The expression that appeared on Simon’s face reflected the combined feelings of recognition and distaste of a man who, after being bothered for some time by mystifying noises in his home, has just discovered a rat under the bed.
“You’ve heard of him?” asked Bill Blast.
“Haven’t you?”
“Just vaguely before I saw that letter. Mostly because he entertains film stars and titled people quite a lot and gets his name in the papers because of them. Since I saw the letter I’ve tried to find out more about him, but nothing much has been written, as far as I can tell.”
“I’m sure he likes it that way,” Simon said. “He’s one of those characters who becomes less endearing in direct proportion to the amount you know about him.”
“I can tell I picked the right person when I helped to get you mixed up in this. I’ve heard you have more in your head about the underworld than Scotland Yard has in its files.”
Simon stretched out his long legs and gave Bast a deprecating smile.
“Possibly,” he said. “More that matters, anyway. But before I share my treasure trove of knowledge about the life and good times of Kuros Timonaides, let’s hear the rest of your side of the story.”
“Just one more thing — and this is all I’ve been able to find out. Twenty-four students are flying to the Bahamas tomorrow, from all over the world. Until the party, or whatever you want to call it, tonight, I didn’t know where they were going, but I managed to find out by contacting friends at different universities that something like this was coming up. And all financed by that phony-sounding International Foundation. The only trouble is, everybody has the same reaction you had at first .. .”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Exactly.”
The Saint stood up and paced across the room to the window, by completely automatic force of habit positioning himself so that he could see out without being easily seen.
“In Timonaides’ case I’d make an exception,” he said. “I’d have any gift horse of his inspected by the most highly qualified dentist I could get — and I expect I’d find I’d just been given the world’s first stallion with three-inch tiger fangs.”
Bast grinned.
“Quite a hybrid.”
“That’s Timonaides for you: a real hybrid. Traitor, patriot, philanthropist, thief. Friend one month and blackmailer the next. But the fact that he’s not in jail, or dead, shows how skillful he’s been at keeping his head above the legal waters. Unless you can prove something — for instance that Manders is breaking the law, or that fraud is involved, or somebody’s being bilked, you won’t get much but sympathetic shrugs.”
“I have something more concrete,” Bast said.
He stood there hesitating, and the Saint gave him an encouraging nod.
“Yes?”
“I hate to admit... that I stole it.”
Simon smiled.
“What fun would it be if the bad guys had a monopoly on such grand old methods? Where is it, whatever it is?”
“Here.”
Bast plunged his hand into his jacket, pocket and drew out, his fingers trembling with nervousness, a folded sheet of stationery. Simon took it and began to read. As he scanned the typed lines his expression changed from one of tolerant interest to intense concentration.
Manders:
Enclosed, 5000 for expenses. In answer to your first question, we realize that you cannot control winners of competitions at your school, but we emphasize again the extreme importance of discovering and encouraging properly oriented students. In answer to your second question, regarding suspicions of colleagues, we hold you entirely responsible in such matters and remind you of our earlier warnings. It may be necessary to eliminate B. and if so you need no further authorization.
The letter was signed by brush-point pen with an ornate capital T.
Simon looked at Bast with his lips thoughtfully compressed.
“Well, B., I don’t blame you for feeling nervous. I don’t suppose I need to ask if Manders might have somebody else with the same initial in mind.”
Bast shook his head.
“No. He’s realized I was watching him for some time. I can tell, and I know I’m not a very subtle spy. But of course I can’t take seriously this business about eliminating anybody. Manders isn’t the sort to...”
“I wouldn’t be overconfident about that. Remember, Timonaides is today’s greatest living proof of the power of unscrupulous money. Blackmail and bribes can turn a worm into a snake. You...”
The telephone rang and Bast automatically turned to answer it.
“Bill Bast...”
He glanced at Simon, puzzled.
“Doesn’t seem to be anybody there,” he muttered. “Hullo? Hullo?”
He frowned, and held the earpiece just slightly away from his ear.
“Sounds like somebody’s whanging a bloody tuning fork...”
That was the last thing Bill Bast ever heard, except perhaps for one unearthly eternal instant of shattering thunder as the telephone receiver exploded with the noise of a shotgun shell and blasted away the side of his head.
When Simon reached him he had already stopped writhing. A final twitching spasm passed through the long body, and it lay as dead and meaningless as the slaughtered carcass of a cow or the car-smashed body of a rabbit.
5
The Saint had spent his life in the tangled jungles of violence, but he was not so inured to the spectacle of death that he could see a man destroyed directly in front of him, even one who could not yet have been called a friend, and not feel a powerful compulsion to guarantee personally that the same fate would be dealt to the murderer. He knew now that whatever plans he might have made for the next few days would have to wait until he had played out his own part in the Death Game that had not remained a game.
Within thirty seconds after the explosion, an old and half blind but obviously not entirely deaf night watchman had arrived and departed to spread the alarm, cautioning Simon not to leave the scene of the crime. The aged guardian of taxpayers’ property showed his trust of the stranger he had found in the psychology lab by locking the door behind him as he ran out and went off skidding and stumbling down the freshly waxed hall.
Simon chose not to depart by one of the easily available windows, and instead spent his time of confinement searching through Manders’ files for further clues as to his more than scholarly interest in the Death Game and his contact with Kuros Timonaides. But he had found nothing when there was a renewed sound of running footsteps in the hall and a rattle in the lock of the door.
Dr Manders hurried in, key in hand, with Jenny Turner and Grey Wyler following. Behind them were several other students.
“The watchman...” Manders gasped.
Simon pointed.
“Oh, no...” somebody whispered.
It was to Jenny’s credit that she did not scream as girls do in the movies when confronted with terrible sights. She simply gasped and turned away, supporting herself on the side of the nearest table with her eyes closed. Manders looked palely sick, and for a moment Simon thought the man was going to faint, but he held himself up, mouth trembling, and his eyes seemed to dart around the room as if looking for a place where they could hide from the sight of the mutilated body.