Behind him, one of the detectives cleared his throat apologetically, and the Saint glanced round.
He glanced round absolutely at his leisure, as if he were noticing the presence of the detectives for the first time. He did it as if they meant nothing whatever in his life, and never could—with a smilingly interrogative composure which cost him perhaps more effort than anything he had done in the last twenty-four hours.
The detective coughed.
"Excuse me, gentleman," he said, in excellent English. "I am a police officer, and I have to ask you to give an account of yourselves."
Monty Hayward had an insane desire to laugh. The contrast between the detectives' confident march across the room, and the almost ingratiating tone of that opening remark, was so comical that for a moment it made him forget the tightness of the corner from which they had still to make their getaway.
Coolly the Saint shifted his chair round, and waved an obliging hand.
"Sit down, Sherlock," he murmured, "and tell us all your troubles. What's the matter—has somebody declared war, or something?"
Somewhat uncertainly the detective lowered himself into a seat, and after a second's hesitation his companion followed suit They looked at one another dubiously, and at length the spokesman attempted to explain.
"It is in the matter of a crime that was committed in Innsbruck last night, mein Herr. We received proof that the criminals had reached Munich, and afterwards we believed that we had traced them to this hotel. Their descriptions were telegraphed to us from Innsbruck. You will pardon me, gentlemen, but the resemblance . . ."
Simon raised his eyebrows.
"Good Lord! D'you mean we're going to be arrested?"
His startled innocence was beyond criticism. Every line of it was etched into his face and his voice with the touch of a consummate artist. And the detective shrugged.
"Before I spoke to you, I permitted myself to listen to your conversation. I hoped to learn something that would help us. But after I had listened——"
"As far as I remember," said the Saint puzzledly, "I was beguiling the time with a highly moral and uplifting anecdote about a worm named——"
"Vilbraham?" suggested the detective, with a tinge of humour in his homely features. "I admit I did not appreciate all the—the——die Bedeutung—the what-do-you-say of the story?"
He looked appealingly at the Saint, but Simon shook his head. "It is not important. But it is my experience that a man who had committed a crime so soon ago, and who would expect every minute to be arrested, would not talk like that. His mind is too worried. Also you did not translate die Bedeutung for me, which would have been very clever of you if you were one of the criminals, because both of them speak German like I do."
Simon gazed at him with admiration.
"That was cunning of you," he said ingenuously. "But I suppose that's part of your job." He dropped his cigarette into a coffee cup and beckoned a passing waiter. "Have a spot of Schnapps and let's see if there's anything we can do to clear up the difficulty."
The detective nodded.
"You have your passports?"
The Saint took a blue booklet from his pocket and dropped it on the table. The detective turned courteously to Monty Hayward. Something hard was jabbing into the side of Monty's thigh: he slipped his hand quite naturally under the table and grasped it. He was wide awake now; the whole purpose of the Saint's two-edged bluff was plain to him, and his brain was humming into perfect adaptation.
He slid the passport round behind him and produced it as if from his hip pocket. Where it had come from he had no idea, and he had even less idea what information it contained; but he watched it across the table while the detective turned the pages, and gathered that he was George Shelston Ingram, marine architect, of Lowestoft. The photograph was undoubtedly his own—he recognized it immediately as the one from his own passport, and the evidence of the Saint's inexhaustible thoroughness amazed him. The Saint must have put in an hour's painstaking work before breakfast on that job alone, faking up the missing part of the Foreign Office embossments which linked the photograph with the new sheet on which it had been pasted.
The examination was concluded in a few minutes, and the detectives returned the passports to their respective claimants with a slight bow.
"I have apologized in advance," he said briefly. "Now, Mr. Ingram, will you please tell me your recent movements? One of our men saw you at the Ostbahnhof this morning, besides the one who happened to see you arrive at the hotel. They remembered you when the descriptions were received; and it was near the Ostbahnhof that the car in which our criminals escaped was found."
"I think I can explain that," Monty answered easily. "I've been walking around the country in this neighbourhood, and last night I ended up at Siegertsbrun. After dinner I had a telegram from my brother asking me to meet him in Munich this morning, and saying it was a matter of life and death. So after thinking it over I caught a very early train and came straight here."
"Your brother?"
The detective seemed suddenly to have gone out of control. He sat forward as if he could scarcely contain his excitement. And Monty nodded.
"Yes. He's my twin. If you didn't grasp the point of my friend's story, I can tell you that he was being extremely rude."
"Donnerwetter! And where would he meet you—Ihr Heir Bruder?" "He said he'd meet me here at ten o'clock; but he hasn't turned up yet——"
"You have this telegram?"
"No—I didn't keep it. But——"
"From where was it despatched?"
"From Jenbach." Monty's resentment had plainly been boiling up against the hungry rattle of questions, and at that point he exploded. "Damn it, are you suggesting that my brother is a crook?"
The detective hunched his shoulders. An inscrutable hardness had crept in under the amiable fleshiness of his face. He retorted with the dehumanized bluntness of official logic.
"It is a matter of probability. You are so much alike. Also this telegram was sent from Jenbach, where the criminals have last been seen. For them it is certainly a matter of life and death."
In the silence that followed, the waiter returned and set up the drinks which had been ordered. Simon flicked a note onto bis tray and dismissed him with curt gesture. He slid the glasses round in front of the detectives and looked from them to Monty and then back again.
"This is serious," he said. "Are you quite sure you haven't made a mistake?"
"That is to be discovered. But it is strange that Mr. Ingram's brother has not yet arrived."