It was a war of wills, fought out silently in that confined space over the thrusting swords of their eyes. The Saint had no wish to shoot. And yet, if it had been forced upon him, he would have dropped those two men as mercifully as he could. To him there was a bigger issue at stake even than the lives of two innocent martyrs to duty.
Perhaps the two men, by some strange telepathy carried on that clash of opposing wills, felt what was on the Saint's mind. But the elder man bowed his head and turned slowly round. His subordinate paused a moment before following his example, and turned round at last with an unswerving glare of defiance.
Simon sensed all the galling bitterness of their surrender as he fastened handcuffs on their wrists and linked their ankles similarly together; but he breathed again. He pocketed his gun and allowed them to turn round to their former positions. In another corner of the room he saw an enormous steel cabinet, with plenty of room for two men to stand between the shelves of documents that lined the walls. He went over and examined it more closely; but, as he had feared, the great door would seal it hermetically.
He faced his prisoners again.
"I do not want to make your position more painful than my own safety demands," he said. "If you will give me your paroles as gentlemen that you will make no attempt to escape, or to attract attention in any way, whatever happens, I shall be able to spare you further indignity."
The chief gazed at him sombrely.
"You could scarcely do more than you have done already," he remarked, with a trace of irony; "and it seems that you have taken effective measures to protect yourself. What else do you want?"
"I have still to enjoy the little talk I spoke of," said the Saint. "But your part in it is silent. You must not be allowed to interrupt. I assure you, it would distress me to have to stun you while you are defenseless, and then gag you, before I placed you in that cabinet. The alternative is in your own hands. I shall require you to stand inside the cabinet during my conversation. You will do nothing to betray your presence, whatever you hear, until five minutes after I have finally left the room."
"May I know your object?"
"You will realize it soon enough."
The white-haired soldier hesitated, and in his hesitation the younger man let loose a string of snarling protests.
The chief cut him short with a movement of his head.
"We do not help ourselves by inviting injury, Inspecktor," he said. "I shall give my parole."
The Saint bowed. In that self-possessed, white-haired chief of police he recognized a quality of manhood which he would have been glad to meet at any time.
"I am in your debt, Herr Oberst" he said. "And you, Inspektor?"
The younger man drew himself up stiffly.
"Since I am commanded," he replied shortly, "I have no choice. I give you my word of honour."
"You are very wise," murmured the chief.
Simon smiled. He opened the door of the cabinet wide and ushered the two men in. As soon as they had settled themselves he closed it again, leaving only a two-inch gap which would give them plenty of air to breathe. He left them with a final warning:
"Remember that you have given your paroles. I shall be back in a few moments. Whatever happens, you will remain hidden."
Then he left the room and went down the stairs again to relieve Monty Hayward's vigil. His arteries were playing an angelic symphony, and there was a new brightness in his eyes. Perhaps after all the running fight could become a triumph. Thus far he had no complaints to make. The gods were spilling Eldorados on him with both hands. If only the breaks held. ... It would be a worthy finish to one story and a merry overture to many more. Admittedly there was a price to pay, and those lost few minutes would have boosted the bill against him to heights that would have made most men giddy to think of, but he had learned that in his chosen way of life there were no bargain sales. It was wine while it lasted. And he had never really wanted to be good.
He came upon Monty Hayward with a swinging step and the Saintly smile still on his lips. The automatic spun on his first finger by the trigger guard.
"I have cleaned up, Monty," he said. "Let's make it a party."
He burrowed through his overalls and produced his own cigarette case. As he opened it, the polished interior showed him a reflection of his own face. He grinned and closed the case again.
"Back along the corridor," he said, "I think I heard the swishing song of a gents' toilet. I should hate Rudy to see us like this—and we can still keep an ear on the charge room from there."
If there was anything which finally emerged as supremely nightmarish out of Monty Hayward's memories of the cumulative palpitations of that day, it was the wash and brush-up which the Saint thereupon ordained. Monty hadn't proposed himself for anything quite so hair-raising as that. Battle, murder, and sudden death were things immutable in themselves; but to make oneself free of the lavatories of a captured police station in which an uncertain number of the personnel were still at large called for a granitic quality of nerve to which only a Simon Templar could have aspired. To the Saint it was a pleasure with a pungent spice. He stripped off his greasy overalls, threw them into a corner, and abandoned himself to the delights of warm water and yellow soap as if he were in his own home. As far as he was concerned, the only visible reminiscence of the things that waited a couple of walls away was the blue-black shape of the automatic pistol placed carefully on the marble top of the wash basin beside him.
Monty sighed and made the best of it. Now that he saw himself in a mirror for the first time, he began to understand how he had been able to travel so far without being identified. It was some relief to be able to divest himself of the stained blue jeans and feel himself in a more accustomed garb; it was even better to be able to scrub the oil and grime from his face and hands and feel clean. He looked up presently with a sort of indefinite optimism—and saw the Saint coolly manicuring his nails.
"Ready for more, Monty?"
The Saint's piratical eyes rested on him humorously. Monty nodded.
"Surely."
They went back towards the office. The two policemen still slept. Simon expected them to be out to the world for all of another ten minutes—the handcuffs and gags were an additional precaution. He knew where he was when the blade of his hand got home with those tricky blows.
He took out his cigarette case again, offered it to Monty, and helped himself. The ratchet of his lighter scraped a flame out of the shielded wick. He stood there for a moment, drawing the mellow smoke gratefully into his lungs to wipe away the last dry harshness of the stuff that he had had to inhale in his former rôle. Monty watched him releasing the smoke again through his lips and nostrils with a slow widening of that newborn Saintly smile. The tanned, rakish contours of that lean face, cleared now from their coating of dust and dirt, were more reckless than he had ever seen them before. The black hair was brushed back in one smooth swashbuckling sweep. No one else in the world could have been so steady-nerved and at ease, so trim and immaculate after the rough handling of his clothes, so alive with the laughing promise of danger, so careless and debonair in every way. The Saint was going to his destiny.
"You take the corridor," he said. "Stand outside the door and listen. Come in as soon as you hear my voice."
"Right."
Monty walked away.
Simon Templar drew at his cigarette again, gazing back the way Monty had gone. He was still smiling.
Then he turned back to the office. He gave it one more glance round to make certain that everything was in order—policemen securely bound, telephone disconnected, windows barred. He went rapidly through the drawers of the desks, taking over a bunch of keys and a couple of spare automatics. Then he went to the door of the charge room.