“Have seats,” he said, as a white-jacketed colored man came into the room. “Make yourselves comfortable and Charles will take your orders for drinks. I trust the trip over to my island was pleasant.”
“That’s a great boat you’ve got there,” Halston said. “Really great.”
That initial interchange set the tone for the early part of the evening. Nothing remotely like Death Game business was discussed during drinks or the meal which followed. For a while they talked about Timonaides’ island, problems of building in a remote area, and the difficulties of maintenance in a salty and humid atmosphere. Even Wyler proved that he could shed some of his arrogance when granted audience with a sufficiently eminent personage. He joined in the small talk, and when the group had moved into the adjacent dining room and were eating at the massive carved wooden table, he complimented Timonaides on the turtle pie.
Timonaides shook his head.
“I was about to apologize for this poor food. The fact that temporarily I am forced to depend on native help restricts the menu and lowers the quality. Ordinarily I could offer you much better. I have just come here, you see, and my chef is having his vacation before he flies to join me.”
“You don’t live here all the time?” Wyler asked.
“Oh, no. In general, I cruise around the Mediterranean in spring and summer, except for some time spent in places like London or Paris. In the hottest weather I move up into the Alps, and during the cold months I come here.”
That opened the way for a whole new line of admiring questions from both Wyler and Halston. Simon contributed a few comments and began to wonder if this was just a routine entertainment and inspection — the big man looking over the prospective employees in small groups until a final decision was made. Nothing happened to change the Saint’s impression until dessert and coffee were finished and the men had moved back into the living room for liqueur.
After a few more minutes of trivial conversation they were interrupted by the appearance of the Negro in the white jacket.
“All finish, sah,” he announced.
“Good, Charles. You may take everybody home then.”
Charles disappeared, and soon afterwards there was a sound of scuffing feet, chatter, and laughter receding down the asphalt walk in front of the house. Timonaides explained that in these islands it was customary for servants not to live in, but instead to be brought to work in the morning and delivered to their homes at night. For that purpose he provided an old fishing boat and had appointed Charles the captain.
The Saint knew Timonaides was telling the truth about island practices in the transportation of hired help. What put him on alert was the fact that the servants had left almost immediately after dinner — and it was not an island custom to leave dirty china lying around the kitchen overnight. But then maybe the Greek’s dishwashers were setting records for speed and efficiency: Simon could only wait and see whether or not Timonaides revealed some special reason for wanting privacy as soon as he could reasonably arrange it.
Simon did not have long to wait.
“Gentlemen,” Timonaides said quietly, settling back in his chair and bringing the tips of his fingers together. “I think you know, in a general way, why you are here. Dr Edelhof has assured me of your sincerity. If you have doubts — any of you — and if you do not wish to go any further in your cooperation with me, for the great rewards I can offer, then I must ask you to leave now and wait on the boat which brought you. When I have said what I have to say next, it will be too late for changes of heart.”
10
Timonaides’ abrupt statement seemed to catch Wyler and Halston by surprise. For a long moment no one spoke. Then Halston took a deep breath.
“I’m with you all the way.”
Wyler nodded agreement. Timonaides looked at Simon, who nodded also. The Greek got to his feet.
“Good,” he said briskly. “And now... to show my own sincerity...”
He reached beneath his jacket and drew out a thick packet of Bahamian currency.
“Mr Halston,” he said, handing over the money.
He drew out another packet.
“Mr Wyler.”
Wyler’s fingers trembled as he took the money, which the Saint estimated must amount to at least a thousand pounds.
“Mr Templar.”
At the sound of his real name, Simon could only settle back into his chair with an amused sigh and slight smile. Timonaides’ hand, on its third trip to his inner pocket, had produced not a wad of bills but a large automatic.
“Mr Halston,” Timonaides said quietly, “would you please hand these to Mr Templar?”
Halston, taking two photographs from Timonaides, looked at Simon with somewhat bovine confusion.
“Mr Templar?” he said.
“That is Mr Templar,” the Greek said impatiently, wiggling the nose of his pistol in the direction it was already pointing.
Simon calculated with a certain amount of satisfaction that Joe Halston’s stint with Poseidon Enterprises would be useful — for Poseidon Enterprises — but short-lived. He would be a good tool for work on simple problems, but on his first encounter with real complexities he would probably fail and be forced into early, absolute, and permanent retirement.
The Saint took the photographs, one of which was a copy of a passport photograph he had had taken three years before. The other was a Polaroid print of him sitting at Edelhof’s desk filling out one of the tests. He looked at the pictures admiringly.
“Fine looking chap,” he said. “Who is he?”
Admittedly, it was rather difficult for Timonaides to come back with a snappy answer to that, but he did as well as he could.
“It’s the former Sebastian Tombs,” he said. “Soon to be the former Simon Templar.”
“So it is,” the Saint said. He went on chattily. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have preferred getting money like the other fellows, but I do appreciate the pictures.” He was holding the photographs side by side for comparison. “Most people say I get handsomer every year, and I have to admit...”
Timonaides cut him off.
“If I were you, I would begin using the past tense, Mr Templar, because my new associates here are about to kill you.”
Wyler’s lips were compressed, his fingers tightly gripping the arms of his chair. Simon concluded that he had not been told of his assignment in advance, but that it came to him. as no tremendous surprise. Halston, on the other hand, was openly stunned.
“You mean... we really are?” he said.
“Yes, Mr Halston,” the Greek replied. “You are going to have a chance to prove your ability — in a real Death Game. Mr Templar here — possibly known to you as the Saint — is an imposter whose continued existence would present the greatest threat to my organization, which now includes you. First, search him.”
Halston’s search yielded nothing but a handkerchief and some pound notes. The Saint had foreseen possible complications in bringing a weapon to the Villas, and since he was using an assumed name he had left even his wallet, with all identifying cards and papers, in a locker at the Freeport air terminal.
“That’s all,” the student said, handing Timonaides the bills, which he inconspicuously pocketed.