comic to listen to.
"I think you are still wasting your time, Templar," be said.
The Saint shook his head reproachfully, although inwardly he was nodding. If you looked at it that way, the revelation of his identity did seem to have thinned away the chances of picking holes in Aliston's story. In fact, it must almost have made Aliston seem entitled to a medal of his own; but the Saint wasn't going to award it.
"You jump to too many conclusions, brother. Certainly I've been interfering with all of you. But I didn't start it. You were all so busy double-crossing each other that the obvious thing seemed to be to join in. Just because you've discovered that I wasn't the one dumb innocent in the party doesn't make the rest of you into a lot of little mothers' darlings. Now suppose you look at each other-if. you can stand the strain for a few minutes"
"Suppose you let me do the talking," Graner put in acidly.
Simon spread out his hands.
"But my dear soul, I know it all so well. I've listened to it so many times that I've lost count of them. You're going to say that you want to ask me some questions."
"Which you are going to answer."
"Which I'm not going to answer if I don't feel like it. Then you look at me with an evil leer and say, 'Ha-ha, me proud beauty, but I have ways of making people feel like it!' The audience goes into a cold sweat and waits for you to bring on the trained cobras."
"I expect you will find our methods effective enough."
"I doubt it, Reuben. I take an awful lot of persuading. Besides, what are 'our' methods? Are you speaking as royalty, or who else is 'we'?"
"You can see us," snapped Aliston.
The Saint nodded without shifting his benign and patient smile. He was playing his last cards and he meant to make the most of them. With all of them united against him, he hadn't a chance; but he knew on what fragile foundations their newly recovered unity was based. He had to break them up again, quickly and finally, and hope that a loophole would open for himself in the break-up.
"I know, darling," he said nicely. "I can see all of you. And very beautiful you are. But four people have to have some good reason for calling themselves 'we.' And the question is, have you got it? Are you four minds with but a single thought, four hearts that beat as one? . . . We've already spoken about you, Cecil. Now suppose we speak reverently for a moment about Comrade Palermo. There he is, with his beautiful piebald face --"
Palermo started up again.
"You son of a --"
"Bishop is the word you want," said the Saint helpfully. "But you ought to have known my grandmother. She was a female archdeacon, and could she deac!"
"When I get at you," Palermo said lividly, "you're going to wish you hadn't been so funny."
"Sit down, Art." Simon's voice was coldly tranquil. "Uncle Reuben will spank you if you don't behave. We'll leave you alone for a while if you're so sensitive-you go under the same heading as Aliston, anyway. Let's talk about Comrade Lauber instead."