Leslie Charteris - The Saint in Europe

The old man dropped it on the table.

“Dot’s der paper. If you don’t understand Cherman I translate it for you. It says, ‘Von of der biggest swindle in history vas yesterday in Maxton, Ohio, exposed—’ ”

Voyson bit the corner of his mouth, then swung around. “Well, what about it?”

“But, Mr Voyson, you cannot speak of it like dot. You cannot realize vat it means. If it is true dot der money is all gone... You don’t understand. All my life I vork and vork und I safe money, und I put it all in your company. It cannot be true dot all my money is gone — dot all my life I have vork for nothing—”

“Suppose it is gone?” snapped Voyson. “There are plenty of others in the same boat.” He sighed. “It’s all in the luck of the game.”

The old man swayed and steadied himself heavily.

“Luck?” he said hoarsely. “You talk to me of luck? When I am ruined, und it says here dot it vas all a swindle — dot you are nodding but a criminal—”

Voyson’s fist hit the table.

“Now you listen to me,” he rasped. “We’re not in America now — either of us. If you’ve got any complaints you can take me back to Ohio first, and then go ahead and prove I swindled you. That’ll be soon enough for you to start shooting off your mouth about criminals. Now what d’you think you’re going to do about it? Think it over. And get the hell out of here while you do your thinking, or I’ll call the guard and have you thrown off the train!”

The Saint’s muscles hardened, and relaxed slowly. His dark head settled back almost peacefully on the upholstery behind him, but the wraith of a smile on his lips had the grim glitter of polished steel. A steward hovered over him, and he ordered a sandwich which he did not want without turning his head.

Minutes later, or it might have been hours, he saw his travelling acquaintance going past him. The old man looked neither to right nor left. His faded eyes stared sightlessly ahead, glazed with a terrible stony emptiness. His big toil-worn hands, which could have picked Voyson up and broken him across one knee, hung listlessly at his sides. His feet slouched leadenly, as if they were moved by a conscious effort of will.

Simon sat on. After another few minutes Voyson paid his bill and went past, walking jerkily. His coat was rucked up on one side, and Simon saw the tell-tale bulge on the right hip before it was straightened.

The Saint spread coins thoughtfully on the table to cover the price of his sandwich. His eyes ran over the selection of condiments which had come with it, and almost absent-mindedly he dropped the pepper-pot into his pocket. Then he picked up the sandwich as he stood up, took a bite from it, and sauntered out with it in his hand.

At the entrance of the next coach something caught the tail of his eye, and he stopped abruptly. The door at the side was open, and the bowed figure of the old German stood framed in the oblong, looking out. The broad rounded shoulders had a deathly rigidity. While Simon looked, the gnarled hands tightened on the handrails by which the figure held itself upright, stretching the skin white over the knuckles, then they let go.

Simon covered the distance in two lightning strides and dragged him back. A train passing in the opposite direction blasted his ears with its sudden crashing clamor, and went clattering by in a gale of acrid wind. The old man fought him blindly, but Simon’s lean strength pinned him against the bulkhead. The noise outside whisked by and vanished again as suddenly as it had come, giving place to the subdued rhythmic mutter of their own passage.

“Don’t be a fool!” snapped the Saint metallically. “What sort of help is that going to be to Greta?”

The old man’s struggling arms went limp, gradually. He gazed dumbly back, trying to understand. His throat moved twice, convulsively, before his voice came.

“Dot’s right... Dot’s right... I must look after Greta. Und she is so young...”

Simon let him go, and he went weakly past, around the corner into the main corridor.

The Saint lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. It had been close enough... And once again he gave himself that mental shake, feathering himself down to that ice-cold clarity of purpose in which any adventurer’s best work must be done. It was a tough break for the old German, but Simon couldn’t keep his mind solely on that. He didn’t want to. Such distractions as the rescuing of potential damn-fool suicides from sticky ends disturbed the even course of buccaneering. Voyson was on the train, and the ungodly prospered only that a modern pirate might loot them.

A little way further down the carriage Simon found the financier sitting in a first-class compartment by himself. The Saint eased back the door and stepped through, sliding it shut behind him. He stood with his sandwich in one hand and his cigarette in the other, balancing himself lightly against the sway.

“A word with you,” he said.

Voyson looked up.

“Who are you?” he demanded irritably.

“ New York Herald Tribune , European edition,” said the Saint coolly and mendaciously. “I want an interview. Mind if I sit down?”

He took a seat next to the financier as if he had never considered the possibility of a refusal.

“Why do you think I should have anything to tell you?”

The Saint smiled.

“You’re Bruce Voyson, aren’t you?” He touched the man’s head, then looked at his fingertips. “Yes, I thought so. It’s wonderful what a difference a little powder will make. And those dark glasses help a lot, too.” His fingers patted one of Voyson’s hands. “Besides, if there’s going to be any argument, there ought to be a scar here which would settle it. Take that glove off and show me that you haven’t got a scar, and I’ll apologize and go home.”

‘I’ve no statement to make,” said Voyson coldly, though the ragged edge of his nerves showed in the shift of his eyes and the flabby movement of his hands. “When I have, you’ll get it. Now d’you mind getting out?”

“A bad line,” murmured the Saint reprovingly. “Very bad. Always give the papers a break, and then they’ll see you get a good seat when the fireworks go off.” He put his left arm around the financier’s shoulders, and patted the man’s chest in a brotherly manner with his right hand. “Come along now, Mr Voyson — let’s have the dope. What’s the inside story about your company?”

Voyson shook him off savagely.

“I’ve got no statement to make, I tell you! The whole story’s a rigmarole of lies. When I get back I’ll sue every paper that’s printed it — and that goes for yours too! Now get out — d’you hear?”

“Spoken like a man,” drawled the Saint appreciatively. “We ought to have had a newsreel here to record it. Now about this trip of yours—”

“Where did you get that?” whispered Voyson.

His eyes were frozen on the booklet of colored papers which the Saint was skimming through. Simon glanced up and back to them again.

“Out of your pocket,” he answered calmly. “Just put me down as inquisitive.”

He turned the leaflets interestedly, examining them one by one until he came to the end. Then he replaced them in their neat folder, snapped the elastic, and stowed it away in his own pocket.

“Destination Batavia, I see,” he remarked genially. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to straighten everything out when you get back to Maxton. Putting duty before everything else and going home by the shortest route, too. Indonesia is on the direct line to Ohio from here — via Australia. Are you taking in Australia? You oughtn’t to miss the wallabies... You certainly are going to have a nice long voyage to recover from the strain of trying to save your shareholders’ money. And by the way, there are quite a lot of extradition difficulties from Indonesia to the United States when a guy is wanted for your particular kind of nastiness, aren’t there?”